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Chapter Text

She knows the steps like the back of her hand.

Clean, stitch, tie. That’s it. She’s done it a thousand times.

Her hands can’t stop shaking.

“Willa? You okay?”

“You’re asking me?”

“You’re shaking.” Enid reaches out, then flinches as the movement stretches the laceration on her shoulder. 

She can feel the burst of pain as if it’s her own. 

“Stay still,” she croaks, her voice withered to gravel. “please.”

The blonde blinks in surprise, noting the slip as she always does, but nods her ascent.

The stitches in her own shoulder are clean and tidy, deftly done by her current patient while hiding a cluster of wounds with her bloodied pink coat and wrestling her into submission. Now they pull against her as if weighed by rocks.

The violinist takes a cautious sniff at the clove and thyme tea she hands over “Do I really have to drink that? Can’t we just get Ibuprofen?”

“Thornhill ransacked the infirmary and drugged the nurses. It’s that or I’ll plant a PEG tube to your stomach.”

“Fine.” she pinches her nose and downs the cup in one go. As a reward, Wednesday drops an opened Reese’s cup into the blonde’s awaiting mouth.

“Ready when you are,” Enid declares, squeezing her eyes tight.

Wednesday lists every injury as her calendula-soaked cloth runs through them, how close Enid is to death’s grip: slashes a short span away from her carotid, a cut nearly reaching her liver, abrasions too close to her femoral, claw marks millimeters away from her eye. 

You almost lost her, they taunt. And you’re not strong or smart enough to prevent it.

You've failed, failed, failed

She’s no stranger to failures, has inflicted it upon others, tasted it in gritted teeth and bitten tongue.

This one leaves bile pooling in her throat, pouring into every cell and cavity until it corrodes any trace of sanity.

“It’s not your fault.”

Sometimes she wonders if Enid’s the psychic between them.

“I didn’t help you.”

“You would’ve died had you helped me,” the violinist counters “and you saved the school.”

“Then I should’ve realized it’s Thornhill far sooner. Or capture Galpin myself so none of the Nightshades tattle on Weems. Or–”

“Stop that.” Her voice darkens to deep amber, her sideways gaze suddenly sharp. She pulls Wednesday’s hands into a vice grip – only now does she realize the needle driver is trembling in her hold. “Listen to me, nothing you did could’ve stopped me. I made that choice myself. I protect you, you save the school. That’s what we always do, right? We fill in each other’s gaps.”

“You almost died. And I wouldn’t have known.”

“But I’m not. I’m right here and holding your hand. As long as you don’t stab me with that needle driver.”

“You know what? I just might.”

“Har har, how threatening.” she rolls her eyes, all traces of sharpness gone “Like you’ll ever do that.”

“At least not to you.”

Enid’s smile on painkillers is just as paralyzing as her usual, soft and languorous as agave. “I know.”

It clicks in her, the most silent of locks sliding open. The tiniest of smiles, and she’ll replace every inch of Enid’s injured skin with her own. The briefest of hugs, and she’ll dedicate her life into turning her immortal. A split-second frown, and she’ll raze cities. A single tear, and she’ll dig out her heart with her bare hands to present in a golden platter.

But this? Enid will absolutely be against it, but this is her only wish she can’t grant.

This is where she belongs, playing or fighting or surviving this teenage cesspool together, in any capacity Enid will have her. When a crisis strikes again–and it’s an inevitability with Nevermore–the school can save its damned self. She knows Enid will be the death of her, has felt it the moment she pictures their future together. When that time comes again, she’ll fight with Enid or die trying. 

She’s never claimed to be some selfless hero anyway.

She’s pulling the threads from her suture kit when Enid hums a familiar tune.

Her register is higher and her timbre lighter, but the warmth and gentleness remain identical to her father’s lullaby.

Eventually, curiosity wins over. “How did you find that out?”

“Huh?”

“Dame La Mano.” heat grows from the tips of her ears. It’s been a month and she needs to stop flustering at the thought of that gift like a twittering fool.

Enid giggles as she places strips on the cut near her brow. Forehead is ticklish, good to know. “I might’ve asked Thing, said it’s your favorite lullaby your Father used to sing for you…Please don’t get mad.”

“I’m not,” if anything, she’s dangerously close to commissioning their shared headstone. Thing’s fate is another matter entirely. “I didn’t know the lengths you went through.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a sad-ass simp. Yoko’s mentioned that a thousand times,” she casts her eyes upward, cheeks flushed.

“Explain.”

“Someone kill me now,” she groans, eyes back shut “it means I had a crush on you so big I ended up doing pathetic shit for you.”

“What you call pathetic is single-handedly the best gift anyone has ever given me.” she knots the suture on her abdomen “That bloodsucker will appreciate what I put in her juice tomorrow.”

Just when she thought Enid couldn’t get any redder, she proves her wrong. “I forget you’re just as much a simp as I am.”

“I suppose.”

Enid looks to be milliseconds away from giggling, so Wednesday presses the unstained back of her gloved palm to her lips. “There’s not enough analgesics in the tea for you to laugh.”

The blonde nods, a wink coming right after.

Wednesday returns to the bruises on her thigh before Enid pulls her along into lunacy again. “That was the only cradle song I permitted my father to sing. Gabriela Mistral is one of the greatest poets in history, but they turned it into some insipid nursery rhyme about friendship.”

“What?” Enid turns her head so quickly it nearly reopens the stitch near her clavicle. Wednesday is truly considering laying on top of the blonde to stop her from moving. “I thought it’s sapphic!”

“What gives you the idea?”

“It literally has ‘give me your love’ on the second line.” Thing has to pin her hand to the bed before she starts gesticulating. “Rosa and Esperanza? And I researched too, you know? They found letters implying she’s in a relationship with her secretary.”

That, she didn’t know. “Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t put it pass Señora Mistral.”

“I really thought it’s an obvious verse about gal pals,” she mutters, barely audible “and your dad already knows you like girls since you’re little.”

She’s this close to laughing. She huffs instead.

“Ha! That’s practically a giggle by your book.” she sorely wants to wipe that cocky smirk from the violinist’s lips. Preferably with her own.

“The poem means whatever we want it to mean,” she decides. “so your interpretation might fit us better.”

“I wolfed out, beat up a Hyde, and you’re telling me I’m right,” Enid’s new sharpened fangs poke out from her smile. Wednesday’s strictly scientific curiosity wonders if it’ll cut her finger if she touches one. “this is the best day ever!”

“You said that on our last practice. And after the recital. And whenever your band of Korean girls releases a new single.”

“I’ve a fuckton of best days ever to balance out the bad. Like the two months in hell I’m spending with my family.” Her grin loses its luster “At least they’re not gonna hound me about shifting anymore.”

“Do you not want to go now that you can hunt with them?”

“To hear Mamá hound me about marriage prospects and Ivy Leagues now that wolfing-out’s not a problem anymore? I’d rather stay here forever.” She flexes her fingers, scattered with little cuts and scratches. “Think I gotta pause on practice a couple days too, before she thinks I’m ruining my chances at Senior Menuhin. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Out of every potential common ground they can hypothetically share, Wednesday would never expect creating segues as their shared weakness.

Just this once, she’ll play along.

A plan’s already forming in her head regardless.

Wednesday slathers the scrapes on her fingers with aloe before covering them with gloves. “That’s alright, mi sol. I can wait.”

The blinding smile is back in full force. Enid has such a peculiar way of making one feel as if they’d just won the lottery. “Just for that, you can choose what we try next.” 

Turns out she has just won the lottery. “Penderecki. Duo concertante.”

“Fuck, that’s fast. You have that at the ready all this time?”

“…maybe.”

Pale glasslike gold the color of verdejo spills forth as Enid snorts so loud she shocks herself. Truly, she can fling the most neutral commentary and it’ll still turn the blonde into a laughing mess. 

“Well, now I can’t wait.” Enid blows her a kiss, blinking in surprise at her momentary boldness and blushing immediately after.

Wednesday feels like she can rip the Hyde apart with her bare hands. 

Then cut its limbs, skewer and roast them on a spit, before forcing the monster to eat his own flesh. She’s not entirely a love-struck halfwit.

Stunning.

The composition is clearly still in progress – even without the frequent pauses and alterations – but already it’s shown a clear melodic line and well-defined harmony. It’s the perfect relief against the pentagon’s irritating ruckus.

“Hey Addams, your girlfriend’s in Room 4!”

Must they always interrupt every fleeting respite she can savor?

She levels her glare at Tanaka and her gaggle of friends, “Enid is not my girlfriend. And your information is redundant, she always goes there.”

Tanaka nearly spits her blood juice as she bursts into laughter, half the pentagon joining in. “And how do you know I’m talking about her?”

Her dagger tears a lock of hair before plunging itself into the stone wall. She unsheathes another from her left shoe. “One more word and this goes to your neck.”

“Willa?”

Enid steps out into the hallway, violin still in hand and her special pencil for composing tucked behind one ear. Her healing scars are a sight for sore eyes.

“Please don’t kill Yoko,” she smirks at her bespectacled friend “at least not without me.”

The vampire splutters in mock outrage, much to the delight of the masses “Hey! Not you too?”

“You provoked her first,” she gestures with her bow “and I’m writing a new piece, so everyone shut the fuck up or I’ll shred y’all to ribbons!”

Sweet Asmodeus have mercy, she couldn’t have been prouder. 

The crowd readily parts for them as Enid’s arm loops through the crook of hers, picking up her dagger and leading them back to their dorm.

“I can’t believe Ashipala lets us have the practice room for two whole terms,” Enid whispers “Weems would’ve laughed at my face.”

“Weems had years to study your beguilement. The interim headmaster’s had two weeks.”

The violinist giggles, honeyed voice turning into the gleaming pale gold of prosecco. “I don’t think I’ve ever tried to beguile anyone else.” 

– but you goes unsaid. Nevertheless, it hits its intended target.

Had she been a lesser mortal, she would’ve flushed to the tips of her toes.

A segue is sorely needed lest she freeze in the middle of the hall. “Eugene mentioned a few bees have reached the end of their life spans. I’d like to take a closer look after we practice.”

“In our room? You’ve just read me your novel last night; dead bees will add even weirder shit in my nightmares.” she huffs “I’d take you playing every note in the Penderecki wrong over that.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Last month’s Enid would plead with her. Current Enid grants her a lopsided smirk. “Yoko’s got a mani-pedi party at 7. Maybe I should leave you to your dissection?”

“Where you go at night is none of my concern.”

“Aaaand that’s a lie. Your jaw just twitched.”

She’s starting to regret sparring with an opponent who knows her far too well. “Merely a wound. Thing wouldn’t have botched the salve had you not distracted it with Korean ditties.”

“Uhuh, sure it is.” Enid grins, entirely too smug for her own good. “Don’t you worry, I won’t miss our sacred 2 hours for anything !”

Anything turns out to be her parents sullying the room with their appearance, right as they’re blind to the rest of the world at their third hour on the concertante.

Enid nearly jumps from her seat, her howl almost shattering the glass.

“You’ve breached our sacred 2 hours.” They deserve worse than a broken crystal ball, not after they stopped Enid’s exquisitely done scherzando passage. “Rest assured, we will exact revenge in two days.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Addams!” Enid has never packed her violin faster. “Good to see you again! I’m sure you want to talk to Wednesday so I’ll leave you to-“

“We’re looking to discuss this with the two of you, in fact.” Mother interjects with all the grace of a military negotiator. Enid sits back down, stunned to silence. “Ma petite serpent has repeatedly expressed her desire for you to spend the holidays with us, and we’d be delighted to host you!”

“Willa, I had no idea.” Enid whispers in awe, hand finding hers and squeezing gently.

She’ll make sure her revenge on mother has lasting effects for the unnecessary humiliation. Should it be thallium in her chandelier earrings? Liquid ricin in her dark roast Robusta? Crowns of red roses in full bloom on her pillow with all the thorny stems cut off?

“I can feel you scheming. Please don’t kill her, I’d like to visit your house first.” Enid croons, then flashes her you-don’t-know-me-yet-but-I-need-you-to-adore-me smile to her parents “I would love to! I can’t thank you enough, Mr. and Mrs. Addams!”

“Maravilloso ! Just call us Tío Gomez and Tante Morticia, mija.” Infuriatingly, her overjoyed father decides to place himself along in her line of fire. “Ay , you must tell us everything, mi pequeño escorpión! You still haven’t told us how you saved the school and won the heart of el violinista del diablo- “

A flick of her hand, and their dorm finally descends into long-awaited silence.

Enid slowly blinks in a clear attempt to process whatever disaster has just occurred. Then comes her herald of doom: a dangerous smile begins to unfurl. “I’m no expert, but I’ve passed grade 10 Spanish. Did your father just liken me to Paganini?”

It’s her turn to put away her cello as quickly as she can. “Forget that ever happened.”

“But I’m nowhere close to done! Oh, isn’t that just precious? Even I want to know how you won my heart too, Willa! Won’t you give me some pointers?” 

“Good night, Enid.”

The violinist laughs in sunlit gold, smiling like a child tasting candy for the first time. Wednesday can feel the telltale fond smile forming on her own, squashed almost a second too late. 

“Gosh, deep down you’re so sweet I’m getting cavities.” The tiny peck to her cheek is just as honey sweet, her glittery balm a little sticky yet endearing all the same. “Gruesome nightmares for you, selene.”

She can hear Thing soundlessly snickering from her bed. One of these days she’s going to unravel its stitches one snip at a time until it vows eternal silence.

Chapter Text

Sweet?

Enid’s grown delusional.

She doesn’t invite her out of the goodness of her heart. The world will freeze over before that happens.

It’s all part of her fifty-year plan to ensure their future. After all, if succumbing to the family curse is inevitable, she can only settle on bending it to her will. 

She’s not naïve. Enid is a gifted musical prodigy with wicked sharp social intelligence and smiles that put the sun to shame. Members of her pathetic pack have changed course from avoidance to pursuit once she transforms, not to count the sheer number of past dalliances she gleaned out of her blog. She can only imagine the influx once she’s back on the world stage, fellow prodigies and soloists with fame and fortune ready to sweep her off her feet.

In hindsight, the curse truly chose an impeccable partner worthy of her affections. Having admitted that, the possibility of Enid leaving her for someone else will only end in bloodshed: the faceless new paramour and her own heart.

It’s been a while since her nightmares solely contain the simple comforts of scaphisms and iron maidens.

Only solution? She has to act fast and show her intentions in the most undefeatable gesture known to man - dead, undead, or alive.

Thing proves to be a steadfast assistant in her endeavor by suggesting the manor. The last thing she wants is courting Enid under the prying gazes of rumor-starved students. She has to do it properly, in the privacy of her ancestral home, with every possible resource in her disposal. Every step has to be arranged to perfection, every minute in their itinerary has to be accounted for with their sacred 2 hours untouched. 

She hasn’t slept in 3 days.

It’s morbidly exhilarating.

Alas, the plan didn’t account for her own family trying to outdo her.

She’s never suffered a worse betrayal.

“Me and Tish adore your works,” her father enthuses “we have all three of your recordings! Your rendition on Velásquez’ Delirio is my absolute favorite.”

She’s counted fourteen utility poles within five minutes of their journey.

She merely wishes for one of them to fall on their hearse and end her misery.

“Elena, wasn’t it? I do like Enid better. I recall you were a brunette then, but blonde suits you.” Her mother strokes Enid’s streaked pale gold tresses with her pitch black talons, her gaze starstruck. Wednesday’s never thought such blasphemy could ever come from her mother’s own mouth. “We’ve seen your concerts too, chérie! Haven’t we, mon amour?”

“Tienes razón, mi vida!” Her father’s smile splits his face in two. She would’ve appreciated the grotesque sight if not for the incoming mortification she would surely experience. “Our first was in Boston for the Strauss sonata. You transformed quite a bland composition into a majestic masterpiece! We went four nights in a row with Pugsley, then followed you to New York to Philadelphia to New Jersey to...”

Enid is reduced to a flustered mess, thanking them with a shy smile. She’s more likely recalling the disturbing experience of two maniacal admirers shadowing her every move three years ago.

“It’s a shame our little storm cloud whisked you away right after the recital, we were dying to see you in person again!” his father piles on, delighted by the violinist’s response. Wednesday refrains from gagging by the skin of her teeth.

“This is exactly why I did it.” She mutters under her breath. Enid’s the only one who hears her, silently chuckling. Thing is already dead to the world in its favorite velvet box, claiming that keeping all three of them alive for a full term entitles it to months-worth of hybernation. She’ll have to make do without allies.

“Actually, I remember us inviting Wednesday to come along to Boston,” mother continues, a gleam of mischief in her eyes “she scoffed at the program and said “Boring. I’ll pass.”

Forget ricin and stemless roses. She’ll trap her mother in a pink coffin with a thousand maggots to gnaw at her hair.

“So we could’ve met long ago?” Enid-the filthy traitor-decides to join in, wolfish grin latching on her new target “I can’t believe your parents found out about me way before you did!”

Even Pugsley dares to toss a comradely grin at the blonde “I like you already.”

Sweet Asmodeus, she hopes the skies part and unleash hellfire on this torturous contraption.

A puff of incense smoke and bejeweled skulls greet Enid the moment she steps into the manor.

Icy terror flashes through cerulean irises, but Grandmama’s immediate grip on her arms prevents her from running away.

“Consuelda, manzanilla, girasol, quevivaelamor!”

Grandmama ends her ritual with the Addams’ notorious bone-crushing hugs, which she belatedly returns with equal ferocity.

“I-it’s n-nice to meet you, Mrs. Addams.” she valiantly stutters out. Enid has her werewolf genetics to thank for her ribs staying intact. “Thank you for having me.”

“Call me Grandmama, bomboncita.” She flicks the blonde on the nose before frenziedly sniffing her neck. “Ay, you’ve just turned! We’ll have the meat extra bloody tonight!”

The witch releases the frazzled werewolf to surprised cheers and queries from the rest of the family, all the while flinging Wednesday a conspiratorial smile.

Enid would hear the slurred incantation as vaguely Spanish gibberish, but Wednesday’s well-versed in Grandmama-speak. 

“Te debo una, Grandmama.”

The Addamses have prepared in advance for their colorful guest.

Everyone is equipped with their own cache of smelling salts. Their more carnivorous plants and pets have been cajoled-with torches and spears-not to eat anyone with pink sweaters and string-scraped rainbow nails. Missing floor boards from Wednesday’s myriad of traps for her brothers are mostly replaced. 

She maintains a watchful eye on Enid as they tour the manor, just in case a stray black widow galvanizes her heart to smithereens. Her mother takes the helm, efficiently parting the skeleton servers with spirited explanations for anything she finds noteworthy, from ancient portraits to batwing cornices to skull-shaped door knobs. The violinist plays the part of a politely attentive audience, but she’s spent more than enough time with the blonde to see how she yields a wealth of tells. 

A minute in she starts tapping her fingers to a swift mazurka rhythm, gaze darting about so quickly as to be imperceptible. The slightest noises from the skeleton servers and sentient flytraps pull her shoulders taut and legs trembling. Still, she tilts to the left when the painting of Juanita Addams the Pirate Queen piques her interest, repeating the name on the plaque in a murmur. Her brows furrow and her cheeks puff in indignation at the tribulations many an Addams survived through, and she's the only one to laugh at her father’s tragically dull attempt at humor or smile at her parents’ off-putting displays of affection. She's clearly the only entity in the entire vicinity who's sincerely trying to learn more about her family in years, and Wednesday’s more than willing to glare at the sentient creatures who dare to gawk at her duet partner.

“And here we are.” Her mother looks almost hopeful, waiting for Enid’s verdict. “We hope it’s to your liking.”

The Addams manor currently houses 44 rooms. Only one is bereft of black. 

Taffeta drapes over tall arched windows, artificial light gleaming against engraved mirrors and the polished parquet, fashioning the illusion of a sunny morning against the manor’s perpetual gloominess. Silk roses and lilies spring forth from marble vases before paneled walls of rocaille carvings. Above the stained-glass dome of the canopy, a lavish chandelier hung from gilded filigree ceilings, circling a colossal fresco of the mistresses of Louis XV in their gaudiest regalia: the four de Mailly sisters in massive ruby brooches, painted silks, and pearl-pinned braids, Madame du Barry flaunting her pink sapphire earrings, and Madame de Pompadour holding court with her necklace of many-hued jewels.

The chamber is certainly far more extravagant than her own. And warmer. And more colorful. And free from torture devices. And bedecked in softer sheets…and quite a few corridors away from hers.

If this is how her parents are enforcing proper etiquette, she’ll start digging for the maggots. Wednesday has put up with them as co-collaborators for days, tried to include their suggestions just like what Enid has advised, and this is how they backstab her? No amount of adjustments can salvage her plans, they all depend far too much on Enid sharing her room. Can she flood this rococo eyesore quick enough before the skeleton servers haul Enid’s luggage here? Should she fake a power outage in this one room?

“Wow, this is amazing!” Enid gasps, each word soaked in astonishment as she takes everything in. “Is it a gallery?”

“Oh no, mija, we built this in honor of our family’s most prolific criminal in this millennium to date! So we thought, only the best and brightest of rooms for the most prolific musician, el violinista del diablo!”

Enid’s usual lilt of honeyed prosecco turns into the palest crémant. “Criminal?”

“Fear not, chérie.” Her mother attempts a comforting hand to her shoulder. Her frigid fingers nearly causes the blonde to flinch away. “She met her untimely demise by our little Pubert’s unknowing hands.”

“I’ve a decade left to trounce Debbie in that regard.” Wednesday adds to her family’s unanimous elation.

“Four is a measly body count,” Father’s enormous hand hovers in an approximation of a pat on her back, exactly how she prefers it. “I’m sure you’ll double it in just a few years, mi infierna.”

“Yeah, sure, of course, cool.” The mazurka rhythm quickens to bulería, her claws extending and blood draining from her face.

“Enid? Are you feeling well?”

“Yeah, I’m super okay! Everything’s great!” She backs herself into the wall. “And I’m sure you’ll achieve god-tier serial killer in…no time-AAAHHH!“

The painted skies part and gigantic axes cleaves the lit à la polonaise without mercy, shreds of memory foam, stained-glass, and silk snowing down their heads as the canopy falls apart into bite-sized pieces.

Her family burst into appreciative applause.

Enid is still screaming.

“Gamóto gamóto gamóto-“ she slaps her clawed hand to her mouth, eyes wide in unmistakable terror. “I’m so so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s not your fault, chérie.” Mother is evidently ecstatic at the sudden change in decor. “Truly, the room has never looked better.”

“But I destroyed your bed! I-I can cook and clean, I can take care of your mansion for my whole life if I have to.“

“You’re far inferior to our skeleton servants, they don’t need to eat or sleep.” Wednesday explains as succinctly as she can. “And the last thing I want is you crushed to death by one of our fake dumb waiters.”

“Tienes razón como siempre, mi infierna! Such an impressive show on your first day here!” Father scoops Enid up into her third bone-crushing hug of the day. Wednesday harbors no doubt that the blonde will sport bruises. “Not to worry, we have eight other rooms for you to choose!”

“She can room next to me! Wednesday moved years ago.” It seems Pugsley has chosen death and joined the Enid Sinclair fan club, grasping hard enough to almost pull the werewolf’s arm out of its socket. “You can tell me exactly how you found that trap door!” 

“Enid will room with me.” Her brother is finally competent enough not to panic when the tip of a blade is thrust short of his neck. Enid-flinching away with a yelp-simply needs time. “I’m her roommate and duet partner.”

“I gotta agree?” Enid titters, the harsh canary yellow presenting an unaffected front while fraying at the edges. Even then, she gently removes her hand from Pugsley’s grip and plasters on a cordial smile. A trip to the electric chair would better teach him about breaching personal spaces and uttering presumptuous propositions. “I’ve no idea what I just did, but we can hang out anytime. I’d love to get to know you better!”

“I’ve organized an itinerary for Enid’s entire stay,” she informs them both “you can only meet her at breakfast, lunch, or dinner.”

“The matter’s settled then.” Mother ushers Pugsley away before he can fire his rebuttal. “Now, let’s head for dinner first!”

Grandmama takes her leave with a wink. “Y parece que hay solo una cama,” she whispers.

Truly, her grandmother’s the only one on her side all along.

Wednesday has endured an entire term of bland sandwiches and lackluster coffee.

Tonight, she feasts.

The obsidian table is near bursting with tried and true favorites. Powder Point and Wellfleet oysters languish on beds of squid ink ice spheres, circled by platters of salt crusted Branzino and broiled Maine lobsters. The crown roast of lamb sits on its throne at the center, bedecked with pistachios and stuffed with ghost peppers. Aguachiles, salsas, tortillas, carnitas, and roasted scorpion kebabs are strategically laid out near Wednesday and Pugsley’s seats for them to battle over. Towering over buñuelos, capirotadas, jericalla de cajetas, and an assortment of infernally spicy paletas is a pile of rib-eyes basted rare in blood red wine.

She takes them all in: the wine cooler stuffed full with brunellos and barbarescos from Gaja, Gloria del Paraguay’s Galopera crooning from the gramophone, the mural of Pancho Villa slicing the heads of federal officers in the Battle of Zacatecas, and finally lets herself breathe.

She’s home.

She aims it’ll be Enid’s too.

Wednesday slowly and deliberately switches her dining set with Pugsley’s and pulls Enid’s chair for her brother to see. No one else can sit next to Enid for any of her plans to work.

Enid clasps her proffered hand with a giggle before taking her seat. Pugsley settles for monopolizing the scorpion kebabs instead, sticking his tongue out in hollow victory. He can sulk all he wants, Mother and Father are upstairs trying to wake Pubert. Even better, she’ll relish it.

Instantly, the violinist’s gaze is glued to her own dinnerware, an array of ebony bone china rimmed with hand painted platinum leaf scrolls, identical to every other set on the table. The only distinctive feature is Enid’s name engraved on the edge, but everyone in the family also has their own.

“Mi sol? Is anything wrong?”

“No, no, I mean it this time. Everything’s been amazing.” Alarmingly, she turns her head to the other side and swipes her knuckles over her cheeks. 

Last semester’s Wednesday would brush it off. Current Wednesday has repeatedly experienced (and been rightfully scarred by) the familiar gesture to know what it means.

Her fingertips dance over Enid’s curled palm, fortunately free of claws, voice as careful as she can manage. It’s truly a boon that touching Enid never burdens her with visions. “What is it then?”

Enid shifts, hesitantly moving to face her. Something aches behind the warmth in her cerulean pools. “It’s really stupid.”

“I’m used to it,” she shrugs.

She smiles at that, but the usual sunny brightness is overcast, her chest rising and falling slowly before she speaks. 

“I thought they’d hate me. I’m probably your family’s version of a tattooed stoner pursuing their crazy talented and brilliant daughter.” she chuckles feebly. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night, thought I’m gonna be shooed away before I even get into your car. But out of fuck knows where they gave me a room straight out of Versailles and doesn’t care that I accidentally destroy the bed and cooked me a ton of bloody steaks and got me my own tableware with my name on it. It’s like I’m drowning in kindness and my head’s having a hard time wrapping around the idea.”

“Breathe.”

Enid tilts her head up to the midnight skies of their painted ceiling, and suddenly flaxen waves are on her shoulder. “Oh, this is so much better.”

“Get off my shoulder.”

“I’ll sit next to Pugsley.”

“...you’ll hurt your neck.” 

Her shoulder grows warm as Enid burrows her head even closer. “Worth it.”

It’s almost a hysterical realization, but she’s frankly never met another human being so honestly and openly content to be near her. “They’ve taken a shine to you because they sometimes have fine taste, despite your questionable fashion choices.”

Sweet Asmodeus, that’s the wrong move. 

Enid breaks out into a wide grin, the sun finally coming up from behind the clouds. She wonders if she’ll ever build a tolerance to the radiance. “My, someone’s slipping! You knowthere’s no possible universe where I won’t take that bait.”

“Then take it and shut up.”

“I will, I promise!” She raises her hands in mock surrender, wiggling her brows to show she meant every word in jest. “After we talk about you saying I’m too boring for your tastes, Willa. You must’ve improved a lot since then. Is it ‘cus I ditched the middle name?”

“Say another word and I’ll roast you in place of that lamb.”

“Gosh, how scary! I gotta run far away from here.” Enid retaliates with one of her lethal sunny giggles. 

Pugsley’s too engrossed in his oysters to notice Wednesday resting her cheek on top of pale gold locks. "Shut the door on your way out."

She’s the host, and that’s why she can’t hack off the pink-painted index teasingly poking her nose.

“You’re lucky I like you, smart-ass.” 

The door, in fact, needs to be shut.

Wednesday’s telling Enid which flavors from their paletas won’t burn her tongue when a massive shadow looms over their table. Chill wind sweeps in with a rush, defeating every flame into wisps of smoke and plunging the dining hall into darkness. Without the fire to keep them at bay, icy tendrils creeps through every inch of glass and porcelain, enveloping the air, freezing every breath exhaled.

Wednesday finds Enid’s trembling hands curled on her lap, mindful of the claws.

A nod, and everyone springs up from their seats, knives and daggers and talons at the ready.

Pubert remains in his pool of oysters, playing with the squid ink ice spheres with abandon.

“Salute, mi familia!”

Father’s scimitar flies and embeds itself onto the spiked chandelier. He pays it no mind and raises his half-full glass of vintage barbaresco “Fester, mi hermano!”

The two run at full-speed to meet each other halfway in a tedious embrace as the rest of the family reclaim their seats. Enid withdraws her claws with an amber-hued sigh. Late night cello berceuse it is, then.

“Oh, Gomez how I’ve missed you!” Uncle Fester finally sees fit to acknowledge their presence, whirling around each member with a face-splitting grin. “Mamá, congratulations on the new wart! And Tish, looking deadly as always! Pugsley, you’ve grown such deep dark circles, they look fantastic! And Wednesday, you’ve finally found your Santa Muerte! Hello there, niece-in-law, I’m your Uncle-in-Law Fes- ”

“Not. The. Time.” she strikes her rusty knife a hair's breadth away from his open mouth. 

“Of course, of course, just Fester it is then.” he gives Enid’s hands a vigorous shake “You must be the Wieniawski soloist in the Concertgebouw! Tremendous work!”

“So Wednesday’s the only one here who’s never seen Enid’s concert, right?” Pugsley wheezes “Who’s the duet partner again?”

“Shall I slit your stomach so your scorpion tacos gush out with your entrails?”

“I’m honored that you like my performance!” Enid raises her voice in a futile attempt to drown out her threat “Oh, I’m Enid!”

“Well, you can always count on me, concert master-captain! Third violinist, at your service.” Uncle Fester salutes her “I can’t wait for our string octet!”

No one has told her about this. Again. 

“Absolutely not.”

“But why?” Pugsley looks up from his second helping of buñuelos. “I'm the first viola at school too! You’re just keeping Enid to yourself!”

“That is my intention, yes.”

“Please see how brilliant it is, mi pequeño escorpión!” Father’s never above groveling, but she’s not an immovable object for nothing. “Everyone is here, we can play that Mendelssohn like you’ve always wanted for Fiesta de Año Nuevo!”

“Grandmama has arthritis.“

“And I can magic it away!” the hag interjects “I’ve been busking since La Cristiada, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“Lurch is barely sentient.”

“I can charm him to play perfectly!” Mother heaps her powers of persuasion on Enid instead, “We’ll work together splendidly, chérie, I promise.”

Her head is pounding, the room is spinning, and her parents will get those maggots tonight. “I have a detailed two-month plan and you’re ruining it with insipid surprises.”

“Okay, it’s Deep Breaths Time.” Enid pulls one of her knitted dolls from her dress, a well-worn victim of her slashing and Enid’s mending. “Go on, you know you wanna stab it.”

Sinking her knife into its featureless face and picturing tendons oozing pus is indeed quite calming, as always. They’ll still get the maggots for the trouble they’ve caused, of course, if only delayed by a few days.

“Lo sentimos, mi infierna.” Father is always first to concede, at least that’s still predictable. “We’re so excited to have Enid here, we started planning out surprises without you knowing.”

“We will only schedule it with both of your permissions, ma petite serpent.”

Well, now that they’re offering…

As long as her unstoppable force agrees.

“So, what do you say to another recital?”

They truly don’t know what’s coming for them.

A devious grin spreads across Enid’s face, truly a rare sight to behold.

It’s not Wednesday they should fear now.

“We’ll agree on a few conditions.” Enid concludes. Her honeyed lilt hardens to citrine, spine ramrod straight, jaw sternly set. 

Amicable angel Enid is gone, long live concert master-devil's violinist Enid.

The entire family stands to attention by the snap of her multicolored fingers. “Come on, Addamses. Let’s get down to business.”

Chapter Text

Thus begins the reign of Enid, first of her name.

“Okay, confess your sins before I do it for you!” Her raised fist signals a mid-movement cutoff, gaze pinpoint sharp despite her customary grin.

Father sighs, “I came in too early.”

“And I’m out of sync!” 

Grandmama beams as she receives her reward: the briefest of nods. “Note them on your parts, please.” 

She puts her violin down, a dismayed queen addressing the subjects resting on their laurels too soon. “And I’m not done yet.”

Then the unthinkable happens. 

“Tante Morticia, anything you want to fix?”

Mother looks up, her surprise nearing indignance. “You know I didn’t make a single mistake, chérie .”

“I don’t mind a few missed notes, it’s our first day anyway.” she counters with a frown “Grandmama and Pugsley slipped half a dozen times, Uncle Fester and I made three, Wednesday and Tío Gomez got twice.”

Father’s brows soar up his hairline. She absolutely can get used to this.

Enid sighs, shifting her tone to the long-perfected expression of infinite patience for Nevermore Orchestra newcomers. “Look, you're all obviously experienced. We all have crazy different styles too, I like that. More like a vocal group than a choir, if you catch my drift.” she turns to them all, distractedly scratching the string-scuffed remnants of her nail polish, “but we’re going for one of the most challenging, grueling pieces in history, so I gotta raise the bar. That New Year’s soirée’s literally breathing down my neck!”

In Wednesday’s defense, she’s always desired to conquer the beast after hearing of its role in father’s disastrous third year recital.

“The first movement is about youth and passion. They’re meant to wake you up and get your heart beating fast. Honestly? It's a bit of a lot like falling in love for the first time.” Her dreamy sigh is hastily covered by a shaky cough, ruddy cheeks and starry-eyed gaze pointedly turned away from the ensemble's only cellist. “Basically, you sound like you’re playing for a funeral when you’re hired for summer olympics.”

Cerulean meets obsidian in a battle of wills, the very air crackling with the sudden plunge into uncertainty. Gone was any trace of the agreeable smile, the soft-spoken endearments. Neither movement nor sound dares interfere, as if the music room is suspended in time.

She never thought she’d see the day a five foot three adolescent in a flowery skirt go head to head with the matriarch of darkness. 

She hopes the critique festers on her mother’s brittle black heart, a malignant tumor.

“Then what do you propose I…rectify?”

The glacier melts, cheery grin returning. 

“You’re way too stiff, so loosen up a little. Imagine playing like you’re kissing your husband, just copy paste the passion but dial down a couple notches.” she ignores Pugsley’s groan and Wednesday’s grimace, smile still in place as Father and Mother gaze at each other in their usual sickening fashion “I want it less polished, more zesty. Lean into your crescendos, give more energy to your spiccatos.”

“Your Santa Muerte is truly impresionante.” Father turns to her with a knowing grin. “Be brave and shower her with love, mi infierna, I believe in you.”

“I can also shower you with acid, Father.” She shoots back, a massive lump building in her throat. “Cease your useless counsel.”

“And that goes for all of you.” the violinist whirls around to face the rest, skirt billowing “Uncle Fester, careful with the arpeggios. The near-misses are fine, but I can hear how nervous you are. Pugsley, don’t overpower Lurch. Wednesday-“

“Watch out for the tremolos.”

Enid grants her a tiny smile, the first in two hours.

By all hells, it’s the briefest yet sweetest of victories.

“Everyone, back to 71. Lurch, start us off.”

Enid misses her turn on bar 9.

She misses again on 49.

“Sorry, sorry, I can’t do this.” She groans, violin clutched to her lap. “I know we still have an hour but I can’t stop thinking if your mom’s gonna kick me out or murder me.”

“That’s a touch morbid for your usual standards.”

“I literally ruined her bed,” her chuckle just about reaches hysterics, a worrying shade of turmeric “and criticized her on my first day here like I’m Itzhak fucking Perlman or something.”

“You’re just the sacrificial lamb for Grandmama’s scheme, and Mother’s more likely in awe that someone can challenge her. Also, you made Barclay cry in our first week at the orchestra. I see no difference.”

“She clearly didn’t practice and she’s completely out of tune!” Enid scoffs, instantly unrepentant “Relationship woes and Poe Cup wars don’t give you free passes!”

She stares back, a single brow raised.

Enid grouches, but confesses nonetheless. “Kinda also payback for poisoning Yoko with garlic bread. What’s one cherry on top of her shitty loser sundae?”

“My deviousness didn’t rub off on you,” she concludes, lip traitorously twitching up “you already have it in spades.”

“I don’t give a fuck what Bianca thinks of me,” the blonde retorts, nose upturned. Alas, the split second haughtiness deflates. “but they’re your family. I really really need them to like me.”

She’s helpless to stop the warmth swelling up in her, yet just as powerless to prevent the streak of bitterness. “Not because they’ve all been to your concerts?”

Enid’s tone is carefully level, but she can hear the laugh itching to burst through the surface. “You can’t be jealous of your own family! You’ve seen me play and played with me plenty, you’ll catch up eventually.”

“I have all your albums too, you know.” Bought all three the moment Enid showed her how to place orders online, in fact. They’ll see who’s the most devoted supporter all along. “And you reprimanding my mother is the most splendid sight I’ve ever seen. Do it again tomorrow.”

The dam breaks, finally. It’s a sport to her at this point. 

Enid’s fizzy giggle washes over her as if she’s floating on air. It's utterly, indescribably revolting. 

She schemes to hear at least one more before bed. 

“Fine, you win. Congratulations, you’re Enid Sinclair’s number one fan.” She claps, slow and sardonic, despite the blush creeping up her cheeks. “I hope your family has mastered the art of losing gracefully.”

The same brow is raised yet again.

“Right, you’re all Addamses, who am I kidding. But gosh, I forgot ‘cus you’re all just beyond kind, I’d kill to have just one of you growing up.” Enid manages a tremulous smile, and her chest hurts just a little too much. 

She might have to execute step 6 earlier than expected.

All five foot one of her shudders at the thought. Is this even worth the hours of pain?

She almost died for your sorry arse. For a long-gone spirit, Goody’s voice is oddly seared to her brain. Don’t you dare waste another second.

So she crosses her arms, hunches her shoulders, and braces herself for the impact:

“The Penderecki can wait. We get ready for bed, you choose a movie.”

The ear-splitting squeal is mere decibels away from fracturing her reinforced window glass, the hundred-megawatt grin bright enough to blind mere mortals. They are the only reasons why her entire body is tingling all over. “Gosh, I can’t believe it! It’s happening, it’s happening! You won’t regret this, I promise!”

A sigh is all she can muster. “I already have.”

…she’s actually enjoying this.

Sweet Asmodeus.

Has the world truly ended?

At least she can feel her own life ending from the slew of sensations she’s submerged in: Enid’s toes tapping a frantic rhythm on the mattress, her own pajama-clad shoulder touching the blonde’s bare bicep, their thighs pressed together to balance Enid’s laptop, damp blonde locks emanating the scent of honey.

She doesn’t know where to look or move or touch, wants to shrink away from the radiating warmth and sink into it at the same time. 

Is this too fast? Or is Enid internally screaming at her crawling pace but too kind to point it out? Is she exhausted from constantly giving while Wednesday solely takes and takes and takes ?

The last thing she wants is diving head-first into some torrid liaison the moment she finds out her affections are returned à la her parents, essentially choosing the romantic equivalent of a 3-minute microwave dinner over dry-aged tomahawk. Unfortunately, their substandard precedent is all she knows. 

It’s not a lightning strike or an explosive supernova, her adoration. It’s a seed planted from nights of sparring and tolerating the other’s presence, sprouting when she first heard Enid play, growing as their clashes turn into dances, withering as she believed her fondness was unreturned, and blossoming at last when it turned out reciprocated. 

Try as she might to deny it, she treasures this weak tattered flower for stubbornly surviving despite her numerous attempts to kill it. It’s a sign that whatever sentiments they share is theirs alone to choose and toil and nurture, the proof against her parent’s extravagant claims that it’s the forced bond from some fanciful curse her ancestors have acquired from wrathful gods. If anything, the bloom now dares to grow fangs and sink its teeth into her innards, unrelenting. 

Kiss her again, hold her hand. It keeps screeching. Then I’ll release you.  

All she needs to do is swallow this deep, twisted fear of laying herself bare and replicate what she’s once done before.

She doesn’t have the faintest idea how.

“You like it?” She can feel Enid quivering against her skin, as if she’s never awed by the werewolf’s unending courage to do the exact thing she still can’t accomplish, revealing that Wednesday holds her entire fate in her hands. This is ridiculous. Enid’s clearly the one holding hers.

Does she like it? Where does she even begin? The movie is undeniably more pleasurable than most in its dreary monochrome palette and gloomy setting, its only exception in splatters of scarlet as murders and battles abound. Lack of realism aside, she finds herself intrigued by the courtly conspiracies and deadly subterfuges. This is exactly the motion picture she can immerse herself in, if it wasn’t for Enid’s everything setting all her nerves on fire.

“This is acceptable.” To her eternal shame, she stumbles over her words. “Show me other movies with similar features.”

Enid catches on, merciless without fail.

“I did it! I’ve converted you to Zhang Yi Mou!” She raises both fists in the air, triumphant in tangerine “I know Shadow’s the perfect start for you. We have to watch Shanghai Triad next, or Raise the Red Lantern, or To Live! Gong Li’s incredible in all three, but she’s always amazing really.”

She promptly ignores the rush of green-eyed fury burning in her gut. “Gong Li?”

“Only the best actress to ever live!” She squeals with a dreamy sigh. The green-eyed fury simply grows twofold. “She’s so ambitious and talented and takes no bullshit from anyone. She’s got the prettiest dark eyes and her hair’s so black and shiny-” She freezes, eyes wide as saucers.

Well isn’t this just precious?

“Sounds familiar.”

“Shut up.” the blonde smothers her face with her plushies as if they can conceal the flush unfurling across the entire span of her skin.

Payback will be a bitch indeed.

“I didn’t know you have such specific preferences.”

A clawed hand reaches for her laptop from under the pile of fluff and blasts a grating Korean pop song at full volume, the mortified violinist loudly singing along.

“That trick will never work on me again,” she taps it paused “Thing has taught me all about this musical atrocity you call Spotify.”

“Bet Thing’s never taught you this !” A fleecy shark toy hits her straight on the chest, Enid beaming from her pile. 

How dare she?

She retaliates with her own throw pillow, a bull’s eye to the stomach. “It doesn’t need to. I’m excellent at any fight.”

“We’ll see about that!” A teddy bear barely misses her head. 

She slides down and crouches to the side of the bed, senses battle-ready. She circles her bed at the slightest sound, evading Enid’s furry projectiles at every turn. Her handful of black velvet pillows are slightly outnumbered by Enid’s horde of soft toys, but she can make every hit count.

“Fuck, you’re really good at hiding. Short people powers are no joke." The sunny giggle is a dead giveaway, as always. She swings her pillow in a wide arc to Enid’s side, yet fails to make contact with anything but air. A fuzzy unicorn strikes her square in the face, its shooter smirking from the other side of the mattress.

“You’ll pay for that.” She leaps onto the bed and slams a barrage of all her pillows at the blonde, pummeling as fast as she can. Enid fights back with shots of her own, laughing the entire time.

It ends with Enid slumping down in a boneless heap, head landing on Wednesday’s lap with a drowsy smile, an angel in pink amongst black silk and inky velvet. Wednesday’s lips sting with the sudden need to kiss it off her.

“I win.” She says instead.

“Yeah, yeah whatever.“ Her snark has none of its usual bite. “All hail Wednesday Friday Addams, Enid Sinclair’s number one fan and pillow fight champ - oh my fucking god, you have dimples?”

She tries to drop her facial muscles, but it’s too late. Enid’s callused fingertips traces over them, impossibly gentle. She can feel her breath catch, but then the blonde rises to plant a sprightful kiss to the accursed crescent divot, and she stops breathing entirely.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask if you’re okay with that.” her gasp is tinged with a remorseful chartreuse. “I just took a look and gosh, you’re so lovely I can’t help it.”

She can barely manage a nod. She could’ve pulled away at any time and Enid would never begrudge her, yet in all her yearning can’t help the magnetizing pull of tender fingertips, while in all her arrogance can’t see her battered tolerance straining against the ever so potent touch. So she pays the price, her internal mechanisms ground to a halt, a foolish Icarus who flew too close to the sun and scorched her wings.

The blonde’s gaze softens in recognition, somehow perpetually sensing how torrents of changes and surprises leave her duet partner chafed and raw. 

Her shutdowns are always silent, indistinguishable from her default state of apathy. To her perpetual mortification and concealed gratitude, Enid always plucks the right strings to make them sing .

“Okay, this entire day’s been overwhelming for both of us.” she softly entreats “Wanna sleep it off?”

Another nod, looking down at her bedraggled braids. The violinist releases the bands barely holding them in place, delicately unraveling the plaits without touching skin. Finally, Enid lets go of the last black strand, eyes taking her in, mouth parted. She shivers, yet fire burns its way through her bloodstream. For a single moment, she is Galatea and Enid her adoring Pygmalion.  

When the dim lights shut and Wednesday’s strength returns, the blonde lies a cautious distance away at the right side of the bed, where the only window in the room resides. Moonlight lingers on the constellation of her freckles, the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder. From this close, she can see flecks of silver and gold on her cerulean irises, the reason why they seem to glow in the dark.

Her ribs expand on a shudder and forget to collapse, a witness to the divine. 

At last, she wills her body to fall flat on her back in the familiar corpse pose.

Be brave , father had said. For once in his long and miserable life, he’s right.

Because something’s missing.

In the dark, she finds Enid's hands and laces their fingers together. 

Could be better . She tugs until Enid curls into her side, the blonde giggling with her cheek nuzzling into her black-clad shoulder. Close and warm, but never suffocating.

Perfect .

“For the record,” Enid’s whispered confession pours into her aches and sores like molten gold. Not for the first time, she wonders if the lycan also possesses siren powers. “you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met, no contest. Gong Li could never.”

Sweet Asmodeus, she’s already halfway dead before the day ends.

As she rouses from slumber, Enid’s back is her only view. 

Lush tresses of pale gold, powder blue, and bubblegum pink are pinned up and away. Pages of chaotic scribbles on the stand making up her composition are abandoned for the (former spite-driven venture turned daily routine) early morning violin solo. Fingers are dancing rivulets of scales down the fingerboard for her warm-up, arms adorned with streams of veins hued the palest of cloudless skies. 

As always, Wednesday amuses herself with her daily betting game. Enid never plays from the same composer twice in a week, so Salonen, Ysaÿe, and Bach are out. Perhaps her beloved Saint-Saëns’ Havanaise as a familiar comfort in a strange new dwelling? Or maybe one of Kreisler’s to tinker with?

The teasing, almost coy opening proves her correct.

She sinks back into weighted black sheets for just a minute more, still smelling of honey, eyes affixed to Enid’s ever changing rendition on La Gitana.

Then the sun god turns in all her full glory.

“Good morning, selene. You been watching?” It’s one of her deadliest smiles, the quietly satisfied ones after a successful practice. The sun suddenly seems dim in comparison, as if it’s rising to the sky to make room down on earth for her to shine in its stead.

“I’ve just opened my eyes and ears to an almost passable attempt at Kreisler.”

Her laughter glides along her skin, light and glassy. “Still the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

She spots the blonde’s atrociously pink mobile on the nightstand, untouched while the contraption still quivers without fail. She notes the near brittle quality on her usually fiery phrases, a first for one of the blonde’s favorite encore pieces.

And you’re the best. 

She’s done it once before, she’ll found out what Enid’s hiding eventually.

Preferably once she reforms the current state of her formerly monochrome sanctuary.

By all hells, what has she succumbed into?

Fuzzy abominations dominate the right side of the four-poster. The violinist’s plethora of polychromatic garments are - by some small mercy and sheer thoughtfulness - organized by color in Wednesday’s own sparse wardrobe as if the arrangement would minimize their toxic effect on her vision. In an ironic twist of fate, the werewolf’s army of hair oils and tinted conditioners have replaced the wolf spider dwelling in the once desolate bathroom cabinet.

“What have you done to my room, you demonic temptress?”

“Whoa there, Casanova. You always know how to make a girl blush.” the violinist remains unbothered, handing her a cup of scalding hot Scottish Breakfast as she steps out of her washroom. “Maybe drink your tea first before you start the accusations.”

“Much obliged.” She gives the brew an appreciative whiff before taking a sip, luxuriating in the instant convulsion it brings. The liquid has been steeped precisely until it tastes identical to gunpowder and wood ash, with the bittersweet aftertaste of azalea nectar from mother’s personal stores. Her duet partner truly has Morticia Addams wrapped around her colorful claw. “But your flawlessly infused distraction will not work this time. I recall permitting only one of your fluffy monstrosities in my house.”

“I can’t just leave Honeybun, I’ve never gone anywhere without her since 5!” she pouts, neglecting the humidifier halfway inserted into her violin “And Pinky Pie ‘cus she’s a limited edition from the last Bronycon ever. And Sharky ‘cus he’s the big-“

The heavy oak doors open with a deafening slam.

“Vamos, you two! An Arachne just appeared in the forest!” Father barges in, trusty scimitar strapped to his hip and Thing nestled in his suit pocket. “The hunt is afoot!”

Eliminating Enid’s furry companions will have to wait.

Step one has just begun.

It starts with the corpses.

Then again, don’t they all?

Her piranhas hang suspended on webs of spun silk, their serrated incisors ripped apart and scales clawed open for their viscera to be sucked dry. Dozens of their glittering bodies drape over the tall trees, a gruesome canopy of spiraling strands dripping over the placid Ignacio Addams river, pools of crimson soaking the earth while the waters remain eerily crystalline.

It’s an exquisite view like no other, bar Enid in her Korngold solo.

The aforementioned violinist tries a cursory sniff and immediately gags at the rancid smell.

“Where - “

The glasslike surface shatters and waves collapse against the earth, bloody river water drenching them from head to toe. Eight massive legs rise from the depths, tall as the trees, clawing deep into the grassy ground with their barbed hooks. Eight ruby orbs blaze over the fog as the Arachne unhinges its jaw, a bottomless chasm stretching to the size of a boat, to emit a screech of fury so loud it would’ve ruptured her eardrums. 

Speak of the devil and it shall appear. 

On second thought, the fuzzy pink headphones Enid pulls from her overalls have just dethroned the monster. 

Sweet Asmodeus, what a fool she’s been to forget her own, still resting on Enid’s laptop.

“It’s this or hearing loss, selene. Choice is yours.”  

She places the eyesores on her head and its tiny mp3 player to her pocket, a vexed huff as her only answer. “We can double down on the eyes, commandeer from the head.”

For such a tiny curl on her lips, the werewolf’s smirk is obscenely triumphant. “I’ll take right.” 

Spidersilk rains down on the formerly quiet forest, searing through tree barks and grasslands until only charred husks remain. 

That’s not part of the plan.

Her useless, brainless accomplice smirks at her murderous glare. “Fire Arachnids are way more fun! You’ll thank me later!” He silently mouths from over the river.

“What’s way more fun is your decapitated head served for dinner tonight!” She growls as she charges forward, avunculicide in mind. “I brought my obsidian dagger so you can suffer even long-“

“Willa, come on! It’s like real life Fruit Ninja!” Enid howls with laughter. 

Sweet Asmodeus give me strength. She turns at the sound, helpless to resist the pull. 

The blonde’s claws gleam as she cleaves at the smoldering webs, any hint of fear fading away as she moves in wild abandon. It takes Wednesday the strength of thousands to resist piercing her fragile human skin on the sharp-edged talons.

By all hells, she’s slipping. Back to the task at hand.

At least Enid is pleased. That’s all that matters.

Harsh gusts of wind from the Arachne’s roars whip her braids every which way as they jump over landmines of dragline silk, Pugsley launching a flurry of dynamites at its abdomen and Grandmama’s enchanted axes chopping its legs tipping her into that intoxicating precipice between fear and exhilaration. 

Despite blatantly misunderstanding the assignment, Uncle Fester truly found a worthy beast, even with the convoluted logistics required to ship the creature from a rampaged village in Macedonia. Enid will surely enjoy this monster hunt just as much as her family, of this she has no doubts.

They both hunch down as Mother pulls poisoned stiletto daggers out of her bottomless sleeves, a dozen needle-thin tungsten sinking into its jaw in a neat line. The massive gossamer net thrown blindly in return would’ve transformed Father into kindling had he not hid behind a formerly towering spruce. Enid nearly comes for his rescue before Wednesday pulls her back to the task at hand. 

“But Tío Gomez-“ gold glints in her gaze as she casts a desperate search, fading as Father pokes his useless head out of the fallen trunk, Thing holding on to his hair “Gosh, thank fuck he’s alive!”

Her tantalum steel knives shred a silk strand into pieces before it lands. “We won’t be if you try to rescue anyone remotely in danger.”

“But we’re all in danger!” She pouts, pushing Wednesday away at the last possible millisecond before the spider’s barbed hook impales her torso. “Ha! See that? I’m not gonna say I told you so but I did tell you so!”

Her glare would’ve annihilated lesser mortals. “You won’t be as smug once I crush all eight eyes.” 

It’s unfortunate that Enid’s always been immune. Rather, her smug smirk turns teasing. “Is that a challenge, selene?”

“What else can it be?” 

“Then I accept!” She chuckles heartily, tossing her gilded hair in jest, eclipsing the sun with barely a try “Need a boost? I’d hate to win right off the bat.”

At her nod and accompanying eye roll, the taller girl gently encircles her waist and catapults her by a single powerful swing, each of her diamond knives landing on a crimson eye with a satisfying crunch - her usual rusty blades would’ve shattered upon impact. She propels herself on the momentum until her boots find purchase atop its coarse head and skewers two more as anchors, Turina’s Danzas Fantásticas playing over the spider’s silenced shriek of pain. 

Note to self: one of those horrid Japanese cat sodas for Enid’s timely aid.

Said lycan is breaking into a stride before the jump when the Arachne captures Uncle Fester’s PETN with a gigantic net of silk, the encased explosive now heading in a smooth arc for her brother instead. 

Five counts is more than enough for her brother to outrun the detonation.

Five

Pugsley trips over a burnt tree.

Four

Her blood freezes in her veins. “Corres, pendejo!”

“S'accrocher, mon petit monstre!”

Three

Everyone else rushes to his side, but they’re all too far away. His left foot is stuck, the accursed root yet to give after Pugsley’s frantic sawing. 

Two

She slides down the spider with her knives breaking the fall, ripping twin gashes along its cephalothorax. By all hells, she won’t make it in time.

One

A blur of pale gold snatches him away.

BANG

The explosion tears the ground asunder, the entire clearing draped in smoldering spidersilk.

She falls into the bleeding waters, floating amongst her dearly departed pets. 

Note to self: the cat soda and new headphones - maybe add a year’s worth supply of the revolting beverage for saving Pugsley’s life when his own sister couldn’t do it herself.

The formula for step one was laughably simple. Request a suitable monster from Uncle Fester to hide in the forest, coordinate with everyone to join in the impromptu monster hunt, watch as her family’s excitement infect Enid - whose emotional absorbency is equivalent to a cotton ball - then show her prowess as a capable lover by delivering the killing blow.

She scoffs, dainty air bubbles mocking her descent. Capable lover indeed.

She’s unworthy of the Addams name. Not when she can barely construct a solid plan to court her duet partner, not when she can’t protect her own brother, not when said partner has to step in and finish her job.

Her lungs are already burning pleasantly. The icy water is the perfect temperature, the smell of decay the sweetest perfume. For the briefest moment, she entertains the thought of staying here, suspended in motion, all thoughts of her ineptitude wiped away.

Then the telltale gargantuan shadow enshrouds the meager light above her.

Sweet Asmodeus, it’s almost as if the Arachne’s begging to die by her inept hand.

She brought every specialty knife in her collection for this fight, but the giant spider’s softer underbelly merely requires good old-fashioned steel.

She swims back to the surface as quietly as she can, eyes fixed on the prize. It’s the least she can do for Enid after she botched everything so spectacularly. Her blades carve twin flawless lines - right from the book lungs down to its spinnerets - entrails and bodily fluids gushing from the wound to turn the scarlet river a deeper burgundy, icy to boiling.

Pale, sturdy hands swathed in fur pull her into a tight embrace - seconds before all 40 feet of the spider collapses to the bottom of the river, triggering an even more destructive tsunami onto her ancestral woodland.

“Hold on tight!”

She realizes a moment too late, beaten at her own game.

No no no, not her again. She can’t bear it, she can’t-

“Enid, don’t you dare - ”

Wave after blistering wave crash over her and her stupidly heroic yet brilliantly timely hero, who shields her from the blast and sinks her claws into the dirt to keep them both rooted to the ground no matter how desperately Wednesday fights against the hold - Enid can’t keep doing this, saving her time and time again from the wreck she caused herself, because -

“it should’ve been me!” The scream she lets out is near inhuman, even to her. Bile and bloody water pours down her aching throat. She takes it back, she takes everything back, by all hells this has all been a mistake - she’s a thrice damned fool who scoffed at her parents without a single inkling that she’ll fail her very first step of courtship. “You’re burning yourself!”

“I heal faster.” she points out with all the calm assuredness Wednesday possessed scant seconds ago, all while softly hissing as another deluge burns into her furred back. Every inch of her trembles at the sound. It should’ve been me, it should’ve been me, mi sol, you’re paying the price for my failure! “Also you won, I only got one eye. Figured loser gets to take max damage.”

“Caca de vaca!” She snaps, blinding heat searing into the backs of her eyes. Sweet Asmodeus, she’s losing her mind. “It should’ve been me, it’s my idea that trapped you here!”

“You’re hurting me more if you won’t stop moving, Willa.” Blood-drenched flaxen locks rest on the crook of her neck, insufferably serene. She’d rather the werewolf rip her throat apart, claw off her organs one by one. She doesn’t deserve a shred of her forgiveness, nor her protection, and least of all her tenderness. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ll be good as new in no time.”

And that’s the dagger pressed ever so tenderly into her shriveled black heart. She sags against soft fur and warmth and honey, soaked to the bone with bloody tears.

You’re hurting me more.

You've failed, failed, failed.

Chapter Text

By midnight, the river remains a blazing pool of lava.

This time, she can clearly savor Enid’s pièce de résistance: a quindental gash cutting from the spider’s abdomen straight to its heart.

This time as well, she’s not alone.

The module she constructed for Enid is 176 pages long - 18 steps assigned for each day until New Year’s Eve. 

The torn papers flutter as inked snowflakes to the smoking crater below, a much too delicate end for their painstakingly inscribed contents.

At least they’re better used as kindling.

Unknown number:

Compile everything Enid has ever mentioned she likes or forfeit your life.

田中陽子:

wtf who dis 

its 2 am

nah ofc its addams

cant believe u got a phone like us plebs

lil killer pigtails:

You are wasting my time. Prepare a list to be cross-examined with mine in 10 minutes or your entire bloodline will not survive the night.

田中陽子:

just ask her

she got a gajillion new ones every day

wait up dis a surprise? 

addams u simp thats romantic af 

lil pup gonna yeet herself to mars

lil killer pigtails:

147 Young Road, Augusta, ME 04330

44.331100, -69.660014

12 windows on the front, none on the back, all covered by blackout curtains.

田中陽子:

HOW DAFUQ U KNOW MY FUCKING HOUSE

lil killer pigtails:

3 minutes 54 seconds.

田中陽子:

HOLY FUCKING SHIT IM ON IT DONT KILL MY FAM

"Kindness is like candy, mi pequeño escorpión ." 

Father bounced her on his lap after their thumbscrew contraption gave the ridiculously costumed neighborhood children the fright of their lives. "You never know if it'll pay you back in sweetness or bite your tongue off! Either way, how fun!"

"Kindness is a gift." 

Mother whispered into her ear after Nero’s coffin was sealed and all three pathetic bullies are bound and gagged in an abandoned shed. "They took your treasure, but you taught them how to respect every living creature. That too is a kindness. Je suis très fière de toi."

In the end, kindness is a chain, a debt so priceless it leaves her a desperate pauper scrambling to pay back every sliver. Not a favor or trinket in her possession is a worthy trade for her well-meaning peers after they share their lunch or invite her to hide-and-seek. Her attempts at gratitude - dueling for their honor, gifting them Grandmama's charms and potions, telling stories of Uncle Fester's exploits - only sent their toddler feet scampering away instead. The perpetually unbalanced scale always sends her mind reeling into the night, sleep turning elusive.

The solution is ruthlessly simple: she shuns and evades every possibility of needing one. And so she reigns over her fortified island, steadfastly dry from the perilous seas. The rare shreds of assistance she requires are easy leaks to be fixed - a trade of favors to sweep the saltwater back into the waves.

But alas, she’s no match for the depthless vastness of Enid Sinclair. Her care and compassion seeps from every crack and curve with boundless determination, every perfectly steeped cup of Scottish Breakfast or quad over ice, and daily bits of composition by her typewriter, and “Just sign to me when talking gets too much, Thing’s been teaching me”, and absurdly soft black gloves for overwhelming days, and crudely crocheted dolls for Deep Breaths Time outpouring from an endless ocean.

At first she fights the currents, as one should. Employs her cold shoulders and biting remarks to ward off the leaks, grits her teeth at the “Thank you” or “I despise touch, but I crave your rough calluses on my skin” or “Everytime you smile I realize you’re no mere mortal, you can only be heaven-sent” clawing at her teeth, begging for release from the prison of her lips. 

Alas, she should’ve known better than to fight against the werewolf. As immovable as Wednesday is, Enid is unstoppable. Every rebuff is an opportunity to try harder, every insult an insight to fine-tune her aid until she can map Wednesday in all her entirety.

Enid Sinclair makes her yearn to be cared for, makes her wonder what it’s like to be caring, makes her want to be worthy of the care.

And who is Wednesday Friday Addams if not a worshiper of the indomitable?

It took mere months for her to surrender. The first time she does - a handful of Jelly Bellies on her palm, billowing black gossamer on her skirts “You skipped noon snack today” - she drinks in the molten sunshine from Enid’s rosy smile, heart speared by a playful wink, and finds her drought insatiable.

She cautiously began treading the waters, finding herself thoroughly inept and bitterly green-eyed at the casual agility of her peers. She’s not Enid, a master of her craft who switches between an arsenal of temperaments and interests to accommodate anyone. She's not Barclay, who balances out her constructed arrogance with mothering her fellow sirens. Nor is she Pugsley, whose soft-hearted face - frail and sad as it seems - always puts people at ease while his affectionate touches conceal a peculiar shade of courage she can never replicate.

Wednesday's nowhere near as gifted, but she'll try for her.

She only has to fulfill 138 wishes in 17 days.

“Good mor - argh!”

“Good afternoon, mi sol .” 

The violinist stretches both arms with a cavernous yawn, every limb bumping into pastel pink balloons. Cerulean eyes soak in Wednesday’s now decidedly-not-black bedchamber before blinking once, twice, twenty times - 

She slaps herself with both hands.

“Enid-“

“Sorry, sorry! Thought Grandmama’s potion knocked my brain sideways.” Another balloon bounces off her nose. She blinks again, her giggle raspy from disuse. “Am I seeing things or there’s like a bunch of pink balloons in your room?”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty -“ The giggle breathes its last into a stuttering gasp. “Who are you and what’ve you done to Wednesday Addams?”

The still very much genuine Wednesday Addams ignores the query to present the appalling lucky cat soda nestled upon her gloved hands.

Her dusty windows need only endure another ear-splitting squeal of terrible, ominous euphoria while she seeks refuge under noise-canceling headphones. After all, the roomful of pink balloons and diabetes-inducing beverage hold the 65th and 28th positions in her curated and chronological list of What Makes Enid Smile - definitively and entirely not fashioned after the lycan’s What Would Wednesday Do. Squealing and twirling are expected reactions, if not indications of success.

“You bought me Fukumaneki?”

She nods. By her calculations, the ten crates in the kitchen stores will last Enid the semester. 

“How did you get this from Japan?” Enid gasps, a joyful puff of pale gold. She plucks the bottle from her grip, examining the lucky cat label over and over.

“I have my ways.”

She owes Lurch a new bowtie for smuggling the stocks from every soda shop and party supplies store in the East Coast overnight.

“This is insane - gosh, I can’t believe this! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“It’s a reward. For defeating the Fire Arachnid.”

“I saw you gutting the underbelly,” she unscrews the cap in a single fervid twist “genius move, by the way. I should’ve thought of that too! What’s your reward, fellow champion?”

She swallows down the bile rising up her throat. Anyone else saying it would’ve been an inconsequential jab. Enid’s innocent remark pierces with the strength of a hundred white-hot knives. “You had to save Pugsley and me six times. My reward is keeping my life and shame for another day.”

“But that’s ridiculous, you won fair and square too! And how’s your burns?” She frowns before taking a sizable gulp. “Gah! This is not Fukumaneki!”

“Grandmama’s Tonatiuh elixir. You wouldn’t have taken it otherwise” She reveals the actual bottle from underneath the bed. 

Enid sniffs at the proffered replacement, every inch of her face drenched in suspicion. “How do I know you’re not lying with this one?”

“Nothing I told you has been a lie.” Wednesday points out, lips threatening to tattle with a twitch. “0 to 10?”

A pause, then a relenting sigh. 

“Sometimes it sucks that you know me too well.”

“I could say the same.”

“Touché.” The violinist wriggles her limbs experimentally. “2, I think. The super gross potion did the job.”

“That’s 4 by laymen standards.” She tosses the emptied bottles from Enid’s grasp into the incinerator. “You’re not going anywhere for the rest of the day.”

Her current patient, true to her nature as a demonic temptress beneath the skin of a celestial divinity, bombards her with every devious tool in her arsenal. Her petulant pout would’ve brought Wednesday to her knees, the sulky whine a notorious siren call for the cellist to go along with any harebrained scheme, the teary cerulean pools an inevitable chasm to drown any rational objections. 

A waste of her charms, since she won’t even put up a fight. Not today.

Enid’s incoming protestation dies before it’s uttered into the world, mouth hanging open.

The tray is double her size and four times as heavy, heaped with every menu item Enid has ever mentioned liking from a fast food joint so saturated in orange and fried poultry she had to enter the premises with sunglasses. Thing languishes at the top of the stacks, flipping through the recent issue of Enid’s preferred fashion magazine, a publication called Allure. Wednesday managed two pages before confirming its writing holds no allure for herself, and slipped the hefty Fanfare from her personal collection to the pile.

“ Buen provecho .” She aims for nonchalance and lands on dread. Skimming through Enid’s favorite romantic comedies in a single night to find the breakfast in bed scene she mentioned once may or may not scar her eyes forever. Notting Hill will most probably haunt her nightmares tonight, if she ever finds the time to sleep.

All that is no match for the next on her list.

It’s eleventh on What Makes Enid Smile, stop panicking you’re doing this for Enid.  

Panic is such a tiny word. It’s absolutely no match for the inferno her mind is currently trapped in.

“Do you want … Loo Na? … or … Twice? As background noise?”

Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc.

The Addams credo is branded into every cell in her body, carved into the tip of her tongue. She recites each word with pride, savors the burst of satisfaction as they’re whispered into the ears of her brother’s bullies after a vengeance well done. 

Lamentably, she’s also a Frump.

Their words were pecked into her burns after her five-year-old self disrupted Mother’s summoning circle, whacked into her prepubescent head by Grandmama’s ladle after her prank detonates a cauldron of pest-repellant potion. Theirs do not hold the rewarding weight of justice, nor the gleam of triumph.

It’s barely a warning, nor a promise.

It’s inevitable.

Omne magicae pretia habent.

She was careful at first. 

Grandmama’s leftover invigoration elixir for Enid was stored in her attic cabinet, far too shoddily secured so as not to be intentional. She saves up the meager vials to use at night, mixing them with soup and tea to dilute its effect, brews her own batch when they’ve run out. The daily dose is just enough to keep her awake as she orders Raspberry Sundae peonies to place on Enid’s side of the bed every morning, survive through a barely enjoyable movie marathon as she observes Enid mouthing along the dialogue instead, and plan itineraries to every insufferable theme park in New Jersey. 

Correction: she finds a single tolerable ride out of the dozens they’ve tried.

“Whoo! This is amazing!”

Enid’s laughter was a few seconds behind, liquid euphoria trailing past her ears.

Unlike the violinist, who’s charging on with her eyes wide open, Wednesday had decided early on that she wouldn’t watch the world sink and rise and spin beneath her; she would simply savor the speed and disorienting drops and turns in complete darkness, smuggling a few seconds of rest at the same time. For the briefest of moments at the top of the first climb, she felt light, so very light that she almost forgot she’s hundreds of feet in the air. It might be the lack of sleep, yet it felt as if all the fears and worries for tomorrow float away from her in the cold air, and she was free.

Their clasped hands were warmer than everything else around them.

Down, across, loop, over, twist, loop, turn, up, down. She’d expected to feel sick, yet exhilaration was all she registered. Faint gasps nearly slipped past her lips, but she didn’t scream, nor did she clutch the lap bar with white-knuckled hands. 

She’s flying.

Maybe sneaking into Kingda Ka at night was somewhat bearable.

“Round two?” 

Enid’s pale gold mane was wind-swept beyond recognition, cheeks rose-tinted and voice hoarse from screaming. Her deadly canines flashed into a moonlit beam.

She nods, breath stuttering to a stop. Never had she felt more mortal against its devastating loveliness.

They stay on for five more.

Alas, victories never last. 

When she pathetically loses the battle over Twice concert tickets and a ghastly movie set halts their picnic to Diamond Beach, Mother’s rune tomes are added to her regiment. Grandmama’s supply finds itself depleted once again, this time from its crushed lamprey ink. 

She draws Nauthiz on her arms and legs for endurance, Kennaz behind her ears for inspiration - finally resorting to Uruz once the insomnia-induced dizziness turns to hours-long migraines and her bowing became so shaky Enid had to stop rehearsals. Mixing different disciplines of witchcraft is supposedly the height of danger - if Mother’s vague warnings are to be believed - but the limited edition dice set from a roleplaying game Enid watches every Thursday will never return.

After all, it’s for Enid. 

Every sleepless night is worth it.

Then the ink runs out mere days before Nochevieja.

She wakes to her skin cracking open.

Verga , not here . Not with Enid lulled to slumber mere inches from her in a tangle of limbs, Glinka’s Nocturne still playing on the gramophone.

She tumbles out of her sheets - crawls on hands and knees, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the velvet threads of the carpet. 

Every inch of her burns, lacerations curling into blossoming tendrils from her legs to her shoulders to her neck to -

She’s being skinned alive.

She doesn’t bother closing the bathroom door, barely has the strength to lay her head on the toilet bowl. 

She retches up anything her stomach has ever possessed. Over and over again. Long after it seems there’s nothing more to bring up, she heaves again. The door mercifully seals itself shut before another tide of undiluted agony washes over her.

She tries to bear the pain without a whimper - at first. Then she hears the most horrifying of screams - they do not seem part of this world. It’s her own, she realizes far too late. Blood trickles down the unfurling wounds - the tips of her curling toes, the backs of her ears, the corners of her eyes - crimson staining her nightgown, pooling on the pristine black tiles.

Once, she fell through the mausoleum’s stained glass window in a practice duel with Uncle Fester. Her parents spent hours plucking glass shards from her back, Father uselessly sobbing over her wounds. She believed nothing could hurt worse - both the cuts and his hysterical bawling.

Has she ever truly known pain until this very moment? She chuckles at the memory before - Sweet Asmodeus - choking as her throat gurgles with blood.

She wants to tear her skin to shreds, gouge her burning eyes out of their sockets - get rid of anything, everything until there’s nothing left for pain to take over. 

I made a mistake , a plea to whatever eldritch god bothers to hear fights to break past the nightgown she’s biting into. I shouldn’t have combined Aztec potions and Norse runes. There, isn’t that what you want to hear? End this, damn you! I’ve had my lesson. End this, end this, end this!

No one hears, as they should.

When she finally comes to in a pool of her own blood, the gaping red wounds are closing themselves into a web of silvery vines.

All magic comes with a price, indeed.

“Wednesday Friday Addams you open this fucking door or I’ll claw it apart!”

And it’s a price she’ll pay a thousand times over.

“We need to talk.”

Wednesday stares back in numb horror, grip slipping from the door.

She knows what the words mean now. The insipid romance articles she researched for the past month have burned their significance into her eyelids.

“We are talking.”

“You’re halfway out the door just a second ago.”

“We don’t have much time to get dressed, the soirée starts in three hours.”

“And you always say that every time I wanna talk to you these days.” Cerulean eyes blaze in burnished gold. “Don’t have time for what , exactly? We have practice and dance lessons and movie nights together literally every day. Your room’s big enough. We can face the other way and talk right now.”

She thinks of her scars, the ever growing vines hidden under thick slatherings of Ayautheotl glamor paste. If there’s any possible entity in the world she trusts with her foolhardy scheme, it’s the sun in flesh before her.

My skin has been cracking open and bleeding me dry for four nights. It doesn’t stop no matter how many cures I’ve tried, even after I caught more lampreys. It hurts, it hurts so much but I can’t stop now. Showering you with everything you desire is the only deed I can give back, and I’ll do everything in my power until you shall want for nothing.

You’re so strong and kind and brilliant, mi sol , you don’t need me to fill in your gaps. If anything, I’m the weak link holding you back. 

You deserve the world and beyond. 

I can’t even afford you a worthy kill. 

She can feel the words on the tip of her tongue, trace the shape of each syllable.

All she needs to do is open her mouth.

They stay sewn shut.

“You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to.” A tiny, near inaudible sigh. The harmless gust of breath cuts her open with barely a try, a hollow chasm left in its wake. “I love every single one of your gifts, but you look so tired these days and I’m worried about you. Please don’t overwork yourself?”

“I will try.”

It’s the best she can offer.

How pathetic.

Certainly unworthy of the tremulous grin Enid gives back.

The violinist heads for the bathroom with her dress in hand, toiletries and cosmetics piled high on her basket. “I’m here whenever you wanna chat, okay? I really miss actually talking to you.”

When the door opens again, Enid’s sheepish smile on the other side, Wednesday’s ready with the curling iron she left behind.

“I still don’t know how you do this every time!” She chuckles. “Honestly, it’s like you’re a psychic or something.”

“I am.”

“But you’ve never had visions when you touch me!” Enid smirks, the curling iron impishly twirled to point back at her.

“I’ve never needed one with you.”

The smile grows into the bespoke curve of half surprise, half fondness - the exact kind dominating Wednesday’s commonplace book. 

Just like that, all is right in the world again.

If only it would last.

Chapter Text

The last of the sun dips further out of sight.

Darkness swallows every sliver of light.

A manic tremolo thunders through the silence, neither violin nor player in view.

The cello - tuned a whole tone lower - ever faithfully follows, before its bow ricochets to summon the tides from the deep seas.

Nothing else dares make a noise, the entire manor seemingly spellbound by the hurricane of sound tossed back and forth between the two instruments. 

A fleeting listener in this bewitched blackness  would regard the seemingly clashing titans to be dueling for dominance. All the while, a keener ear would perceive how the violin hands over her virtuoso turn to the cello with the tenderest of phrasings - as if passing the baton with a gentle caress. A shrewd audience would further relish the cellist timing every note to exquisite synchrony, as if afraid to take a single step without its partner.

For once, Wednesday doesn’t notice.

She’s played with Enid in any setting imaginable: side by side, facing each other, yards away in the orchestra, Enid in the dorm and herself in the balcony after a 2 hour debate over a murder scene in her manuscript. This is a first: shoulders pressed together, yet blinded to the other.

Dread emits from the violinist in waves, every shaky inhale concealed by her bow gliding over with fluid grace. With her mind’s eye, she traces the crinkling of her nose and the gnashing of her teeth as she nearly misses - then seamlessly saves - their parallel pizzicatos. Her own pinned braids are willing victims to Enid’s honey-scented curls whipping about in unbridled frenzy - every inch of her physique sacrificed to execute their nearing end with the clearest articulated collé known to man.

This flood of sensations is visceral, astounding. Even now, without sight to aid her, she can still experience Enid in all that she is - untamed, formidable, and gloriously hell-bent despite fearing for her life in impenetrable darkness - and realize far too late how bereft and aching she had been all these weeks. 

Enid is always stronger than she looks. Strong enough for Addams’ antics, strong enough for her abomination of a family pack, strong enough for a murderous hyde.

Strong enough for her , in all her bristly barbs, rigid regimes, and cloddish courtship.

And somehow - despite all reason - likes her for it.

Blissful darkness finally settles in the flaring chasms of her head, exactly where the sight of the werewolf’s charred and smoking back, claw marks under the bloodied pink coat, have been carved into her vision. 

The relief is near crippling in its entirety.

Time is slipping from her grasp, a mere sliver of a moment in between a barrage of spine-chilling applause and congratulatory screeches.

Not enough to force out the apologies already sinking their thorns in her throat, even less for a vow to make amends.

Maybe just enough for this .

Her feet take her faster than her mind can ordain, lips a breath apart from the shell of her partner’s ear.

“I’ve descended to hell just from listening to you play.”

Enid laughs, a startled burst of joy. Silky curls tickle her cheek in return. 

"Honestly, I was dying to say this the entire time we’re playing but gosh you’re beyond my wildest dreams! I’d kill for that sick phrasing on your middle lead! And tapping the shoulder is just the perfect finishing touch. You’re really extraordinary when the piece is just a little ooky, huh?”

The sudden curving of her coal-painted lips is pure insanity, some mad concoction of emotions threatening to erupt from her chest. 

She wishes, more than anything she’s ever desired, to stay right here forever.

Alas, their time ends before it’s begun.

“¡Bien hecho!” Father’s magicked voice booms through the cheering crowd. “¡Destacada! Ay, it’s been ages since such a spectacular performance haunts these halls!”

Bien hecho (Sp): well done

Destacada (Sp): outstanding

“And what an ill-omen for tonight’s challenge!” As her eyes adjust to the darkness just enough to detect the vaguest of forms, Mother’s conjured smoke solidifies, limbs growing in rapid succession. 

The shadow monsters tower over the obsidian chandeliers, faceless and directionless. One of them stretches their spindly arm to pluck Kusin Linnéa from her mother’s swaddle and swallow her whole in a single swipe. 

Kusin (Sw): cousin

“ Gamóto… ”

“We always dance to welcome Nochevieja.” Father continues on as another gobbles up Tío Tatarabuelo Erandi, leaving his wheelchair behind. Pubert is fortunately mobile enough to fend for himself, wiggling his arms in a strange dance by Father’s feet. “Find a partner and sway away as the last remaining victor will be granted the Wishing Pearl, a single sphere bred once each year by the world’s last Ostra de los Sueños ! Mientras tanto , beware the Shadow Sentinels! Te guste o no , a single stumble or rest will send you into their bellies!”

Tío tatarabuelo (Sp): great great great uncle

Ostra de los Sueños (Sp): oyster of dreams

Mientras tanto (Sp): in the meantime

Te guste o no (Sp): whether you like it or not

Mother’s adieu is barely audible among the hastily forming pairs - a flurry of offers and murmurs of assent - as Father’s favorite melody permeates the hall from invisible mariachis and their instruments disappear. “May misfortune be with you.”

The time has come for the only step in her courting module she doesn’t dare replace, the best possible gift she can offer.

“As I told you, our jarabe lessons will be essential.” This close to each other, she can feel Enid’s shivers. “I know somewhere we can be out of sight.”

Jarabe (Sp): national dance of Mexico, originated as a courtship dance in Guadalajara

“Gotta be smart to be a smart-ass.” Linen rustles along her trousers as Enid lifts the hems of her skirts to perform a greeting twirl. “Do I pass, maestra ?”

Maestra (Sp): teacher

“We shall see.” She bows deep, hands strategically placed behind her back to pilfer Pugsley’s sombrero as he passes and place it on her own head. 

Her brother cries out in panic, immediately rushing upstairs to get himself a new one before hitting himself on the banister and bouncing off the carpeted stairs.

“Don’t laugh!” He screams in warning, pulled up by the shoulders before the Sentinel pops him into its mouth.

Why, that’s just the invitation she needs.

“Willa!”

Reluctantly, she ceases her cackle. “There’s only a temporary void inside. He’ll just undergo a few moments of slumber.”

“That’s not the only thing I meant - “ she sighs, “I don’t know why I’m still trying. Just lead the way.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

Familiar calluses grasp her gloved palm, the warmth of Enid’s back seeping through the silk of Wednesday’s suit as she ushers them against the unseeing crowd.

“You know I’m the one who can see better in the dark, right?”

“...yes.”

The sudden bark of laughter is playing tricks with her sight - the deafening abyss of the manor seems somehow brightened. “You gotta follow then, Oedipus. I’ll be Antigone.”

“Father and daughter? How scandalous.” She places her newly acquired sombrero on the ground, hopping, sliding, and kicking around the hat while dodging Cousin Itt’s stately shuffling. Her uncle is second to be flown away into a Sentinel's ghostly arms with one of Enid's portable fans. “Take a left past the portrait of Jatziri and her concubines.”

“The one with pretty ladies in capes? Okay.” Enid collects her sombrero from the floor - and Wednesday refrains from kicking her leg over her partner’s head out of pure opposition to sexist tradition - before steering them to the side with a gentle tug, whirling around her in a circle closer than decorum would allow. “But come on, I’m only drilled on Ancient Greek! It’s that or the pervs going blind after they peep on gods bathing - “

“Such appalling tête-à-tête for such an exquisite musician, Ms. Violinist, I can’t possibly adore you more!” A wiry silhouette glides along beside them, the smell of figs and tamarind suddenly intruding her nose. “And Wednesday Bahen , su chale che ? You’ve quite mastered your jarabe , why not improve on your garba too while I’m here?”

Bahen (Gujarati/Gj): sister, female cousin

Su chale che (Gj): what’s up (informal)

Garba (Gj): a form of Gujarati dance traditionally performed during the nine-day festival Navarātrī

She’s certain Badrai can feel the burn of her glower. “First, no sane creature can dance for nine days and nine nights. Second, you’re interrupting us. Kapad taru .”

Kapad taru (Gj): get lost

Unfortunately, her lifetime nemesis is as oblivious as she usually is, twirling around her phento-clad spouse as her choli of silver bells glows dimly in the dark. Barely two feet away, a Sentinel decides to spare the ballroom from Moster Ophelia and her new siren paramour’s barely conscious dancing before lifting their fainting bodies up to its mouth, tastefully spitting out their flower crowns - generously sprinkled with talcum powder twenty minutes ago - into a nearby sconce.

Moster (Sw): aunt from the mother’s side

Phento: a headwear or turban traditionally worn by Gujarati men

Choli: traditional Gujarati dress

“Now, now, betu . I’m just helping you impress your prēmī ! Everyone loves a powerful dancer, don’t you think so, Ms. Violinist?” She shoves her obscenely muscled arms to grasp Enid’s hand before Wednesday can maneuver them away, her gleaming nightvision pince-nez shoved far too close to the violinist’s face. “Badrai Kothari, Wednesday’s my fifth cousin…what’s that extra title you Americans use? Oh! Once removed. It’s my utmost pleasure to meet you, you play so beautifully! Pretty blue eyes, button nose…you’re a Savalas, aren’t you?”

Betu (Gj): darling/dear (usually to a child or younger person)

Prēmī (Gj): paramour/lover

“Thank you so much for your kind words, Ms. Kothari.” Enid tugs her hand twice, an oft used gesture signifying she’s pleading for rescue. “Your dress is amazing, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Someday she will muster the willpower to say no to Enid Sinclair. Highly unlikely, but she can always dream.

Fortunately, Badrai will always be fair game.

It turns out her strategically chosen steel toed dress shoes are absolutely delightful when stepping on slippery silk cholis.

“Wednesday Bahen , how dare you!” Her cousin’s sudden fall is absolutely priceless. As are her curses. A dutiful Sentinel gently carries her prone form. “Why I - nā ! Nakkamo , let me go right this instant! Baka , please help me!” 

Nā (Gj): no

Nakkamo (Gj): useless fool

Baka (Gj): dear, usually meant for romantic partners

“Better the Sentinels than my knives. Be grateful I’m merciful today, Badrai Ben .”

Ben (Gj): also female cousin

“I’m so so sorry,” Enid somehow manages a flurry of bows as she’s led to a dizzying spin. “Wednesday must’ve slipped!”

“You know what happens whenever you offer anything to the Addamses, Shahzadi .” Naija Bhai calls out to their wife - now visibly kicking and screaming as she slides down the Sentinel’s throat - while they dance by themselves, entirely unperturbed. “It’s completely alright, Badrai would be just fine. Also genuinely masterful performances from both of you, I’m a fan!”

With a far too gracious reply of gratitude, Enid leads once more as they hop away from the scene of the crime, “we’ll take our leave, Naija Bhai .”

Bhai (Gj): cousin

Shahzadi (Gj): princess

“She’s so fucking buff,” Enid finally whispers as the dance changes to salsa. “I’m the werewolf and I feel like a twink next to her. And she’s so tall too!”

She scoffs as Enid dips her. A hand span too low, but easily ignored since her braids are pinned up. “Badrai’s mother is a much better dancer. Her daughter is boasting on borrowed achievements.”

By all hells, she won’t lose to Badrai Kothari . She can cut a portion of her dueling time for weight training, add 30 minutes from her extracurriculars after she masters her doppelganger potion - 

“You both have some kinda cold war going on?”

“Pugsley’s gazelle ruined the cake tower at her Ritusuddhi and it rained down on the guests. It’s more or less her coming of age ceremony.”

“I’m guessing you took the blame?”

“A wise decision in hindsight. Badrai is a formidable nemesis.” Her left turn is far too stiff, almost as if Badrai has cursed her from within her shadowy prison each time her name is invoked. Nonetheless, it sends them into a vacant corridor before anyone notices the chandelier suddenly swinging in a wide arch - neatly decimating half their opponents before she animates the velvet drapes to seize the remaining dancers taking refuge by the windows.

“Gotta be honest here, your family’s so fascinating but I only get like, half of what you’re talking about.” Enid tilts her head, the gold in her eyes twinkling against the darkness. “Can you tell me more, please?”

Sweet Asmodeus, where to begin? No one’s ever bothered to ask her, let alone be interested . She wants to spill them out, each family member and their stories, how she thinks of everyone from Sobrina Maritza to Arrière-Grand-Père Claude, if Enid will like them since the prospect of anyone hating the werewolf is unthinkable. She settles, far too reluctantly, on the one they’ve just encountered.

Sobrina (Sp): niece

Arrière-Grand-Père (Fr): great-grandfather

“We’ll start with the Kotharis for today, I can show you the entire family tree tomorrow. My great uncle Esteban fell madly in love and married into Ragini Mhoti Nani ’s family from Gujarat after he watched her dance the garba - the one Badrai Ben mentioned - at Navarātrī, it’s an annual Hindu festival for the goddess Durga.” 

She takes another spin, Enid only landing semi-successfully since her glinting eyes are glued to hers. “They had Badrai Ben , Hemali Ben , Gandhali Ben , and Manjula Ben . Mhoti Nani means great aunt and Ben is for female cousins. Everyone in the family - except for Badrai Ben ’s partner, Naija Bhai - are prolific athletes and braggarts, but Badrai Ben is the most vindictive of them all. Alert me the moment I’m boring you.”

“Please don’t stop,” Enid’s curls strike her face as she shakes her head, her warm breaths caressing over her much more gently. “How badly did she fuck with you?”

“Even her offers of aid are heaped with insults I struggle to identify. As such, I have been preparing my defenses for when she retaliates.”

Enid bursts into giggles as they attempt - and fail - a reverse hammerlock, arms tangled in each other’s. “It sounds to me like she’s genuinely just offering help?”

Her pocket lighter hauls the incoming Sentinel away, just enough time to change their positions and let her take the lead. “She always does. And we have Cleopatra to chew her back up after she’s vomited out.”

Enid’s chuckle is quickly slapped away with a horrified whine. “Did I just laugh…at your…morbid ass threat? Fuck, fuck, fuck… what’ve I become?”

Now this, she has no trouble smiling for.

And such immaculate timing as well. The smile and a whispered “ Ge sig på ” is coincidentally the command needed to unleash her collection of vampire ground finches, painstakingly trained for a single purpose. The flock descends from their cages under the unused fireplace to strike the only entity in the manor to pin jade vines on her braided updo.

Ge sig på (Sw): attack

The blood-curdling screams melodiously tearing through the hall is second only to Enid’s performances.

Her fingers tingle at the poetic symmetry - how the striking turquoise blooms her Mhoti Nani habitually wears resemble the blue-footed boobies her finches are born to devour - the story is practically writing itself. What it lacks in subtlety, it more than makes up for in efficiency.

“An excellent Addams, most certainly.” She’s forced to steer them back to the cacophony as the Sentinel persists after them. To her surprise, her dance partner suddenly chokes on air. “Are you having trouble breathing? Tía Isela’s nearby and unconscious, I can pilfer her inhaler before a Sentinel takes her.”

“No! No, I’m fine.” The violinist is suddenly scorching to the touch, her massive grin turned to face the ground. “You just say the most out-of-pocket shit sometimes, it’s honestly amazing.”

“The Oxford English Dictionary states the term as losing money in a transaction and I don’t understand its association with what you said. Explain, please.”

“It’s a new thing. Means it’s unexpected, but in the best kind.” Enid stumbles for the fifth time, a last-second enchufa keeping her inches away from the relentless Sentinel’s grasp. Anyone with a smile less charming would’ve been shoved into its shadowy arms by her own hands. “You always are, really. The dictionary term makes so much more sense now that I think about it!”

Enchufa: a salsa move to change positions

Holding this much emotion in a single body is truly absurd.

“You’re - “ kind and warm and strange and exciting. I want to pick your mind apart, see how you turn my stumbling blocks into strengths. 

I’m about to present to you the world’s most powerful pearl, the exact shade of your eyes. You’re worth the brightest, rarest, loveliest treasures this world contains.

A spectral hand grips her ankle.

“Willa!”

Her knives nearly tumble down her six holsters as she’s dragged upside down, Enid a vague and colorless blur of panicked screams and unsheathed claws.

Stabbing and slashing at an incorporeal monster is futile, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

“It’s useless to defend me, they’ll take you too!” She shouts, sliding down the illusory esophagus into oblivion. “We’re the last pair, you can declare yourself the sole winner!”

“Like hell I will!” The werewolf jumps up the Sentinel’s arm instead. She lasts a single glorious second before she’s yanked off and swallowed by another.

Descending into oblivion, Wednesday fights down the undignified giggle threatening to erupt from her chest.

She fails miserably.

Sweet Asmodeus, she loves this girl beyond reason.

Ragini Mhoti Nani ’s second consecutive win, however, is also beyond reason.

She had toiled for months to smuggle her vampire ground finches from Galápagos and conditioned them with blood-soaked jade vines. She had suffered through greeting every guest to confirm that Ragini Mhoti Nani was the only one wearing the flowers and took her daughter down before she could tattle. Every step in her plan had been tested and timed flawlessly. By all hells, how did she survive her finches? 

With Esteban Mhota Bawa ’s aid, the Wishing Pearl joins its twin on Ragini Mhoti Nani ’s left ear. Enid nods sweetly along as the pair plague her with their tales as reigning champions before Pubert tugs her away. She wishes she had speared them through the eyes instead.

Mhota Bawa (Gj): great uncle

How how how how how how how how how how? The threads spin and snarl into each other, impossible to untangle. 

A run for the side staircase later, and she’s crouched by an empty alcove with a recording of Enid’s early morning violin solo playing on a loop.

Much better. 

Now, to find the breach.

The only people privy to the challenge in advance were Mother and Father as the organizers, along with Enid who cracked Father’s musical cypher from his sonnets for Mother (lovingly buried beneath the grave of her pet leopard), Pugsley who built a nest for his mockingbird by their bedroom window, and herself who used the cipher to transcribe every nonsensical melody her parents sang to each other before bedtime.

She had sworn Pugsley in a blood pact of eternal secrecy and eliminated him immediately after the challenge was announced. To heed precaution, she had monitored every truth potion Grandmama stores, inspected her parents’ loud and lengthy telephone and crystal ball conversations, examined every mail they sent or received, and witnessed Mother casting wards from compulsions on every resident in the manor the day Enid arrived. Enid herself knew nothing about the prize at stake and was unacquainted with her extended family. There’s virtually no avenue for the secret to reach the Kotharis, an ocean away and equally dismissive of modern communication devices. 

Which left a single hour in between the Kotharis arriving in flying palanquins and her duet. And someone Ragini Mhoti Nani trades scandals and poisons with every Tuesday night on the crystal ball.

Conveniently, her main suspect is alone.

“I demand a rematch.”

As always, Mother looks unconcerned, nursing her poisoned tubâ by the mezzanine as she observes the ballroom below. “You have four victories to your name, ma petite serpent . I hardly think two losses is worth your wrath.”

Tubâ: coconut wine from the Philippines

She follows Mother’s gaze, and the sight is almost too much to bear.

Enid is hoisting Pubert high enough to reach the centerpiece fountain, the toddler giggling in satisfaction as he plunges his pudgy fist into molten chocolate. The violinist is now basking under the reignited candlelight, scars proudly on display, Grecian linen cascading over her shoulder to pool under her feet while a circlet of electrum and lapis crowns her pale gold curls. She is a Bernini sculpture coming to life - absolutely crushing in her beauty, an exquisite pain to behold.

The Wishing Pearl should’ve been on her neck, the intended pale gold chain and setting burning a hole in Wednesday’s suit pocket.

“I knew my diadem would suit her.” Mother sighs, the smell of fermented coconut burning her nostrils. “She’s truly lovely, your fille en or . I’m guessing this year’s Pearl is another one of your gifts for her?”

Fille en or (Fr): golden girl

“It’s supposed to be the final token of my courtship.”

“A wonderful token for a wonderful girl, indeed.” Mother sips from her goblet, a moment too late to conceal her smile. “I know the sting of defeat lasts long and hard, chère fille - you are my child, after all - but don’t you have a Pearl left unused? Surely it’s still equal in value?”

“I’ve used my last one.”

Rarely is Morticia Addams taken by surprise, so the sudden force of her widened stare stuns Wednesday just as greatly. Mother’s eyes flicker down her right ankle to search for the ever-present silver chain, now incinerated to not risk the metal hurting Enid. “When?”

She supposes there’s no point in hiding it further.

“Eugene.”

“Oh, Wednesday -“

“I don’t regret it. It was my fault he was by that cave alone and he wouldn’t have survived.”

She doesn’t regret her first wish either for saving her family from Debbie. But did she truly need the power to comprehend languages with ease when the elusive language of social subtexts is still beyond her grasp? Or worse, eliminating every chance of her misspelling any word when she’s already unceasingly meticulous? 

If only.

“I’m sorry you had to sacrifice your last wish, but I’m so proud of you, chère fille .” The praise kindles a tiny flicker of satisfaction yet settles uncomfortably, which is promptly imprisoned in her mental holding cell to be examined later. “You did the best anyone possibly could.”

“I just did the best I possibly could and I’ve considered every possible reason why my plan didn’t work. Foul play is the only possibility I’ve found.”

“Intercepting my coded messages with your Father is customary for you, but I didn’t expect the number of traps you’ve planned.” Another agonizingly long sip from her smoking goblet. “The birds and animate spell are quite inspired, if I do say so myself!”

“Exactly. They are unquestionably foolproof. My conclusion is Ragini Mhoti Nani received information pertaining to the challenge from someone in the family with no stakes in winning.” She sharpens her glare, a paralyzing spell readied just in case. “Did you do it?”

Mother - or anyone, frankly - is not at all the easiest to read, but she’s spent years cataloging her gestures. The infinitesimal shake of her head before her answer of “ Mais non, je n’ai jamais ” is as honest as Mother can be. “I hope you trust your Mother better than that, ma petite serpent .”

Mais non, je n’ai jamais (Fr): of course not, I would never

“Father then?” She can feel her chest burning, legs trembling. She must’ve forgotten to breathe again. “You also meet her every Tuesday. Anything might’ve been divulged without you realizing.”

“My wards would prevent that, chère fille . You requested to inspect the runes yourself, remember?"

“Then -“ She casts her gaze down the balcony. The victorious pair are encircled by masses of black and gray feathers, surrounded by envious applause. On her great aunt’s right ear, nearly concealed by glossy braids, her first Pearl’s cerulean glow has dimmed into a cloudy gray.

You’ve failed, failed, failed.

A frown is forming in between Mother’s brows. “You look unwell, ma petite serpent . Shall I delay our octet?”

“No…no, there’s no need.” She blinks, and somehow the granite floor is grazing her knees. 

“Wednesday?”

Head pounding, she pushes herself back up by her fists, stepping away before Mother can notice the tremors. “I will be rehearsing once more, it will only take five min -“

“Return my daughter to me or blood will be shed!”