Archive of Our Own ^beta

The blizzard began the way most terrible things did in Wednesday’s life — without warning, and with far too much noise.

It clawed at the windows of Tyler Galpin’s house as if trying to tear the world open, coating the glass with layers of white until the outside became nothing but a blur. The sound was constant — a low, howling moan that threaded through the walls and into her bones. She had been reading by the window when the power went out. It was a sad, abrupt halt to her one, final ounce of pleasant emotion. The silence that followed was immediate and absolute. The steady hum of the heater died, the lamp on the end table flickered once, and the house sighed into stillness.

Across the room, Tyler looked up from where he was rummaging through a cabinet, his fuzzy socks seeming to make him slip every nine seconds. For someone like Tyler, fuzzy socks both made 100% sense, or it made Wednesday question why she chose to date him. For Wednesday, it was a mixture of both said options. Tyler seemed to have a horrible habit of making everything Wednesday thought juxtapose and mix into mushy thoughts called "emotions."

“Well, that’s not good.” Tyler said blankly, still fumbling around with random things he never even knew were in his cabinet. Wednesday closed her book slowly, meeting his gaze. “Brilliant deduction, Galpin. Perhaps you should alert the authorities before civilization collapses entirely.” He gave her one of those small, infuriating smiles — the kind that said he’d already decided not to rise to her bait. “I think we just lost the heat, too.”

Of course they had.

Wednesday turned her head toward the window again, as her hair got slightly stuck in her mouth. Unhooking it, whilst trying to keep her dexterity, she saw that the snow was now a solid curtain, swirling in chaotic spirals under the porch light. The world outside had vanished, with only the reflection of her own face looked back, pale and unmoved.

Trapped. With Tyler. In a storm.
Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

She didn’t say anything while he moved about the kitchen, pulling out candles and muttering to himself about circuit breakers, as well as how his stupid socks made him slip all the time. The air was already cooling, a subtle but creeping chill that licked at her neck and wrists. She adjusted her posture, sitting straighter on the couch as if defiance alone could keep her warm. She watched as an especially cold blast of air hit Tyler, making him slip yet again. It was a miracle he was even still alive.

Tyler appeared again, lighting a few candles on the coffee table. Their soft glow filled the room, flickering across his face in a way that made his hair cast shadows across his cheeks. “You could sit closer to the fire,” he suggested. “Not that I mind the whole mysterious-dark-corner thing you’ve got going on, but it’s about twenty degrees in here.”

“I prefer the dark corner,” she replied flatly.
He smirked. “Of course you do.”

When the first log caught, the air filled with the comforting crackle of burning wood. The sound of it was oddly soothing, like an argument she didn’t have to win. Tyler crouched near the fireplace, coaxing the flames higher. It occurred to her then that she didn’t actually hate his house. It was quiet. Lived-in. There was a faint scent of coffee and pine cleaner, and a few crooked photographs hung on the walls. It felt human. Grounded. Something she’d never admit she found… somewhat tolerable.

But as the night deepened, the temperature dropped further. The wind outside grew louder, pressing against the glass like a physical thing. Her fingers had gone numb before she realized she’d stopped feeling them. She rubbed her fingers onto his couch in attempt to heat them up, refusing to give in to the snow and lack of heater. Before she could even take measures to prevent it, a small chatter went through her teeth, as her spine shivered.

Tyler noticed almost a millisecond after. “You’re freezing,” he said, half-laughing, half-concerned.
“I’m fine.” She lied.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m not.” Wednesday countered.
“You are.” He grinned, reaching into the hall closet. “Lucky for you, I have about 40 million blankets shoved in here somewhere." Wednesday would have argued, but a blanket in this weather was something even she couldn't pass up.

He returned holding something plaid and soft. Wednesday eyed it like a biohazard, and suddenly, she changed her mind about the blanlet, even though just a minute ago she was desperate for one. “I refuse to be swaddled.” She brought out robotically. “You refuse to admit you’re human.”

“I take pride in that.” She snapped.

He snickered and dropped the blanket beside her on the couch. “Suit yourself. I’ll just—” He trailed off, sitting down at the other end, pulling his half of the blanket over his shoulders. “—use it for me, then.” The silence stretched. The fire crackled. Wednesdays spite and annoyance with herself increased.

Wednesday tried to read again, but her hands wouldn’t stay still on the pages. The letters blurred slightly — not from lack of light, but from the steady tremor in her fingers. She exhaled through her nose, sharp and annoyed. Tyler didn’t say a word. He just opened one corner of the blanket, wordlessly offering it out toward her. It was infuriating.

And yet, after another few seconds of internal debate — or perhaps pride’s slow surrender to practicality — she moved closer, barely closer, but close enough that Tyler understood what she meant. Without saying anything, he threw her the larger side of the blanket, leaving himself with a sliver of it.

The blanket was soft. Infuriatingly soft. It smelled faintly like detergent and him — coffee, pine, something warm she couldn’t name. When she discreetly adjusted it so that it covered both of them, their arms brushed. A small, unimportant contact, but one that seemed to echo far louder than it should. Or perhaps it was simply Wednesday going insane, and it did not mean anything at all. The heat from his shoulder seeped through her sleeve, and Wednesday realized she could feel her fingers again.
“This is not a sign of weakness,” she said finally.
“Never said it was.”
“Good.”

He turned slightly, enough for her to catch the corner of his smile in the candlelight. “But if you wanted to call it… mutual survival, I wouldn’t argue.” She considered replying with something cutting, but the words felt too heavy. The quiet between them was pleasant, and that was far more dangerous then any death threat. The storm outside raged on, but inside, time felt much slower. The fire cast soft orange light across the room, shadows shifting with every movement of the flames. Tyler leaned back against the couch, and for a while, neither spoke.

Wednesday found herself watching the reflection of the fire in the window, more entertained by it than she should be. It shimmered like something alive. Her mind, usually sharp and restless, drifted. She thought of the irony — that she, who thrived on solitude, was finding an unusual comfort in being trapped with someone else. She didn’t like the implication. But she also didn’t move away. It was a grotesque sensation for her.

When the fire popped, Tyler shifted a little closer. Not enough to startle her — just enough for their shoulders to brush once again. “Better?” he asked, voice low, almost casual. Wednesday knew what he was trying to do. “It’s… warmer,” she admitted dryly. “That’s a yes.” he decided. “Do not translate my statements.”

He grinned, that easy, boyish grin that annoyed her mostly because she didn’t entirely hate it. “You’re welcome, anyway.” She shot him a look that should have withered him on the spot, but he only laughed softly, the sound melting into the crackle of the fire. The air between them changed pace— not heavier, just quieter. The storm outside raged on, but inside, it was all flickering orange light and the faint smell of smoke and cocoa. Tyler leaned back, looking perfectly at home, while Wednesday sat stiffly, as if posture alone could protect her from proximity.

After a long pause, he tilted his head toward the window. “You ever notice how snow makes everything quieter?”
“It doesn’t make it quieter,” she said, her eyes tracing the frost collecting on the glass. “It just muffles the noise people make. I find that preferable.”
He smirked. “So you like snow because it shuts everyone up.”
“Exactly.”

“That tracks,” he said with mock seriousness. “You’d probably marry the blizzard if you could.” he teased. “Don’t be absurd. I’d never marry something so unpredictable.” She glanced at him. “One of you in my life is quite enough.” She grimaced, swallowing down any possible affection.
“Wow. Romantic as ever.” he sighed.
“I try.”

He laughed again, soft and genuine. It filled the room in a way that didn’t feel intrusive, just irritatingly warm. Tyler would be much easier if he didn't make her feel things. Wednesday looked back at the fire, pretending not to notice the way it sounded dangerously like contentment. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter. “I suppose there are worse places to be trapped.”
Tyler leaned sideways, pretending to think. “Yeah? Like where?”
“Anywhere that involves you talking more.” She quickly recovered, preventing all romantic undertones possible.

He nudged her lightly with his elbow. “Admit it — you’d miss me if I froze to death.” He laughed breathily. “I’d have a lovely statue to decorate my dorm with.” she shrugged.
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
"
He smiled, and it softened into something she didn’t have a word for-maybe "Horrific" would be a good filler. The firelight danced across his face, catching in his eyes, and for once, she didn’t look away immediately. The world outside had blurred into white. The blanket slipped slightly, as Wednesday felt the cold air whip her neck. He adjusted it, careful not to brush her more than he already was. His fingers grazed her wrist anyway, and she felt it like a spark through fabric. “You’re not as cold now,” he said, almost like a question.

“No,” she said, then added, “You generate heat like a particularly talkative furnace.” She said bitterly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” he shrugged. “It wasn’t.” He just smiled wider. “Still sounds like one.”

She turned her face toward the fire, hoping he wouldn’t see the faint color in her cheeks. It was ridiculous — she was simply warm, that was all. Nothing more. The wind outside had softened to a whisper, and the fire burned low, painting the walls in amber. Her head tipped slightly until it brushed his shoulder. Barely. An accident. Entirely accidental. Tyler froze for half a second, then relaxed into the moment like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Comfy?” he asked, voice a touch too careful.

She didn’t lift her head. “If I say yes, will you make it weird?”
“Depends on your definition of weird.”
"Yours.”
“Then… probably.”
“Then no.”

He chuckled, and she felt the vibration of it through his shoulder. It shouldn’t have been pleasant. It was. The storm outside began to fade, the howling replaced by the soft, uneven drip of melting ice. The fire dimmed to a sleepy orange glow, and the air felt gentler somehow. When she spoke again, it came out quieter than she intended. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll deny it.” He smiled without looking at her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

“Though, for the record—” he started, voice teasing again, “—you’re kinda cute when you’re pretending not to like me.” She turned to him, deadpan. “And you’re less cute when you talk.” Tyler blinked, a smile almost passing though Wednesday. “Still a compliment,” he said, leaning back with that stupid, easy grin. Wednesday didn’t answer. She just rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her — the faintest curve, gone almost before it appeared.

Tyler grinned wider, clearly catching the tiny flicker of her smile before she could erase it. “I saw that,” he said, smug. “You saw nothing.” she replied back. “Sure, sure,” he murmured, settling back into the couch. “Must’ve been the firelight.”

Wednesday didn’t reply. Instead, she reached forward, poked the embers with the fire iron, and muttered, “You talk too much.”
“Yeah,” he said, softly enough that she almost missed it. “But you like that.” She gave him a flat look, but her tone was calm, almost… fond. “Delusional.”
Tyler just smiled, the kind that made it feel a little less like winter.

And when the storm outside finally faded, Wednesday decided — silently, of course — that maybe warmth wasn’t always such a terrible thing.