Wenclair One-Shots

until the darkness does recede

Summary:

The werewolf raises her head to look at Wednesday, but casts her gaze downward quickly. "I've...never been good with storms," she admits.

Wednesday does the unspeakable - sits down on the bed beside Enid and holds out her hand.

or; Wednesday comforts Enid during a storm, and the subsequent aftermath.

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It storms one night.

Wind rattles at the windows, thunder cracking outside and ringing like an echo. It drowns out all sound in the room, even the clacking of typewriter keys, and yet the sound of Enid's shaky breaths and barely restrained whimpers still worms its way into Wednesday's ears and crawls all the way down into her throat.

The feeling is unbearable, like spiders crawling around her gullet, scorpion stingers sinking into her flesh from the inside.

And Wednesday normally likes unbearable torture. But this? It aches in a different way, more than just skin-deep.

So she sighs, stands up from her desk, and turns to Enid. The noises stop almost immediately, like the werewolf is holding her breath - out of fear, perhaps, and while the more rational part of Wednesday is satisfied to be feared, some other, deeply buried, part of her dislikes the fact she's caused Enid to be afraid of her.

"Enid," Wednesday begins, speaking to a lump of blankets. She takes a slight movement as acknowledgement, and continues, "Are..are you alright?"

A head pokes out from the blankets, tear-stricken but still dumbfounded. "Did you just-?"

"Do not make me regret it." Wednesday sighs again, steps across the unspoken boundary separating the two sides of their room. A flash of lightning foretells the next resounding boom. Enid squeaks. "Enid."

The werewolf raises her head to look at Wednesday, but casts her gaze downward quickly. "I've...never been good with storms," she admits, tone of voice shy like she's ashamed.

Wednesday does the unspeakable - sits down on the bed beside Enid and holds out her hand. "I can see that," she remarks wryly, as Enid stares at her offered hand. "Come on, you don't need this spelled out for you, do you, mia lupa?"

Enid takes her hand softly, hesitantly, lighting up starbursts of heat on the pads of Wednesday's fingertips.

Thunder cracks once more, and Wednesday feels Enid flinch, feels the sympathy roll through her gut. It disgusts her, but she squeezes Enid's hand anyway, trying to offer a little comfort, if nothing else.

Wednesday meets Enid's eyes and frowns at the tears pooling there, raising her free hand to brush them away. She lets her thumb linger over the werewolf's cheekbone, wishing to convey her love (because yes, it regrettably is love) in her touch. "Cara mia," she whispers, and lifts Enid's knuckles to her lips, "focus on me," she continues, and she can't believe she's saying it.

It seems to calm Enid down a bit, if also confuses her.

"Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?" Her voice is hoarse, presumably from crying. Wednesday bites back a frown at the thought.

She huffs, squeezing Enid's hand a little tighter. "I'm never nice."

"Hm, really? You sure seem pretty nice right now." Enid smiles - just slightly, but it's there, and Wednesday can feel the last spark of warmth reenter the world.