Wenclair One-Shots

Crescents on your fingertips (cradled in your palms)

Summary:

"The nail-polish which you were adamant on looking for has come into my possession. I have come to return it."

Enid had learned ages ago that if you wanted to know what Wednesday was thinking, you had to look at her hands. Her body was too corpse-like in its stillness, and her face way too stony. Even her deep, magnetic eyes weren't easy to understand. But Wednesday's hands, like Thing, expressed what the rest of her wouldn't. And right now her hands delicately twirl the bottle, silver liquid shimmering as it's shifted from palm-to-palm. Glinting in opportunity.

"Do you want to come in?" Enid asks, just a little breathlessly.

And though Wednesday doesn't even blink, her fingers tighten ever-so-slightly on the nail-polish. "Yes," she replies. "I would."

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Enid feels her ears twitch at the familiar clacks of platforms she can't help always listening out for and looks up so quick at the precise knocks on the door her neck could snap.

The werewolf stands, cursing under her breath as she stubs her toe on her suitcase. Yoko's stuff still takes up most of the space, heavy burgundy curtains swamping the walls to block out midday light. Enid had thought a vampire that only sleeps in a coffin would be minimalistic, but Yoko's habit of collecting decades worth of knickknacks really fills the walls even without Enid's things. Even after a week here, something keeps holding the werewolf back from unzipping her suitcase: something, more like someone, that is at the door right now. It's a good thing Yoko isn't here to laugh at her, as Enid frantically smooths her hair before opening the door.

Of course, Wednesday looks absolutely perfect, not a braid out of place as she stands perfectly still, hands clasped neatly in front of her. Thing gives a jaunty wiggle from her shoulder in greeting and Enid hesitantly waves back, still focused on Wednesday who has yet to say anything. The girl stares blankly, unblinking and unbothered as usual. Except it isn't usual for Wednesday to be here, not at all.

Her dark eyes, so dark they're almost a onyx mirror, slide to the side, before sliding back to return the werewolf's own. Enid, if she was feeling really insane (which considering Wednesday's general influence isn't impossible) would dare call the action nervous.

Wednesday opens her hands and the bottle cradled within them. "The nail-polish which you were adamant on looking for has come into my possession. I have come to return it."

Even from the doorway Wednesday looks far more at home in the gothic swags of fabric then she does with Enid's rainbows, and not for the first time Enid can't help but be aware how much she and Wednesday don't fit. Even in a school for outcasts, they are outcasts to each other and complete opposite ends of the spectrum. Oil and water, or as Wednesday would put it blood and holy water or something just as morbidly dark academia in aesthetic. It would be easy to just leave it at that, at just tropes, and keep Enid in her box of crayons and Wednesday in her tomb of inks; to call Enid the one with too many expressions and Wednesday so void of them she makes a black hole look emotional. That's not true though, not really. It's just a case of paying attention.

Enid had learned ages ago that if you really wanted to know what Wednesday was thinking, you had to look at her hands. Her body was too still, corpse-like, and even her magnetic eyes were too stony to understand unless you looked super carefully for each twitch in her face. But Wednesday's hands, like Thing, expressed what the rest of her wouldn't. And right now her hands delicately twirl the bottle, silver liquid shimmering as it's shifted from palm-to-palm. Glinting in opportunity.

"Do you want to come in?" Enid asks, just a little breathlessly.

And though Wednesday doesn't even blink, her fingers tighten ever-so-slightly on the nail-polish. "Yes," she replies. "I would."