Wenclair One-Shots

The best of the times, the worst of crimes

Summary:

There's blood on the floor. Enid can smell it, sunk into the floorboards of the dorm, a sharp metal scent that makes her nose wrinkle and her nails sharpen. There's blood in their room, and the sudden realization of this is the first sign of things to come.

OR

Enid is pretty sure Wednesday killed someone. Now begins the matter of proving it.

————————————————————

There's blood on the floor. Or, at least, Enid thinks it must be on the floor. She can smell it, sunk into the floorboards of the dorm, a sharp metal scent that makes her nose wrinkle and her nails sharpen. There's blood in their room, and the sudden realization of this is the first sign of things to come. Wednesday doesn't seem to notice the smell, but then again, Wednesday is a human. At least, the closest thing Nevermore has to a human. Her sense of smell isn't as finely tuned as Enid's.

It's not like weird smells are all that uncommon, both in their shared space and at Nevermore as a whole. There's always something off in whatever section of the school they're in, and that simply comes with the sheer number of inhuman creatures in one place. Enid, like the other werewolves, has to eat quite a lot of red meat, and that smell, while not unpleasant, is notable. The sirens always smell just a little fishy, although Enid is sure she only notices because of her enhanced senses. So the initial whiff isn't too odd, and Enid resolves to ignore it.

Unfortunately, ignorance quickly proves to be more difficult than she initially thought. Not because of the smell itself, but because she can't help but wonder where it could be coming from, wondering if Wednesday got herself hurt somehow and has simply chosen to hide it from Enid. It wouldn't be the first time. Enid has been told she can be smothering, and Wednesday does not appreciate being smothered. But her instincts scratch at that itch, and eventually, she caves.

"Wednesday?" She starts, glancing at her roommate. She's sitting at her desk, tapping away at her typewriter. She tilts her head in acknowledgment but doesn't look up. "Are you hurt?"

"Hurt?" Wednesday parrots, a questioning lilt to her monotone voice.

"Yes." Enid confirms, and her voice must convey some concern because Wednesday's head tilts in her direction.

"No, I'm not hurt." She replies, and resumes her typing. "Are you sure?" Enid hesitantly asks again. Wednesday's hands still, and she turns in her seat.

"Are you hurt?" She asks, and oh, that wasn't quite what Enid was expecting. "Uh, no, I'm not hurt." She answers, slowly. Wednesday nods, and turns back to her work.

"Right." Enid hums. "Okay."

They're quiet for the rest of the evening, and Enid forces her body to relax. The smell of blood sticks in her nose.

-

Enid's next clue comes in first period. She's still bleary with early-morning haze, settled at her seat with her head resting on her arms. Wednesday is sitting beside her, entirely awake and scribbling her third page of what Enid can't possibly believe are algebra notes. She can't bring herself to care, much, though. Wednesday is wearing her snood. She put it on this morning, citing the chill weather, and resolutely ignoring any smiles from Enid, who had promptly put on her own to match. It's very comfortable, if Enid wants to toot her own horn (which she usually does). It's well-made, and warm. It settles over her shoulders as she tries to keep her eyes open.

"Wake up, Enid." Wednesday reminds her absently, not ceasing her scribbling. Enid huffs. "I don't understand how you're never tired." She grumbles. "You literally woke me up last week because you were dragging that bag."