Wenclair One-Shots

devotion

Summary:

"Can I unbraid your hair?"

Wednesday hesitated. She had never let anyone touch her hair before.

or.
Five times Enid asks if she can touch Wednesday and one she doesn't have to.

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i.

It started the night after the fight.

When everything settled down and silence finally fell upon Nevermore, Wednesday and Enid went back to their dorm rooms with a sense of unfamiliarity. It was peculiar, at least to Wednesday, not to feel that urge to strangle Enid, annoyed by every word she said, because Enid was not, in fact, speaking.

Which was odd.

Enid was always speaking.

But the girl kept quiet the whole way back, walking with her head down, pensive. Maybe it was the fact that she was covered in blood. Wednesday assumed that it was not a pleasant situation for most people, especially for Enid, who seemed to resent everything that was even slightly close to gory – much to Wednesday's dismay

They got into their room, way after the clock had struck midnight. Wednesday wanted nothing more than to take a shower and gather her thoughts by writing them down on her typewriter. Enid, as usual, had other plans.

"Wednesday, you're bleeding."

Wednesday had read in a book she had found in the school library that one doesn't feel the pain of a wound completely until one acknowledges they have it. She tilted her chin down and quickly spotted it: a long, even cut just below her shoulder, descending down her arm and soaking her already gone clothes with even more blood. And that was when the pain exploded.

The hiss Wednesday repressed when she first saw the wound made it through her lips the second she brought her other arm up to touch the wound. Enid stared at her with concern. Wednesday ripped the sleeve open to see the wound more clearly and reached out to grab her already overworked first aid kit. It was a bit of an uncomfortable position, curled on herself like that, but she didn't have any other way to treat a wound placed in such an annoying place.

"Wednesday, you can't do that by yourself," Enid noted, after seeing her struggles. "You should go to the infirmary and get real treatment."

"I can treat wounds better than any incompetent they hired to work in the infirmary," Wednesday retorted. "Plus, I'm sure it will be overworked by now."

She was struggling, though. Sat down on her black bed, trying to apply some disinfectant to a wound that hadn't stopped bleeding yet.

Enid chewed her lip. "It's not gonna work like that," she approached Wednesday's bed with her bubbly pace, "Can I help you?"

Wednesday sent her a death glare. "What?"

"You're just gonna worsen it like that," Enid gestured towards her shoulder. She made a good point. It was a mess. "Let me help you, I know how to patch people up."

Wednesday was oh-so-tempted to say no, but she also knew that dying from a blood infection caused by a mistreated wound would look bad in her biography; she was hoping for someone a little more sophisticated to write as her cause of death, more like fatal, incredibly, and not discovered yet, rare poison or a grotesque, brutal death inflicted by her mortal enemy – whom she had yet to meet.

So she gave her a small nod.

Enid beamed, then she bounced down next to Wednesday and took her arm between her hands.