Wenclair One-Shots

she who bites back

Summary:

Spraining her ankle brought more trouble than Wednesday had anticipated.

Or — Being bridal-carried is a perfectly rational motive for murder.

Wednesday was in a pickle.

Now, Wednesday herself would most definitely deny that she was in any sort of trouble. Wednesday Addams was an expert in dangerous weapons and chemical warfare — concerningly (in the eyes of the boring norm, she'd say so herself) versed in the art of murder too. She was well-known for loving the macabre, the disgusting, the dreadful. Everything that made an Addams, everything that scared the weak. But while this world feared darkness, Wednesday revelled in it. 

Therefore, a sprained ankle was too silly to consider a bother.

Thing seemed to think otherwise, to Wednesday's dismay. Despite the numerous attempts she made to console him, that she'll be fine and it'll heal on its own after some rest, her handservant had scuttled off to god-knows-where — and it wasn't like she could just get up and snatch Thing back into her room either.

So, the seemingly undefeated Wednesday (who was now defeated by her own mortality), was officially stuck in her shared room. She could only pacify her injury with a melting ice pack, counting down the seconds her roommate will barge in.

Ah, and speaking of her roommate.

"Wednesday!"

Of course Enid would slam the door open. Predictable.

"Are you alright? Does it hurt? Thing told me what happened, and—" Enid paused to catch her breath, bending down nearly at her knees. "I ran all the way from the courtyard."

"I know. You're sweating," Wednesday pointed out, in her monotone, aloof manner. The sharp, pulsating spikes of pain was purposefully unmentioned.

The blonde rolled her eyes. Walking towards the bed, she fished Thing out of her pocket and gently set it on Wednesday's lap, "Let me see your ankle."

"No."

"Why?"

"You'd drag me to the infirmary, and frankly, I hate being there."

Enid raised an eyebrow, looking back and forth between Wednesday and the blanket covering her legs, "Are you implying that your injury is serious?"

"I'm implying that it won't be me who'll need medical attention soon," she snapped back. Wednesday glared at Enid, conjuring the most fear-inducing, vengeful blaze she could muster in her dark eyes.

Enid just grinned. That awful, vile grin radiating so much sunshine and rainbows it could lit up entire cemeteries or terrible winter days. It was truly evil, how nauseating it is to look directly at the sun. One day, Wednesday will disintegrate into a pile of dust and ashes because of Enid's brilliance, she was convinced.

"Thing, can you please take off her blanket?"

Oh god. Did her grin grow by miles? Wednesday knew this smile all too well, the mischievous glint sparkling in her blue eyes, the way she was closer and closer with each passing moment.

Her roommate had a 'you-won't-like-what-I'm-about-to-do' kind of smile.

"What do you think you're—" But before Wednesday could even protest, her blanket was pulled away in one quick swipe, revealing the aforementioned injury. Just as a threat danced on the tip of her tongue, she felt an arm under her waist, then another one under her knees...

The ice pack fell onto the floor with a soft thud.

"Enid Sinclair," she said through gritted teeth. "Put. Me. Down."