Wenclair One-Shots

Moonlit Mystery

Summary:

Her fork stills around the restless blob. She isn't sure when Enid became her wolf. It makes her stomach knot- her body swelling with a chilling anxiety that tightens her muscles like the fibres are being torn apart and replaced.

Or

Another prompt- where Enid has to write letters, Wednesday has to use her phone, and there's a mystery orchestrated by the Nevermore self-appointed detective.

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Enid absolutely adored every single piece of parchment that arrived to her home in San Fransisco, like clockwork, every Tuesday at 7 am.

She also adored sleeping in, none of the other pack members even stirring before the sun was steady in the afternoon sky. It was just her, the letter, chirping of the earth and the mailman on those sacred mornings.

At first, the poor man nearly burst into tears when she came bounding down the steps of the house to collect the paper, bills, and single letter. Now, he would chuckle softly as she vibrated behind him, awaiting him to slip it into the letterbox.

Because, despite the incessant energy coursing through her begging to tear apart the envelope, she'd wait for the kind man to be on his way before running around in happy circles, spurting paws and ears.

She forced herself to settle by the riverfront, too, before all but tearing into the parchment with a feral tenacity; careful to not rip the wax seal with a raven pressed into it. The insignia of the Addams family, of course.
Wednesday, however, added a flare to the stoic black she favoured with a midnight blue. It swirled within the encompass of a calamitous greeting, barely noticeable and muddled. She savoured each little wax seal, and would glue them to various empty spaces in her room.

After all- they were special.
Blue was Enid- Wednesday had declared in a letter halfway through the summer break, without an explanation or prompt. Other than despite Enid adoring pink, she, herself, was blue.

She didn't question it, as she typically didn't when it came to her room mate. It was fitting- for her to be kooky, spooky, and whatever else rhymed (like the curio of a raven) while she was something lively, ever moving (like the ocean.)

All she knew, from letters sent by Morticia, Gomez, Thing and Pugsley- (the latter two, quickly becoming enamoured with modern-day technology and turning to their phones)- they had always sealed their letters in a pure black.

Wednesday sent hers the same, she had noted from the ones she'd seen being sent out to various correspondences during their time at Nevermore.

No colour. No twist, or flare.

She only used the tiniest spot of it for Enid.

And Enid truly didn't have a single fucking clue about writing letters, the first day she had received one. She'd been caked in mud from wrestling with her brothers, and ready to pass out in her bowl of spaghetti when her father had told her it had came for her.

It wasn't much, in terms of literature. A few lines in the typeface she'd seen on papers littering Wednesday's desk, carrying pleasantries (sort of) and asking how she was (more insulting her home than anything) along with a photo of Thing napping in the snood (Wednesday had claimed long ago she'd burnt. Clearly forgetting her own lie.)

And Gods, if it didn't make Enid trip over herself in the haste to get to her room where she could blast Tek It and dance around like a schoolgirl. Because Wednesday thought about her. Wednesday found her address, and sent her a letter because she wanted to. And even brought her Snood home, and, God, Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday.