Wenclair One-Shots

my hand was the one you reached for, all throughout the great war

Summary:

"What the 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬, Addams?"

"Sinclair," she grunts back, hand coming to lay atop her stomach. It's wrapped with something heavy, and so is her shoulder.

"You didn't tell me you got stabbed!" Enid exclaims. "Or shot!"

She finally focuses in front of her, finds Enid with her hands behind Wednesday's shoulders, on the mattress. She flushes. Enid looks terrified, concern and something else she can't quite put a finger on lingering in her eyes.

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Her feet are slow in taking her towards the darkness she yearns, for once in her life. She's frozen, not in fear, not in dramatic pause to get the last laugh, but in pure and absolute confusion. At how badly her body is shutting down, at how she cannot move, no matter how much she wills herself to.

Until she does, until her legs take a step forward, and back to the darkness that beckons her. She falls and doesn't know when she hits the ground. Wednesday has never been the type to care; to watch over her own words, making sure she doesn't trip on them and say the wrong thing. She has never cared about the morality of the situation. What she thought, what she thinks, what she always will, is right.

Cases, those are different. Searches of the unknown, investigations, mysteries, the allure of them is the adventure. Wrong assumptions to failed leads until something goes right and is picked up from there. Wednesday likes being wrong during cases, because the adventure continues and there is more to explore, exploit, enjoy.

Pitter-patter. Drizzling, pouring rain against the window where Wednesday lays her head, like a believer at their beloved and designated shrine, begging for forgiveness, comeuppance, judgement. Her knees are against her chest, the first she's ever felt the touch of the two. Her body is buzzing, and her heartbeat echoes in her ears, loud and clear.

Be alone , Enid had yelled. No. Not yelled. Seethed quietly, through gritted teeth, something that was forced out of the very depths of her soul, like it had been sitting there for a while, mewling, begging to be let out. Where her side of the room is usually awake, abuzz, alight with her presence, it is so very dark now. Wednesday should like it.

Wednesday should love it.

(Wednesday doesn't.)

Her head proceeds to rest against her knees without her permission, and her arms wrap around herself like a child curled up and afraid of the monster under their bed. (Except there is no monster. The hyde is no where near, and Wednesday can only see herself.)

Enid, someone so disgustingly happy all the time, had somehow worn a sour expression, somehow raised her voice, somehow had packed her bags out of the dorm she had once lived in, simply to get away from her.

Wednesday had almost gotten her killed. (She had almost gotten her killed.)

The thought makes her shudder violently, shivering with no warmth to keep her stable. There's no cold; the dorms are heated, she knows she is lying to herself. She imagines Enid with blood running down the side of her face, with gashes alongside her abdomen, choking and sputtering while hanging onto life.