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Cupid's Second Chance

Summary:
A couple years after Nevermore, Enid receives an unexpected guest at 3 am, and gets a crash course in emergency wound care

Enid was generally a heavy sleeper. It was a practiced skill. She grew up with wolves, roomed with an infamous Addams for three years, and couch surfed for almost a year after that.

(Incidentally, that's how she ended up staying with a group of faceless queer anarchists in New York. They'd been some of the nicest people Enid's ever met! She would've stayed with them forever. If she hadn't found a place of her own, on the other side of the city. A little shabby, surrounded by dark alleys taken up by reeking dumpsters. But it was a place where she could be herself and do whatever she wanted.)

By now she was used to snoring her way through pretty much anything. So it was a little unusual for her to startle awake at three in the morning on a Thursday night, gums itching and claws four inches past their nail beds.

She put it down to the bad dream. It woke her up feeling restless enough that she got up to get a glass of water. She was sipping it, trying to push away thoughts on blood moons, when she heard a loud thud right outside of her apartment door.

She tensed. The building had three floors. Two werewolves upstairs she avoided. A telekinetic on her floor she's been on one (lukewarm) date with, and the old witch downstairs who made a kickass apple pie. All of them were a quiet bunch. They had to be, if they wanted to keep living among humans.

She checked the time on her stove again, drew back for a moment and concentrated. She heard some shuffling. But whoever it was gave no indication that they were going to leave. After maybe ten minutes, her anxiety spiked.

She reached out with her senses, focused on the sounds of faint, irregular breathing, and waited and waited, until she caught the tiniest whisper of "fuck," from a voice that she would — recognize anywhere.

Except it wasn't possible.

There was no way.

She's tripped on her feet in her hurry to get to the door.

"Who's there?" She said, doorknob in a white knuckled grip, just shy of bending the steel.

"You are awake," came Wednesday Addams' voice through the cheap wood paint. "Good. It will spare me the pleasure of having to pick your lock."

"Pick my — why — what?" Enid threw her door open, mouth agape.

"Good evening," Wednesday said calmly, like she hadn't disappeared from Enid's life three years ago.

She was leaning against the wall in one corner, posture the most casual Enid has ever seen from her. She was wearing a leather jacket. (and looked good in it.) Her hair looked longer, breaded intricately. Her face was blank, and her eyes dark and still, almost glistering in the flickering lights of her hallway.

"It's the middle of the night," Enid said, blinking a few times. Wednesday held her jacket tightly around herself like she was cold. She did look cold; unusual for her. She used to take ice baths in winter, back at Nevermore.

The school didn't even have central heating.

"What're you doing here?" Enid blurted out after another minute of staring. Because why now? After three years — if Wednesday's been alive this whole time, why not give her a call? Or maybe even send a letter?

"I had business to attend to nearby."

Okay. Enid had no idea what that meant. She was almost too bewildered to care. Wednesday Addams was standing in her doorway, at three in the morning, smelling comfortingly of embalming chemicals and grave soil and — something else, something also oddly familiar. Enid tried to clear her head and took a deep breath that she hoped was subtle. Wednesday pushed herself off the wall.