Chapter Text
It was a dark and stormy night which, in Wednesday’s expert and objectively correct opinion, was the best kind of night. This one was in particularly fine form, with rain falling in punishing sheets, pounding the timeworn tiles of her ancestral home’s mansard roof. Lightning broke the night sky into crazed fragments outside of the attic window where she had set up her desk and typewriter in an attempt to get some work done on her novel, which was, at current, the only thing ruining an otherwise wonderfully dreary evening.
For the past several months, she had eked out page after dissatisfying page, the lot of which inevitably ended up in the incinerator, and Wednesday’s quiet frustrations were growing to the point that she had spent the last hour eyeing her beloved typewriter and wondering if it, too, should follow its half-baked progeny into the flame. That was absurd, of course. It wasn’t the typewriter’s fault that she’d encountered the dreaded enemy called ‘Writer’s Block’. For a time, she’d been certain she had evaded that particular foible of literary excrement, but her inspiration had been slipping ever since graduation. No matter how often she strung up Pugsley, or how many bear traps she set on the sidewalk outside for the morning joggers, or even the two nights she’d spent in the county morgue after faking her death with a careful dose of potassium cyanide to unwind, it didn’t help. Wednesday’s ideas continued to dwindle until, finally, she struck the end of her wellspring and found herself sitting in front of a blank page for an hour, regardless of the evening’s encouragingly horrible weather. She had set everything up for a perfectly inspirational venue, too; The timbers above her creaked menacingly with the weight of the many Addams who had hung themselves from the rafters, the windows were streaked with phantasmal blood from restless spirits who clawed at them for entry, and Lurch was even playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor two levels down, filling the house with the sounds of sweet despair. She had even dressed in her finest funereal attire—a long, black, neck-high dress, black lace gloves, with a veil over her face that hung bracketed by her two expertly-woven braids, which themselves were tied off with her nicest death’s head clasps.
“Oh, Thing, I think it might be time to admit the gruesome reality,” Wednesday said as she reclined back into the ancient, high-backed chair she’d dragged up the stairs for her use. “I’ve struck the end of my inspiration, and now I am faced with the most awful of fates.”
‘What’s that?’ Thing tapped out the question on the old wood of the writing desk.
Wednesday sighed as she said, “Admitting to mother that she was right and that I probably needed to—” her lips curled in disgust— “step outside of my comfort zone.”
Morticia Addams had pressed that notion firmly more than once over the past few years, ever since she’d tried to convince Wednesday to attend Nevermore Academy, her and Gomez’s alma mater. Even her father had gently supported the idea, but Wednesday had flatly refused. She had no desire to become a facsimile of either of her parents. Besides, Pugsley would probably have spent the rest of his high school career in various lockers without her. The spineless worm that she had the distinct dissatisfaction of calling her brother simply refused to stand up for himself, and she refused to allow him to further shame the name of Addams. So she had bounced asocially around a few high schools, testing various forms of poison in a variety of cafeterias and once replacing the entirety of Howard Davidson High’s supply of tapioca with mucus before graduating Valedictorian (to her disgust) and then soundly vanishing from the academic stage to continue her writing. Mother had warned her that holing up would give her no new ideas, and Wednesday had ignored her, and now she was paying the price for her hubris.
“Thing, go tell Lurch to bring me my cello,” Wednesday said, still glowering at the ceiling, although one would be forgiven for not noticing as her face rarely made any other expression. “And the sheet music for Chopin’s Nocturne in C-Sharp minor, I need to cheer myself up.”
Thing tapped out an agreement and skittered off, leaving Wednesday to wallow in despair which was normally the way she preferred to spend her evenings, but this was a particularly morose vintage given that it stemmed from her own inadequacy.
Lightning and thunder erupted outside the window, with the light casting the high, patrician lines of Wednesday’s face in sharp contrast and deepening the shadows around her. Even the weather was trying to pluck her up but to no avail. She was sinking fast into the mire of bereavement for her skill as a writer, and nothing could raise spirits. Perhaps she should have done as mother had asked in the first place and attended that wretched school for outcasts. Her disagreement seemed so petty now in the face of her current struggles. Perhaps being among her own kind for a few years would have yielded some inspiration that spending those years among normies simply hadn’t.
Regret, regret, regret.
The skittering tap of Thing’s fingers on the floorboards heralded his return, and he hopped up onto the arm of her chair to pat her hand reassuringly. Lurch followed behind a few moments later, Wednesday’s cello in hand along with her music rack and the sheets she had requested. He dutifully set them in front of her, and Wednesday forced herself to rise and accept the cello from her family’s dedicated manservant.
“Lurch, your grotesque and distorted features bring me immeasurable comfort these days,” Wednesday said as she set herself up. “How is it you find contentment in your life of simple service? Do you not yearn for greater fulfillment?” And Lurch replied with a sonorous groan to which Wednesday nodded sagely as she rosined her bow, laid it to the cello strings, and said, “You are wiser than I, I suppose.”
Drawing her bow across the strings, Wednesday drew out the tremulous notes as she poured herself into the mournful tune. It was one of her very favorites, capturing as it did the gloom and melancholy of a wasted life. She always imagined it would be the song played at her funeral over the eulogy, although she had never decided who she would want to give it. Her father was the chief contender, of course, but she always felt that Lurch’s very singular way with words might make for a notable send-off. Thing, naturally, was in the running, but she wasn’t sure she trusted him not to bungle it with some hideous display of emotion. Her father was one thing—the man was ridiculously emotive—but Thing ought to know better.
It was on the heels of those thoughts that an odd percussion disrupted the rhythm of her dirge, and Wednesday trailed off, lifted her head from her cello, and said, “Was that the door?”
Another staccato pounding rose from below them, and Wednesday rolled her eyes before rising and setting the cello against her desk. Lurch was already moving downstairs while Thing hopped up onto Wednesday’s shoulder as she made to follow him. They were the only ones in the house for the time being, and she ought to see to it that whoever had come calling was properly disemboweled. It was the least she could do, considering she was technically housesitting, even if it was her house.
Wednesday Addams descended through the skeleton of her home towards the pounding that was growing somewhat frantic. It seemed counterintuitive in a mundane sort of way that the person on the other side of the door should be so incredibly eager to escape the storm outside. But, she reasoned, that would only be because they lacked the awareness that being caught in a torrential downpour and surrounded by thunder and lightning in close proximity was a significantly safer situation that being made a guest in the Ancient and Most Honorable House of Addams. After all, such guests usually ended up becoming rather more permanent fixtures in the place—in some cases, quite literally.
Lurch stood dutifully by the door as Wednesday descended the spiral steps before stopping on the landing with her hands folded delicately against her waist. She gave one prim nod, and Lurch turned mechanically, gripped the door, and opened it with the efficiency of a body that had been designed and given motion with that individual purpose in mind. Wind and the smell of rain scoured the foyer as an offensively colorful figure stumbled inside halfway through their next fusillade of knocks, her umbrella bent and worn ragged by the storm, and Wednesday was about to say something, but whatever it was died gasping for breath as a girl just about her own age looked up and nailed her to the wall with bright blue eyes. Flaxen hair was streaked with pink and blue hung ragged and soaked over a pale face, and what might have been a fine coat this morning clung pathetically to her like an armful of recently drowned cats. She was, in a very miserable manner of things, beautiful.
Lurch raised his head expectantly to Wednesday, and it rankled. She was the lady of the house until her mother got back, and she had bafflingly little to say. What surprised her most, though, was what came out of the blonde girl’s mouth a moment later.
“Are you Morticia Addams?” she asked in a squeaky voice.
Wednesday’s brows knitted as she reevaluated her approach to their guest vis-a-vis fixtures and permanency. The girl looked perfectly normal, but that wasn’t always to be trusted. Her mother had many contacts among the outcasts, especially the witch covens, although this would be the most colorful witch ever born if that were the case.
“Why?” Wednesday asked. “What business do you have?”
The girl stood up and wrapped her arms around herself while Lurch pushed the door shut against the tempest. She looked around as she tried to rub warmth back into herself while she dribbled water pathetically around her. She was truly a wretched sight, and Wednesday couldn’t help but take a moment to enjoy it.
“My n-name is Enid, and I’m a werewolf from Pack Sinclair,” the girl said numbly before swallowing, standing stiffly, and adding, “I uhm…I heard Morticia Addams had powers. I heard she could see things about people, and I really need her help!”
Wednesday's eyebrow twitched up again. “You’re a very mousey werewolf. Have the Sinclairs truly degenerated this badly, or are you just a particularly craven example?”
The girl’s eyes widened, then her face scrunched up, turned blotchy, and she started crying. It was a loud, wet, blubbery noise that made her seem to crumple in on herself and put ugly, twisted knots in Wednesday’s gut and chest that nevertheless didn’t quite squeeze tight enough for her to enjoy.
Taking the last few steps two at a time, Wednesday stopped in front of Enid Sinclair, and Thing pulled out a handkerchief from Wednesday’s dress pocket as she said, “Stop that noise at once, it’s awful. Now tell me what you need with my mother and be specific, or the next question I will be asking you will involve the family rack.”
The Sinclair girl stiffened at stared at Thing’s offer for a moment before swallowing thickly, taking the handkerchief in shaky fingers, and wiping at her face before saying, “Mother? I g-guess that makes sense, you look too young to be her.”
“Indeed, my mother is on holiday in Romania with my father and younger brother,” Wednesday said flatly.
“Oh…w-why aren’t you with them?” she asked, handing the kerchief back to Thing, who took it and tucked it studiously away.
“Because my parents are hideously affectionate, and being in close proximity for too long gives me ulcers,” Wednesday replied.
“Well, uhm, when will they be back?” Enid asked.
“Two months.”
“TWO MONTHS?!” Wednesday flattened her mouth to a thin line at the sudden spike in volume as Enid’s hair fluffed dramatically up and her painted nails snapped out into the world’s saddest set of claws. “I…I can’t wait two months! I don’t have anywhere to go!” she sobbed. “I need her help! I’m…I—”
Wednesday reached out, grabbed Enid by the collar, and shook her, “Get a hold of yourself, are you a werewolf or not?” she said sharply before letting go and adding, “And what exactly is a west coast werewolf doing over here, anyway?”
Again, Enid’s face scrunched up, and Wednesday braced herself for another onslaught of tears as she crumpled up again and sobbed out, “I w-w-was exiled! I’ve n-n-never wolfed out, and m-my pack kicked me out!”
Never wolfed out? Wednesday cocked her head and looked Enid up and down. “Never?” Wednesday said, then asked, “How old are you?”
“N-Nineteen…twenty next month,” Enid said miserably.
“So you’re my age. That is exceedingly pathetic,” Wednesday agreed as she turned and began walking towards the west parlor. “Lurch, take her coat, you,” she looked back at Enid, “follow me.”
Enid sniffled as she obeyed, giving up her sodden coat as Wednesday led her into the sitting room before gesturing at one of the easy chairs and saying, “Don’t sit there. Herbert likes to take bites out of fresh meat. The couch is usually hibernating around this time, though.”
The couch wasn’t quite as comfortable, but Enid sat on it anyway as Wednesday stopped in front of the cold hearth and snapped her fingers twice. Enid jumped as a bright red flame leapt into existence, then turned to stare up at Wednesday, who was drawing back her veil, folding it up, and setting it carefully on the mantle beside her.
“I’m sorry, I never asked, but uhm…what’s your name?” Enid asked.
“Wednesday.” The word dropped past her lips before she realized she had said it and once it had, Wednesday couldn’t for the life or death of her grasp why she had so easily given her name to the girl. Well, corpses can’t be unburned, and she might as well be polite. “Wednesday Addams, that’s Lurch,” she nodded towards the butler, then to the disembodied hand on her shoulder, “and this is Thing.”
“Lurch, Thing, and…Wednesday? Like the—”
“I was named for my mother’s favorite poem,” Wednesday said, once again uncertain where the words were coming from. She was never this open. “Wednesday’s child is full of woe.”
“Oh, that’s…weird.”
“Thank you.” Wednesday returned to the hearth and stared into it for a long moment.
She was loath to allow a guest to remain in the house for so long, but Enid did have business with her mother, and it would be terribly rude to throw her out if she truly had nowhere else to go, which it seemed she did not. At the same time, that would mean having to share the house with a werewolf—albeit a fraction of one—and a stranger at that, for two whole months, and Wednesday loathed that idea quite a lot more.
There was another option, though.
Wednesday looked down at her own gloved hands as she considered that route. It was imperfect, but it wasn't out of the question depending on what the girl wanted to know. It would be an easy solution if it worked, and if it didn’t, things would be no worse off than before.
“You never told me what you came here to ask,” Wednesday said, turning suddenly to regard Enid once again went rigid, and Wednesday could almost see her ears flick up in alarm.
“O-Oh.” Enid curled in on herself on the couch and said, “I wanted to know if she could see how to make myself wolf out, or uhm…if I ever do in the future?”
In retrospect, that was an easy guess.
“I see.” Wednesday stepped away from the burning hearth, pried Thing off of her shoulder, passed him to Lurch, then sat across from Enid as she wrung her hands slowly, feeling the scrape of lace and the hush of silk against her palms. “My mother will not be here for good while, but, if you’d like, I could make the attempt myself.”
Enid’s expression softened with hope, and Wednesday found it disgusted her less than she expected as she said, “Really?! You…You can see the future?”
“And the past,” Wednesday said, jerking back as Enid made to grab her hands. “But I’ll give you fair warning, my mother is a dove while I am a raven. She sees the positive, while I see the negative.”
It had started halfway through her sophomore year. She would touch things or people and be assaulted by visions, some of them deliciously violent. At first, she’d thought she was losing her mind, but alas, her mother had informed her it was simply a shared gift some Addams possessed. There was, at least, the slight silver lining in that her particular variant did have a penchant for driving its bearers mad.
“Oh, uhm…is it safe?” Enid asked.
“Unfortunately,” Wednesday lamented. “It just means that if I see something, it will probably be unpleasant.”
“What do you mean?”
Wednesday held up one hand and said, “If my mother were to glimpse you shifting, she would likely see a moment of triumph for you.” She held up her other hand. “Whilst if I witness a future where you shift, it will likely involve you ruinously slaughtering some innocent creature, and I confess myself morbidly curious.”
Enid went a little gray but didn’t back down. Instead, she nodded and said, “O-Okay, so long as it won’t hurt you…do we need uhm, candles or a book of shadows, or bo—”
“Nothing so gauche.” Wednesday plucked off her gloves one at a time. “It happens through physical touch, so I’ll take your hand and see what I can see, but…” she trailed off, then forced herself to give the caveat. “But, I do not have my mother’s years of practice, so, for lack of a better term, my aim is unrefined. That means I can’t guarantee I’ll see anything relevant on the first go, so it might take a couple of tries, and I might see more than you want me to.”
“I’m a homeless, packless, mateless werewolf who can’t shift,” Enid said in a brittle, hollow voice. “So don’t worry…there’s nothing you could possibly see that’s worse than what I see every day of my life.”
The tremor in Enid’s voice seemed to reach through the space between them, past Wednesday’s ribcage, and into her heart, causing it to skip a beat. “As enrapturing as your despair is, I prefer solitude, so…” she held out a hand, “shall we?”
“How will we know if it works?” Enid asked as she reached out.
“It may take some time,” Wednesday replied, “but you’ll know it because I will start to have a sei—” their fingers touched, and it was like being strapped to Uncle Fester’s electric chair at full voltage as a vision slammed into Wednesday prefrontal cortex and—
They were moving together, and her breath was hot as she scraped her teeth against the shell of Enid’s ear. There was nothing between them but sweat. Nothing but lust. Nothing but the gyrations of their joined bodies as she pushed deeper inside Enid’s hot, wet core. Enid, who was beneath her, lying on her stomach and writhing as their fingers tangled and twined, and their legs did the same. Wednesday rolled her hips, pushed in again, and Enid let out a ragged, shuddering gasp.
“Oh, Wednesday…!” Enid’s voice was languid and rich. It was a fire in Wednesday’s heart and loins. It was yearning, keen and desperate, and she felt it to her core. “More,” Enid murmured. “Harder.”
Wednesday obeyed, pressing herself flush to Enid’s back as she rocked her hips. It was bliss and ecstasy—a madness most foul and delicious. Wednesday buried her nose against the nape of Enid’s neck, nipping at the soft skin and earning a gasp of delight.
“Wednesday!” Enid cried. “I love you!”
“Cara mia…” Wednesday whispered back.
—Wednesday snatched her fingers back as she stared blankly up at the ceiling, her brain trying and violently failing to come to terms with whatever it was she had just seen.
“Wednesday?!” Enid’s voice seemed to layer over itself, and Wednesday could almost hear those warm, sultry tones. “Wednesday, what did you see?!”
She was a raven, Wednesday told herself. A raven! She saw despair and failure. She saw misery and emptiness. She did not see whatever that was!
“Wednesday?!”
Something unfamiliar craved up from the deepest places in Wednesday’s soul. Something alien and unfamiliar. It snaked its way up through her guts, chewed through her stomach, then coiled around her heart and squeezed. In a way, it was a relief. This way, she wouldn’t have to answer Enid’s question.
“WEDNESDAY!”
Wednesday Addams eyes rolled into the back of her head as she tipped off of the couch, struck the floor with a dull thump, and knew no more.