Chapter Text
The Addams manor in winter was a symphony of hushed, unsettling comfort. Firewood crackle. Distant pipes groaned with memory. Somewhere below, Lurch played a slow, warbling phrase on the pipe organ that no one had asked for but everyone tolerated.
It suited Wednesday. Usually.
She sat alone in the music room, her cello balanced between knees, its neck pressed against the curve of her jaw. She exhaled, bow drawing across the string in a practiced sweep.
The note should have sounded full . Weighted. It didn’t.
She frowned, barely perceptible to anyone but herself. Adjusted her fingers. Tuned the peg. Drew again.
Still not right.
The tone wasn’t sharp. Or flat. Just… hollow. Blurred at the edge like a photo slightly out of focus.
Below, a distant voice echoed upward: “Wednesday! Dinner!”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t respond.
She always waited for the second call anyway.
Ten seconds passed.
Tap, tap.
Thing perched silently on the music stand, his two fingers rapping just loud enough to feel through the wood. Wednesday looked up.
He curled a finger toward the door.
She gave a small nod and stood, carefully setting the cello back in its cradle. Her fingers hovered a moment longer, brushing the strings. They vibrated against her touch. She felt them more than she heard them.
By the time she made it down stairs, the dining room was animated as ever.
Morticia's voice floated through the candlelight like perfume. Pugsley snorted as he dug into something unidentifiable. Grandmama muttered at her food. Wednesday slid into her chair with her usual practiced silence.
“You didn’t hear your father?” Morticia asked, without real censure.
“I was tuning.”
“You’re always tuning,” Pugsley muttered.
“Better than being tone-deaf,” she replied coolly.
The scrape of cutlery rasped in her left ear, oddly sharper than her right. Her jaw tightened. She said nothing.
Across from her, Thing flashed her a quick two-finger wave, You okay? not in alarm, just habit.
She blinked slowly, expression unreadable, but ignored the hand.
Everything was normal.
She told herself that again, later, when she sat on the cold floor of her bedroom. The cello rested behind her, untouched. Her fingers tapped against the wood grain floor; once, twice, pause; and this time she focused on what she could feel rather than what she could hear.
Still, something was missing.
It was three days later when Wednesday first missed a door creaking open.
She was seated cross-legged on the rug in the library, notebook open, spine cracked flat, pen poised between two lines of spidery handwriting. The house was still. Lurch’s footsteps had long faded. The air was dry and heavy with ink, paper and incense someone had forgotten to snuff out properly.
She didn’t hear the hinges. The usual groan of the old metal and wood was absent.
She only looked up when Morticia cleared her throat - gently, deliberately - a few steps into the room.
Wednesday’s eyes flicked to the door, a faint twitch in her brow, then back to her mother’s face. Cool. Composed.
Morticia arched a delicate brow. “Darling, are you writing murder again or romance?”
“There’s little difference,” she replied. The moment passed.
Morticia smiled faintly. “You missed our fencing session.”
“I was occupied.”
“Again?” A tilt of the head. “That cello of yours must be whispering secrets.”
Wednesday didn’t answer. Her pen moved again.
Morticia studied her a moment longer, then turned and drifted out. This time, Wednesday watched the door close. She could see the sound of it, the subtle shiver in the frame, but it barely registered.
She tried not to think about that.
She noticed it again that evening, playing chess with Pugsley in front of the fire.
The snap of the log in the hearth startled her. Not because it was loud, because it wasn't, but because she felt it in her teeth before she heard it.
She watched Pugsley grin as he moved his knight.
“I’m winning,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” she answered, and took his bishop with a flick of her rook.
Pugsley groaned, dramatically loud. She barely flinched, but it was there. The sound pierced one ear and barely skimmed the other.
He didn’t notice. He rarely did.
Thing, perched on the arm of the chair, did.
He tapped her thigh twice. Not in alarm. Just in question. He was always watching her hands.
Wednesday, without looking, brushed her fingers toward him; Yes. Fine. A vague ASL echo, lazy and deliberate. She didn’t think about it.
That night, lying in bed with her fingers tangled in the hem of the blanket, she stared up at the ceiling and tried to recall what her cello had sounded like last week. Not what she played . Not the notes.
The sound.
The texture of it.
It slipped between her fingers like dust.
She furrowed her brow and frowned.
The next morning, the thin-soled boots made no sound on the marble hallway. She liked that. Silence had always suited her.
But lately, silence had begun to betray her.
In the garden, Fester was telling a long-winded story to a bat roosting on the wrought iron fence. His laughter came sharp and sudden. The sound hit her like glass. Not loud exactly, but bright and high, like a knife grazing her left eardrum.
She turned her head sharply. Not in pain, more so in irritation. The other ear barely registered it at all.
It kept happening. Little things. A kettle whistle felt like it cut through her molars, but she missed the low hum of the greenhouse’s dehumidifier. The grandfather clock's chime startled her, not because it was unexpected, but because it was unbalanced. It struck her from the left. The right felt hollow. She was missing things. A lot of things.
She said nothing. She was fine.
When her fingers weren't writing or playing cello, they now hovered against surfaces.
A table edge. The stone balustrade. The wood floor outside her room.
It wasn't conscious at first. Just a habit forming from something her body knew before her mind accepted, calling it an experiment to cover the uncomfortable feeling in her chest. She could feel more than she could hear, some days. The world under her palms was rich with sound. Her cello vibrated up her ribs and into her skull. The hum of distant footsteps came not as echo, but as tremor.
She didn’t talk about it. Why would she? No one had asked.
Thing had started tapping differently, though. Slower. More deliberate. Less flourish, more intention.
He’d caught it too. When she realized what it was he was doing, she frowned and just stared at him. She refused to vocalize it.
One evening, she sat at her desk, reading by lamplight. The house was quiet. Unnaturally so. She could feel it.
She realized, all at once, that she hadn’t heard the fire crackling in the hearth. The flames were still alive. The light flickered on the wall. But the sound…
Gone.
She turned slightly in her chair, letting her hand hover toward the warmth. Not close enough to touch flame, but close enough to feel how it breathed. How the heat rose in waves, flickering like sound once did; rhythmic, unpredictable, but real.
A slow, pulsing tide. She tracked it with her fingers, eyes half-lidded.
It wasn’t hearing. But it was something.
Still, it wasn’t spoken, it wasn’t pointed out, she barely let the thought cross her mind.
The second week home, the manor settled into a rhythm, if such a thing could exist with the Addamses.
Wednesday took breakfast later. She claimed it was to avoid the smell of Gomez’s eggs, which had begun offending her sense of smell, but the truth was simpler: the kitchen was loud in the mornings. Too loud. Cutlery scraping. Unpredictable laughter. The overlapping voices tangled like wire in her skull.
She still sat with them. Just not all the time.
Morticia noticed.
She always noticed. Wednesday knew it was only a matter of time.
They passed one another in the west hallway, where the light always filtered through in the strange gold-gray way only Addams architecture could manage. Wednesday had her hand on the wood-paneled wall as she walked, not trailing it idly but anchored there, palm flat. Steady. As if listening through her skin.
Morticia paused mid-step, her long lashes blinking just once.
She didn’t say anything then.
Later, in the greenhouse, she brought it up in her usual offhand way. She was clipping away at a black tulip that had grown thorns.
“You’ve always had a feel for this house, fly trap,” she said without looking up. “But lately, I’ve noticed you’re quite literally feeling it.”
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. She was seated nearby, cataloguing spore development, fingers still dusted with pollen. Her pen clicked once.
“I like to know where the structure shifts,” she said. “Old wood warps.”
Morticia smiled faintly. “Indeed. But it hasn't shifted in the west hall since before you were born.”
Silence.
Wednesday didn’t move. But Morticia, in that soft, eerie way of hers, could always sense the tension.
“The vibrations carry through it,” Wednesday said finally. Her voice was low, steady. “It tells you things. You just need to listen.”
Morticia trimmed one last petal, laid it in her tray with care, “Maybe one day you can regale me with their tales.” She gave Wednesday a pointed look.
The raven kept her eyes glued to her mother’s face, her mask of indifference in place and said nothing before leaving off elsewhere.
Morticia watched her go, looking to Cleopatra, gently gliding her hands over her petals as the massive plant growled in approval. She muttered to the plant, voice barely betraying the concern in her eyes, “My little raven…”
It was late, not late by Addams standards, but past midnight, which made it technically tomorrow. The manor had quieted. Even the suits of armor had stilled.
Wednesday sat curled into the corner of the upstairs study, legs drawn up under her, notebook balanced on one knee. Her pen scratched a steady rhythm, almost musical but not quite. She paused sometimes, tilting her head.
There’d been a sound just now. Maybe.
She waited. Nothing.
Only the sound of her pen again. Her breathing. The faint flicker of the gas lamps that lined the hallway outside. She was sure she’d heard something. But there was no shape to it.
A moment passed before Thing climbed up onto the study table, nudging a discarded book to the side. He paused, fingers flexing lightly, and tapped a question against the desk:
“Did you hear that?”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. Just barely. She kept writing.
Thing waited.
Finally, she glanced up and gave the smallest of nods. But not the usual kind. Not the sharp, dry tilt of certainty. It was slower. Uncertain. Defensive, even.
Thing tapped a slow rhythm against the wood. Then slid his hand into her line of vision, palm up.
“Okay,” he signed one-handed, then added with two fingers: “Want help listening?”
Wednesday stared at him for a long time. Not cold. Just...still.
Then, she reached out and rested her hand beside his. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth from his skin. A subtle gesture. An unspoken yes.
They sat there a while, just the two of them and the low hum of the house. At one point, Thing tapped her notebook lightly and pointed to the corner of the room.
A spider, Pugsley’s giant tawny red tarantula by the name of Lincoln, had dropped from the window sill and skittered across the floorboards, all 21 centimeters of him. He must have broken out of his terrarium again.
Wednesday hadn’t heard it.
But she saw it now.
She didn’t say anything. Just wrote one word at the bottom of the page:
“Observed.”
Thing made a small, approving gesture and settled back beside her.
The silence stayed soft after that. Not empty, just companionable.
The morning fog hung low over the garden, and Wednesday was sharpening a small bundle of throwing knives on the wrought-iron bench near the koi pond. Her movements were precise, rhythmic, sharp as ever.
Gomez approached with a slow, deliberate gait, not wanting to startle her, though she hadn’t been startled in years.
“Mi amorcita,” he greeted, warm as always. “Do I dare interrupt the ritual?”
Wednesday didn’t glance up. “Only if you’re willing to be a target.”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
He sat beside her with a faint grunt of effort, resting elbows on his knees. She kept her eyes on the blade, dragging the whetstone in one clean motion.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said.
“I am always quiet.”
“Quieter,” he corrected, gently. “Even for you.”
She said nothing, but her jaw shifted slightly, something unspoken moving behind her teeth.
“Thing says you’ve been working late,” Gomez continued, trying not to sound concerned. “He says you sleep less, eat even less, and he’s caught you staring at the fireplace like it personally offended you.”
Wednesday lifted the blade to the light, checking the edge. “I find fire fascinating. Do you not?”
“I do,” Gomez said. “But I find you more fascinating. I worry when your silences become... heavier.”
Wednesday finally looked at him, her eyes flat but not unkind. “I am not falling apart.”
“I know that,” he said, quick and firm. “You’re stronger than any of us. But even marble can crack, mija. And you’ve been through something I don’t know how to sympathize with.”
Her lips pressed into a line. She reached for the next blade.
“I’m managing.”
He nodded, accepting it because she needed him to but not quite believing it.
After a moment, she stood. “If you’re done parentalizing, I have bone samples to inspect.”
Gomez gave a dramatic bow from his seated position. “As you wish, General.”
She walked away, braid swinging, back straight as ever. She was an Addams, she could manage fine.
Only after the garden gate closed behind her did Gomez sigh; a deep, father-weighted breath, and turn toward the house, in the direction of his wife’s greenhouse.
Morticia was trimming the dead heads from a belladonna bush when he found her.
“She’s drifting,” Gomez said quietly. “Like she’s still stuck halfway in whatever she fought last term.”
Morticia didn’t look up. “She’s healing.”
“I’m not sure she knows how,” he replied, rubbing a thumb across his wedding band. “She talks less, even to Thing. I am sure she missed half of what I said earlier.” He hesitated, then added, “And she didn’t even glance at the saber when I dropped it in the dining room.”
That gave Morticia pause. Her scissors stilled.
“She always looks,” Gomez continued, voice softer now. “She loves the sound, says it sings like tension snapping. And she never passes up a chance to fence me, even if she pretends otherwise.”
Morticia raised her eyes to meet his.
“I think she heard it fall,” he said, “but it didn’t... land the same. She didn’t track the sound, didn’t even turn her head. Like she was listening with the wrong part of herself.”
Morticia’s lips pressed thin, concern flickering across her otherwise serene expression.
“She doesn’t want to name it yet,” she murmured.
“I don’t need her to name it,” Gomez said. “I just want her to know we are here to support her.”
“She does know, amor,” Morticia replied. “But she may need to lose more than she’s willing before she lets herself be found.”
They stood quietly, side by side, watching the gate Wednesday had passed through moments before, the path still swaying faintly with her absence.
The attic smelled faintly of varnish and old pages, a place neither child had outgrown, only made their own in new ways. Wednesday sat on the floor cross-legged, methodically arranging old insect specimens by type, while Pugsley, sprawled nearby, twisted copper wire into misshapen loops.
A cicada shell clicked faintly against the wood as she set it down.
Pugsley looked up. “What?”
She didn’t answer.
He tried again, slightly louder. “Did you say something?”
Still nothing. Her posture didn’t shift. Her eyes remained fixed on the beetle wing under her tweezers.
“Are you going deaf or something?” he joked, chuckling.
That landed.
She stood abruptly, spine rigid, the cicada shell tumbling from her hand and cracking against the floor. Her face was unreadable but her silence was thunderous.
“Okay, yeesh-” Pugsley started, but she turned and left without a word. Her boots hit the attic steps like a slow, deliberate metronome.
He frowned. What had he said wrong?
Wednesday just fled the area, away from her brother, a frustrated frown on her face
It wasn’t the words. Not really.
She could take teasing. She and Pugsley had been sharpening themselves on each other since birth. But it was the accuracy of it, the way he’d said deaf like a joke, and her own body didn’t rise up to prove him wrong.
She hadn’t heard him the first time. Not clearly. She'd registered… something. A low rumble beneath her, almost indistinct, like distant thunder vibrating through floorboards. She realized, distantly, that with him lying down, his voice had resonated just enough through the old wood for her to feel it.
The sound itself was... hollow. Muffled around the edges. As though her world were underwater; not drowning but dimming.
Even the sharp click of the cicada shell earlier had sounded off. Not bright, not satisfying. Dull. Empty.
She hated that she noticed that.
She hated that it was becoming a pattern.
At the end of the hallway, she stopped. Her palm found the wall, fingers spread like she could catch the vibrations before they slipped past her skin. The wallpaper felt brittle under her touch, and the wooden beams behind it hummed faintly with footsteps far below, movement she couldn’t hear but could sense, like a whisper pressed to her bones.
It was the only part of the house that still felt honest.
Later that evening, Wednesday sat on the wide stone railing of the upstairs balcony, perched like a gargoyle in the dying light. The sun barely touched the estate anymore, just a cold smear of gold behind heavy clouds. Her cello rested against the wall nearby, untouched.
The wind stirred her hair faintly. Not enough to hear. Just enough to feel.
She didn’t look up when she heard the shuffle of someone hesitating behind her.
Pugsley stood with his arms crossed awkwardly, his feet toeing at the grout between the stones. “I wasn’t trying to be mean,” he said, voice careful.
Silence.
“I really didn’t mean it.”
She finally glanced at him, her face unreadable, eyes like iron beneath frost. “Then why did you say it?”
He blinked. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You were just... quiet. And weird. Like, weirder than usual.”
That made her huff maybe not quite a laugh, but close enough. She looked away again, out into the gray trees, chin tilted like she was listening for something she couldn’t name.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
“No.”
She didn’t say anything else. But she didn’t leave, either.
Pugsley sat beside her. Close, but not touching.
The wind brushed over them. She let her eyes close, just for a moment, and listened to the pressure of it against her skin instead of the sound. Felt her boots grind against the loose pebbles, the heat she felt coming off her brother, the wind brushing lightly against her face.
They sat together in silence for a while until pugsley yawned, giving her a much too cheerful goodnight before going back inside. Wednesday wasn’t far behind, heading to her own room on the other side of the mansion.
Wednesday had taken to keeping one of her windows cracked at night , not for the fresh air, but for the weight of the cold on her skin. It gave her something real to measure the world by.
She was brushing her hair; long, even strokes, twenty times each side, when a single, heavy knock hit her door.
Then a skitter. A familiar shuffle and pat across the floorboards.
She didn’t turn around. “Hello, Thing.”
The disembodied hand crawled up to the vanity and waved once. Then stopped.
He tapped the wooden surface, slow and rhythmic. She didn’t look, but she noticed. Then his fingers signed something. She only saw it in the mirror:
Are you okay?
She blinked once.
Thing signed again. Not just mad. Quiet. Different.
Her throat was tight. She could lie to most people. To herself. But not Thing.
“I’m… adapting,” she said softly. “Not surrendering.”
Thing paused, then tapped her hand twice and gave a half-hearted thumbs-up. A comfort. A concession.
They sat there for a while; Wednesday brushing her hair again, Thing tapping faintly on the wood like a metronome, grounding her.
Later, in bed, the house felt louder through her spine than her ears.
The floor creaked with age beneath the walls.
The radiator clanked like a metal heartbeat.
The wind pressed cold against her cheek and faded.
She didn’t sleep for a long time, but she didn’t fight it either.
Instead, she traced the seam between her pillow and the headboard with one hand, and waited for the world to settle around her; for the things she could still feel to stay
Chapter Text
The days passed, quieter than they once were, not because the house had gone still, but because Wednesday had.
It was subtle, like shifting air before a storm. The stillness she carried wasn’t the practiced silence of disinterest. It was taut, near vibrating at the edges. It was mourning, in her own way.
She hadn’t named it grief, not even in the privacy of her own mind. That would admit she lost something. But her body knew.
Her right shoulder leaned against doorways now, angling her better ear toward voices. Her eyes moved more than they used to; tracking lips, expressions, flickers of movement. She didn’t notice how often she mirrored conversation without sound. A nod. A blink. A perfectly timed shift in posture. Learned through sheer exposure.
Thing didn’t bring it up. He never asked what she could or couldn’t hear. He simply started lingering. Perched on the back of the chair at breakfast. Sitting in her lap when she read. Flicking her hand if someone behind her spoke and she didn’t catch it. He never made a show of it. But he was there. Always.
The fire in the study crackled. She watched it from the floor, legs folded beneath her, cello case beside her untouched. The flames licked and twisted, the warmth curling around her face. Her ears registered little. But she felt the shifts, the way heat pulsed as the logs settled, the way the rug beneath her calves vibrated faintly with the crack and snap. It grounded her.
Until someone spoke behind her.
She didn’t catch the words, just the overlapping hum of syllables, too many voices layered at once. A thread of noise tangled in her mind like barbed wire.
She flinched.
Only slightly. But enough.
Pugsley stopped mid-sentence. Gomez went still in the middle of a story. Morticia, across the room, simply looked at her and said nothing. She didn’t need to.
Wednesday rose to her feet slowly, brushing her skirt smooth, eyes like flint. “If you must speak, do so one at a time,” she said, sharp and cold as the edge of a blade. “Or not at all.”
They obeyed. They didn’t fully understand, but they adjusted. It wasn’t fear. It was love, carved into the shape of instinct.
That night, she didn’t hear the knock at her door. But the second, louder bang echoed faintly in her left ear and reverberated just enough through the wood of the floorboards that she turned.
It was Pugsley. She opened the door and he didn’t speak, just looked at her, sheepish. He raised his hand and knocked again, this time theatrically loud, as if to say I get it.
She didn’t smile. But her shoulders eased.
Downstairs, Gomez had stopped trying to sneak into rooms like a phantom. His footsteps had grown louder on the old wood. It was deliberate, a kind of kindness.
Morticia didn’t say anything either. She didn’t need to. She watched as Wednesday stood, fingers grazing the walls as she walked, feeling the old house speak to her through vibration, through the grain in the wood, through sensation rather than sound.
Her hearing was stabilizing. This, it seemed, was the new normal. She hated it. She hated how it made her feel fragile. She hated how her cello no longer sounded the same in her right ear, hated how the voices she once filtered so sharply now blurred in crowds.
But she was adapting. And that, more than anything, made her angry.
The house creaked beneath her bare feet. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
It wasn’t silence. It was change.
She didn’t know what to do with her hands anymore.
Writing helped, but the pages were filling faster than she could make sense of them. There were lists and diagrams, half-developed poems in Latin, the beginnings of a murder mystery that stalled every time she reached for dialogue. Her rhythm was off. Her tone elusive. She missed her usual cadence. The one that spilled effortlessly onto the page when the world around her clicked.
She missed her cello more. Or rather, what it gave her: symmetry. Discipline. Gravity.
Wednesday paced the hall outside the library with restless precision. Each footstep aligned with a floorboard seam, but her breath was out of sync. Her fingers twitched. A knife spun between them, one of the slimmer ones from her belt and flicked toward the portrait of Uncle Fester above the fireplace.
It embedded in his forehead with a satisfying thock .
Still, it wasn’t enough.
At meals, she snapped. Sometimes sharply. Sometimes loudly. Words came out jagged, louder than intended, and she hated the way they rang afterward in her left ear, not with clarity, but pressure. Tinny and uncomfortable. Her voice was drifting off pitch, and she knew it. She just didn’t know how to correct it without hearing it right.
It took three separate dinners for her to realize: if she could hear herself clearly, she was probably yelling.
She hated how that felt like weakness.
The family room was the worst. So many voices. So many conversations layered at once. Words collided and tangled like a web spun in a wind tunnel. Lurch tried to ask her a question the other day or maybe it was a greeting? It was impossible to tell. She couldn’t read the tone in the low vibrations of his groan, and her right ear gave her almost nothing but noise, blurred and metallic.
She had nodded anyway. He seemed pleased. She didn’t ask what she agreed to.
There was a day, only one so far, when Pugsley and Gomez both tried to speak to her at the same time while she was rereading The Interpretation of Murder . Their voices overlapped, bouncing between questions and half-jokes and affectionate teasing.
It grated. Tangled. She couldn’t separate their tones. Couldn’t track their words.
Her mind blurred; her hand moved.
The dagger thudded into the grandfather clock; a precise, narrow arc just inches from Gomez’s shoulder.
That, in itself, was not alarming.
Wednesday had thrown knives at her father before. At everyone in this family, really. Accuracy was praised. Creativity, encouraged. They’d taught her to aim by candlelight and blindfold.
But it wasn’t her throw that made the room fall silent.
It was her face.
No dry wit. No curling smirk. No ice-cold satisfaction.
Just… fury. Genuine, unguarded anger.
That was what stilled Gomez’s smile. What made Pugsley flinch, not from fear of the blade but from the foreignness of the emotion behind it.
Wednesday never lashed out at them. Not truly. Not with feeling.
Not like this.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t wait.
She left the room in silence, footsteps echoing too sharply, breath coming too fast. The floor felt wrong under her boots; too heavy, not enough signal. Her world kept failing to speak clearly.
She hated how often she wanted to scream.
Thing followed her.
She didn’t have to hear him to know; she felt the subtle pattern of his movement against the wood. That urgent scuttle she’d come to recognize like a second heartbeat. Familiar. Loyal. Unyielding.
“ Leave me alone! ” she snapped.
Thing froze in the hallway, fingers curled mid-step, his hesitation an unfamiliar ache she didn’t want to confront. She slammed the door to her room behind her, the vibration rushing up her spine.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. The venom in her voice, louder than she meant, again, carried enough force to make even Thing hesitate
She stormed down the hall, fingers twitching at her sides. Her boots pounded louder than the footsteps she used to feel. Louder than the house. The walls didn’t whisper. The air didn’t hum. It was all wrong .
Her door slammed behind her.
The noise barely registered; just a dull, distant thump, but the feeling did. The way it reverberated in the wood, the way her hand still stung from the force. The echo of anger.
Boots ripped off, one hitting the dresser, the other vanishing under the bed. Her hands shook. There was nothing to do with this anger. Not even vengeance would help.
Until she saw her cello.
The shape pulled at her. An anchor.
She sat down and positioned the cello, gripping the bow like a lifeline. The strings vibrated under her touch, the wood thrumming softly against her sternum, but it didn’t register . Her heartbeat was too loud, her thoughts louder.
She pulled the bow again. Harder.
No sound.
No sound that mattered .
Her blood roared in her ears, drowning everything. She wanted to scream but didn’t give it the satisfaction. She let the cello fall to the floor, the strings humming in protest as it hit the wood. She stared at it, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.
Across the room, the dusty record player sat like a ghost from a time she still had access to. She stood, picked it up, and without a second thought, hurled it down on top of the cello. It cracked apart with a dull, plasticky shatter, snapping one of the cello’s tuning pegs clean off.
Music sheets were next. She grabbed them by the fistful, tearing them, scattering them across the floor in a storm of soundless fury.
Noise.
Everything in this room screamed of sound she could no longer fully touch. Every object mocked her.
Her knees hit the floor hard. She sank down beside the mess, chest heaving, throat burning. She leaned back against the edge of her bed, curled inward, her hands tangled in the torn fabric of her skirt.
And then the tears.
She hated them. Hated herself for them. She was not weak. She was not fragile. She had survived cultists and death and worse.
But now, here she was, crying over a sense .
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could shut out the world completely. Instead, she pressed her palms hard against her ears, as if trying to decide what was still real.
She knew why this was happening. Why the world was going quiet.
Goody’s healing had pulled her back from the edge but it hadn’t undone the damage. It couldn’t. Not all of it. The trauma had already been done when Thornhill slammed that shovel into her head, and Wednesday had woken up with her ears ringing and her head spinning and hadn’t thought to care at the time.
Because survival came first.
She thought of Tyler, of the way he smiled like a human being while tearing people apart like a monster. Of how she’d trusted her instincts, and still, somehow, he had twisted around them. He’d killed. And used her. She’d been a mark.
And Thornhill. Pretending to nurture her, using her curiosity, her instincts, her rage.
And Weems. Presumed dead. But Wednesday couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d refused to listen. Had tried to contain her, to dismiss her, to expel her instead of believing her.
And the Sheriff. Another fool who let grief and pride blind him to the truth about his son. He could’ve stopped this. He could’ve helped .
But none of them did.
And now she was paying the price.
Alone in her room, Wednesday Addams cried. Not because she was weak, but because something sacred was breaking inside her. Not just her hearing.
Her trust. Her rhythm. Her control.
And she didn’t know if she could get it back.
Everyone in the Addams house had heard the moment the cello hit the ground. The crack of splintered wood. The shatter of the old record player thrown down after it. The screech of furniture legs as something heavy was shoved aside. And then, worse than the noise…silence, followed only by muffled sobs behind her closed bedroom door.
It wasn’t the first time Wednesday had lost control. The last time was when Nero died. She had been smaller then, younger, but no less intense. Her grief had always been violent, sharp-edged, too big to be neatly contained. But nothing like this had happened since.
No one in the house moved.
Thing was the only one brave - or foolish - enough to act. He waited until the smashing had stopped, until the sobs had taken over, and crept under the door. He scuttled softly up the side of the desk, leapt to the bed, and made his way to the girl curled up against it, shoulders trembling in a posture more vulnerable than anyone in the family had seen in years.
He didn’t speak. Just climbed her arm like he used to when she was small and angry at the world, gripping her right shoulder tightly with his fingers in his version of a hug.
That did it. Wednesday broke harder, like something inside her cracked wide open under the smallest show of care. The tears didn’t slow. If anything, they came faster. She hated them. Hated how weak they made her feel. But she didn’t push Thing away. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Downstairs, Morticia had stopped both Gomez and Pugsley in their tracks with a single, upraised hand.
“Give her space,” she said gently, though her face was taut with concern. “She doesn’t need us to fix this. Not yet.”
When the house was still again, Morticia rose without a word and made her way up the stairs, silent as shadow.
She paused at the open bedroom door, taking in the wreckage without flinching. Broken strings, torn sheet music, shattered lacquer. But none of that mattered. Her daughter, her immovable, indomitable daughter, was curled in on herself like a creature too wounded to lash out anymore. Morticia’s heart ached at the sight.
Thing tapped twice on Wednesday’s shoulder, alerting her to her mother’s presence. But Wednesday didn’t move.
Morticia stepped forward carefully and lowered herself to the floor beside her. She didn’t speak immediately. Just leaned in, so close her lips hovered only an inch from her daughter’s ear. Quiet. Gentle. A whisper of sound.
“Will you let me comfort you, just this once?”
Wednesday didn’t respond, not aloud. But she didn’t pull away, either. And that was more than enough.
So Morticia reached out, wrapped her arms around her daughter, and pulled her into her lap like she had done all those years ago. Wednesday didn’t resist. She melted. Or maybe collapsed.
Rocking her slowly, firmly, with the same pressure that had calmed her as a child, Morticia didn’t speak again. There were no words that wouldn’t feel too large, or too small. Only the rhythm remained; of breath, of touch, of comfort offered and, finally, accepted.
And Wednesday cried.
Not the sharp, frustrated sobs from earlier. These were different. Quieter. Deeper. Broken.
Morticia felt it in the way her daughter clung, fingers curling in fabric that had never once been stained by tears. Wednesday's shoulders shook, her whole body trembling as years of repression cracked open wide. It wasn’t just about the cello, or the record player, or even her hearing. It was about all of it. Everything.
The blow that had started it. The boy who deceived her. The woman who used him like a blade. The adults who didn’t listen. The pain she carried in silence because that was the only way she knew how to survive.
She cried like she hated herself for doing it, like she was still trying to hold it in, even now. But she didn’t pull away.
Morticia didn’t flinch, didn’t press, didn’t soothe with words. She simply held her tighter.
And for the first time in what felt like a long time, Wednesday didn’t feel like she had to be alone in it.
Morticia didn’t speak until the shudders beneath her hands began to slow.
"You don't have to keep pressing on alone, my little stormcloud,” she whispered gently into Wednesday's left ear. “This grief, this change, it’s real. But you are not alone in it. We will get through this.”
Wednesday sobbed again at that, breath catching painfully in her chest. “It’s not going to go away,” she said, voice ragged and barely formed. “That’s the problem.”
“I know,” Morticia replied, holding her closer. “But neither will we.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the uneven rhythm of Wednesday’s breathing. After a while, she shifted, pressing her face into her mother’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I broke everything. I lost control.”
“No,” Morticia said, her voice steady, soothing. “You released something that needed to be set free. There is no apology in that.”
She leaned close again, speaking into her left ear with deliberate softness. “You are loved. You are so deeply, fiercely cared for. You won’t have to walk through this without hands to hold, should you ever want them.”
Wednesday closed her eyes. “You’re so clear,” she whispered, hoarse and small. “When you’re this close, I can hear you really clearly.”
Morticia only hummed in acknowledgement, the same low, wordless tune she had once used to lull her to sleep as a child.
Eventually, Wednesday pulled back but not far, just enough to slide off her mother’s lap and sit beside her on the floor. She scooped Thing gently off her shoulder, placing him in her lap. He curled into her palm with familiar ease, and she began rubbing at his stitches with slow, grounding fingers.
“I think it started over break,” she said, not looking up. “I didn’t notice at first. I was still... hearing, just in a different way. I thought I was just distracted. But I was adapting.”
She paused, running her thumb across the smooth thread at Thing’s wrist.
“This past week... it became real. The quality stopped shifting. I stopped hoping it would change again.”
Her voice faltered. “I hear more with my left now. Everything else is just... hollow.”
She stared at her hand, at Thing. “It’s my fault,” she said, suddenly bitter. “I lost control of everything. I let them manipulate me. Tyler. Thornhill. I told Weems what was happening, and she expelled me. I fought, and no one listened.”
Her breath hitched.
“She hit me with a shovel,” she said, quieter. “That’s when it started. I think that’s when it really began. Goody’s healing helped me survive, but it couldn’t fix that.”
Her fingers trembled where they touched Thing. “I keep thinking about how much of my life revolves around sound. The cello. The way people walk. Tone. The weight of silence. Everything.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I didn’t realize how much I needed it until it was gone.”
Wednesday was quiet again, her fingers still ghosting over the threadwork in Thing’s palm. Then, after a long breath:
“I should have told you.” Her voice was flat, but something in it cracked at the edges. “When I knew you were catching on. I should have said something.”
Morticia didn’t rush to reply. She reached out slowly, brushing Wednesday’s dark hair away from her face, her fingers cool and light against her temple.
“You weren’t ready,” she said simply. “But I was watching. Waiting. It’s all right.”
Wednesday finally looked at her. Not fully, just a glance from under her lashes, but it was enough. She hadn’t been punished. She hadn’t been dismissed. She had been seen.
Morticia smiled, the faintest curve of her lips. “How were you adapting?” she asked gently. “I’m curious, darling. You always find your own way.”
Wednesday blinked, then exhaled like the pressure had eased just slightly.
“I started reading lips. Not on purpose. It was just... happening. I realized I understood more when I watched mouths.” She hesitated. “I stand to the right of people now. It’s easier. If I tilt my head a certain way, I catch more. Sometimes it’s enough. Sometimes it’s not.”
Morticia nodded, encouraging her with nothing but patience.
“I learned to feel the house,” Wednesday continued. “The footsteps. The creaks. The way sound moves through the floorboards. That’s how I know who’s coming now.”
She was quiet for a moment, as if surprised by her own words.
“Thing helps,” she added softly. “He doesn’t ask. He just... makes sure I know what matters. He taps if someone enters a room. Sits where I can see him. He’s easier to understand than most people right now.”
Morticia’s hand found hers, careful not to startle, and squeezed lightly. “He’s always been attuned to you,” she murmured. “He was heartbroken when you locked him out earlier.”
Wednesday winced, her mouth twitching into something between regret and guilt. “I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I was just... full. Like I couldn’t hold myself together anymore.”
“You don’t always have to,” Morticia said, still speaking into her left ear. “That’s what family is for. We hold you when you’re overflowing.”
The words pressed into something deep in Wednesday’s chest, something she didn’t have the language for. Not yet.
“I get overstimulated when everyone talks at once now,” she admitted. “I used to be able to filter things, but now it’s just noise. Loud and meaningless. And I feel myself slipping into anger, into confusion. I hate it.”
Morticia brushed her thumb across Wednesday’s knuckles. “Then we’ll change the rhythm of the house,” she said gently. “One beat at a time.”
Wednesday said nothing, but her shoulders softened just slightly as she leaned into her mother’s side. She didn’t cry again, but her breathing shook like she almost could.
Morticia let the quiet settle for a moment, holding it like one might hold the last notes of a song. Then, her voice just above a whisper, pressed gently into Wednesday’s left ear:
“What do you need from us, cara mia?”
The question didn’t land like a demand. It was softer than that; an invitation, a bridge laid out patiently across the gulf Wednesday had built around herself.
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. Her brow furrowed, thoughtful, like she’d never been asked that in a way that made her feel like answering was allowed. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse but steady:
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think I need silence. Sometimes I think I need everyone to speak louder. Or slower. Or not at all.”
She paused.
“I need people not to talk over each other. It’s too much. Too fast.”
Morticia nodded slowly, absorbing it.
“I can’t-” Wednesday hesitated, eyes narrowing like she was assembling the right phrasing piece by piece. “I can’t focus on more than one person anymore. It makes me… lose things. Details. Meaning. I feel like I’m slipping through the cracks between words.”
Morticia tilted her head. “We can slow down. Speak clearly. Come to you one at a time.”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked toward her, the smallest spark of grateful surprise behind them.
“And the doors,” she added. “If someone needs me… knock. Loudly. I hear it better through my feet than through my ears.”
Morticia smiled, proud and sad all at once. “Of course.”
“And no more sneaking up behind me,” Wednesday said with faint sharpness, though it didn’t land as cold. “If I don’t see you coming, I can’t…adjust.”
“A shame for us, but a fair request,” Morticia said with a lightness that balanced the air. “We’ll make it so.”
Wednesday nodded. She was quiet for a moment, then shifted, pulling Thing into her lap, her thumb absentmindedly tracing the seam across his wrist again. He curled slightly in response, a silent embrace she didn’t reject.
“Thank you,” Wednesday said, so quietly Morticia might have missed it if she hadn’t been so close, if she hadn’t been listening for the spaces between breaths.
Morticia gently rested her cheek against her daughter’s head. “You are not broken, Wednesday. This is not an end.”
Wednesday blinked, staring ahead.
“Then what is it?”
Morticia exhaled slowly. “A different shape of strength. One you haven’t grown into yet.”
Notes:
I really like the ending of the chapter. Losing a sense is huge. Not to mention the events that lead up to it. Now Wednesday is grieving but she will find herself again, I promise.
Chapter Text
The echoes of the previous night’s storm still lingered in the walls of the Addams house, not the physical damage, which was minimal but the emotional weight. Everyone had heard it. The crashing. The sharp thuds of objects thrown. The unmistakable shatter of vinyl. Then, silence.
But only two souls in the house knew Wednesday had cried.
Morticia did not speak of it at breakfast. She served tea with her usual grace and calm, her eyes lingering just slightly longer on her daughter, whose gaze stayed low and unreadable. Thing, curled beside Wednesday’s cup like a guardian gargoyle, tapped a single finger against the porcelain in quiet rhythm, a silent reassurance.
Wednesday let the silence speak for her. She didn’t want Pugsley or her father to know she’d broken down. That she had wept. The weight still lingered in her chest, heavy and pressing. Her body was calmer now. Her mind quieter. But that left room for irritation, for noticing everything too clearly.
Her family had begun to adapt. She noticed it quickly.
Gomez entered rooms more loudly, but not thoughtlessly. When he greeted her, he caught her eye first and stepped to her left where her hearing was strongest. He had clearly taken note.
Still, voices were a blur of vague sounds, murmurs and fragments that barely registered as words. Without watching lips, she could only guess what was being said: the rhythm of speech, the rise and fall of tones, but no clear meaning. Letters and syllables dissolved into a fuzzy haze.
At times, voices vanished altogether. Soft whispers less than a few feet away were swallowed by silence. She couldn’t hear Pugsley when he murmured to her father. But her eyes caught every shift of his lips, every small movement of his mouth. She read the words like a secret code, piecing together meaning from the shape of sounds.
Conversations became puzzles she couldn’t solve by ear alone.
At dinner, when more than one person spoke at once, it wasn’t just noise that overwhelmed her, it was the motion. Too many mouths moving. Too many faces shifting. Her brain scrambled to assign words to lips and failed. She clenched her jaw, fingers tight around her fork.
“Gomez,” she said flatly, not looking up.
Her father paused mid-sentence, blinking. He had cut in while Pugsley was talking. The name alone was enough to make him nod, apologetic.
They were trying. She knew that. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t tired of repeating herself. Tired of having to monitor everything just to keep up.
Thing never made her work for understanding.
He remained her shadow, standing near her elbow when she wrote, climbing onto her shoulder when she stood still too long. He tapped her when someone spoke behind her, or pointed clearly before signing something in brief, efficient strokes. He didn’t use the word. Didn’t ask about her hearing. But his silence held weight. And understanding.
When she paced, he matched her steps along the table’s edge. When she stilled, he climbed into her lap and let her rest her fingers against the soft, worn seams of his wrist. The old habit grounding her again.
Her world had narrowed. She moved through it now with more caution, more calculation. She had to. Every hallway, every voice, every new sound was a puzzle she hadn’t chosen to solve.
She had adapted. She was still adapting.
But she hadn’t forgiven her body yet and she certainly hadn’t forgiven the people who let it happen.
Still, she noticed the changes. Subtle, quiet shifts in behavior. The way her family tapped on doors before they spoke. How they approached from the left side, or angled their faces deliberately when speaking. Even Lurch had started pointing at objects more often, accompanying his guttural moans with gestures as though trying to meet her halfway.
She hadn’t explained any of it to them and Wednesday wasn’t naïve enough to believe they’d figured it all out on their own. Morticia. Of course.
She must have spoken to them. Quietly. Carefully. Offstage.
The idea unclenched something in her chest.
Her mother had bought her time. Taken the burden of disclosure off her shoulders, so she didn’t have to rehearse those words. Didn’t have to explain how her reality was shifting, or answer questions she wasn’t ready for. Instead, she was allowed to simply live in this new normal.
No exposition. No pity.
Life just continued.
A few days had passed since the walls of her room bore witness to her ruin. Her boots remained in the closet, mostly untouched. Around the house, Wednesday had begun moving barefoot more often, preferring the way vibrations carried up through her soles; each footfall now a subtle pulse of connection to her environment.
When she wore shoes, they were the old canvas sneakers she usually reserved for nighttime escapes. The soles were thin, tactile. Sensible. Everything she needed right now.
Her family, perhaps sensing the rawness in her quiet, had begun treading around her grief with a certain respectful stillness. Gomez, however, had never been one to stay still for long.
That afternoon, he knocked sharply, then let himself in before she answered.
“Mi pequeña tormenta,” he greeted, smiling wide in his fencing jacket, the heavy white cotton pressed and pristine. “Get changed.”
Wednesday blinked from her desk. “I’m busy.”
“No, you’re brooding,” Gomez corrected. “There’s a difference. Come spar with me.”
“I-”
He raised a hand, palm up, and for once, interrupted her.
“No excuses. Meet me downstairs. The piste. Five minutes.”
He was already halfway down the hall by the time she processed what he’d said. Wednesday stared at her closed door, expression flat. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, she rose, crossing to her wardrobe.
She hadn’t worn her fencing gear since Nevermore. Since everything.
Pulling it on felt like shedding something, like peeling off all the layers of grief that had calcified under her skin. She laced the front closed with precise fingers, then descended the stairs barefoot.
The Addams fencing room was everything it should be; arched ceilings, medieval banners, full suits of armor lining the walls, and an actual dueling platform laid out with chalked edges and a long, narrow strip of aged wood.
Gomez was already there. He turned and grinned, tossing her saber through the air. She caught it without effort, fingers curling around the familiar weight.
“I’m not sure this is wise,” she began.
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a pair of neon orange earplugs.
And shoved them into his ears with exaggerated flair.
Wednesday’s mouth snapped shut.
Then he lunged.
The clash of blades was duller than she remembered, sharp but distorted, like hearing underwater. Still, the moment her blade met his, something lit behind her ribs. The vibration was immediate and familiar, trembling up her wrist and arm with perfect clarity. A note she didn’t need to hear to recognize.
She froze.
Gomez lowered his blade, watching her.
“Still with me?” he mouthed.
Wednesday didn’t nod. But she raised her saber again, getting into position.
They resumed.
There were no points counted. No formal structure. Just the rhythm of movement and instinct. The way their blades sang in muted resonance. Wednesday sidestepped with precision, parried with grace, and even landed a clean touch to her father’s shoulder that made him beam with pride.
She could feel his footwork through the floorboards. The shift in weight that preceded a lunge. She tracked the angle of his arms and the gleam of the saber's curve. This wasn’t about sound. This was about feel. About timing. About familiarity in the bones.
She pivoted, swift and automatic, catching the knife mid-air before it could whistle past her ear.
It was muscle memory. Instinct.
At least it should have been.
Her fingers curled around the hilt, breath sharp in her chest.
There had been no sound. No glint of light. No warning. Just the flicker of motion and the sharp pull beneath her skin, like her body had already known before her mind caught up.
She’d done this a thousand times. Dodged blades, caught them, moved on. But something about this one felt… different. Not unfamiliar. Not wrong. Just… off . Like a note played slightly out of tune. Like déjà vu with too much weight behind it.
She stared at the blade in her hand.
She knew it was instinct. She’d trained for years. But still, that odd prickle lingered at the back of her neck, like she’d missed something. Like her body had answered a question she hadn’t asked.
A small crease formed between her brows.
She couldn’t explain it.
And she didn’t like not being able to explain it.
Across from her, Gomez lowered his blade, eyes wide. His lips were moving fast at first. An apology, most likely. He looked sheepish in that proud, Addams way that didn’t actually carry much regret. When she blinked at him he slowed down, a frown on his face.“Still with me?” he mouthed.
Wednesday didn’t nod. But she raised her saber again.
Gomez let out a breathy, delighted chuckle and shook his head slightly. Then he lifted both hands, exaggeratedly sheepish. One hand gestured toward the knife as if to say, my bad .
Then he grinned.
Not just proud.
Pleased.
There was something in his expression; mischievous, knowing. A gleam in his eye that made her pause.
She narrowed her gaze slightly.
He just kept smiling. That same crooked, infectious Addams smile he wore when something unexpectedly right happened.
Like this wasn’t a surprise at all.
Her lip twitched. Not quite a smile. But the echo of one.
Wednesday’s lip twitched, the briefest shadow of a smile. She didn’t break eye contact as she mirrored him, slipping the tip from her own saber and letting it drop with a soft tap against the stone floor near her bare foot.
She stepped into position without a word, the cool floor grounding her with every shift of weight. Her stance was steady. Ready.
This time, when Gomez lunged, it was sharper. Closer. There was no hesitation in the strikes, no softened edge. The blades hissed against one another, real steel biting and sliding. Her body reacted before she had to think, pivoting on the balls of her feet, balance low and agile, blade sweeping fast and clean.
A nick along her shoulder, shallow but stinging.
A cut across Gomez’s forearm, a precise flick.
Neither of them slowed.
She moved with unbroken flow, silent but tuned in to everything: the shift of air, the tension of the floor beneath her, the vibration singing through the steel in her grip. Her father's form, his center of gravity, the subtle dip of his shoulder that told her where he’d strike next.
Their sabers met, and the buzz of it in her bones steadied her.
The fire in her chest, finally, wasn’t anger. It was focus and control.
For the first time in weeks, her world wasn’t spinning out of her grasp. She didn’t feel like she was drowning in the absence of something lost. She didn’t have to compensate or adapt. She just had to move.
They danced in that brutal ballet. Parrying, lunging, cutting with precision and mutual trust.
A shallow line of red bloomed on her arm. Another on his hand.
He laughed, sharp and delighted and Wednesday, still stone-faced, still fierce, breathed.
Still herself. Even if the world was quieter now.
Later, Wednesday’s door swung open with a push of her palm, more forceful than usual. She stepped in barefoot, still in her fencing jacket, cheeks faintly flushed with exertion. Her saber was slung casually under one arm, like she might use it again before the day was done.
Thing sat on the rug in the center of her room, flipping through one of her anatomy texts with a kind of aimless boredom. The second he saw her, he froze mid-page-turn and scuttled upright, sensing something had shifted.
Wednesday didn’t even try to hide it. Her sharp breath as she leaned back against the closed door, the flicker of a grin that reached her eyes, the barely contained thrill humming beneath her skin like aftershock.
“I caught the knife,” she said, voice too loud but she didn’t correct it. Didn’t care.
Thing perked up.
“I didn’t hear it,” she clarified, her fingers automatically falling into familiar ASL shapes. Signing came easier now, smoother than speech. Cleaner. Her hands moved in rhythm with her voice, but her thoughts lingered elsewhere, turning over the moment like a blade in her palm.
It was hard to explain. Harder to say aloud. The truth settled behind her ribs like the ache from a deep bruise: speaking took something out of her now. More than it ever had. It wasn’t just about sound, she could still talk, still shape words but it exhausted her in ways she hadn’t expected. Like fighting upstream through noise and static, trying to measure every syllable by the dull echo of her own voice.
But when she signed, there was no friction. Just clarity.
“I felt it. The way I always did,” she said aloud, softer now. She sat beside Thing on the floor, crossing her legs, her saber dropped without ceremony. “I thought it was the sound. The scrape shift of the blade. But it wasn’t. Not really.”
Her hands said more than her voice ever could. I always knew. I just never noticed.
Thing gave a low wave, like a shrug, like of course you did .
Wednesday’s lip twitched. She signed back, It was... familiar. The vibration. I missed that.
Her breath steadied. Her voice had stilled, and the world had gone quiet in the way that wasn’t silence, it was peace. Her mind wasn’t clawing at itself trying to decode what didn’t come through. Her throat didn’t ache from managing her tone.
“I’m not useless,” she muttered aloud, almost to herself.
Thing tapped her leg, firm and smug.
She looked down at him. “You’re insufferable.”
He flipped her off.
Wednesday snorted, short and inelegant, and leaned back against the dresser. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was compensating for anything. Just recalibrating. Shifting.
Still herself. Just... differently arranged.
Still an Addams.
Still Wednesday.
It was the day after her spar with her father when she was curled on a chair next to the window in the sun room with a book. The rain tapped the windows at a steady pace she could only just pick up in her left ear.
The floor of the sunroom was stone, so she could not feel when the door was opened, but she caught it out of the corner of her eye as her parents entered. The couple pulled over a couple chairs and sat directly in front of her.
Wednesday didn’t acknowledge them at first, finishing her chapter as her parents waited patiently.
“Darling,” Morticia said gently, her tone precise but measured. “May we speak with you?”
Wednesday slightly looked up from her book. “You already are.”
Gomez smiled faintly at that. Morticia took it in stride.
“We’ve scheduled an appointment,” she said. “For your hearing.”
That got Wednesday’s attention. She closed the book with a deliberate motion and looked up.
“You mean you’ve decided I need medical oversight.”
“We mean,” Morticia said, gliding closer, “that we are not ignoring what you’ve been navigating. And neither should you.”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s under control.”
“Being under control doesn’t mean it isn’t real, what about when you return to Nevermore?” Gomez said, his voice unusually gentle.
There was silence. Not tense, just full.
Wednesday’s eyes flicked between them, reading their faces. Morticia’s gaze held no mockery, no soft pity. Only clarity.
“It’s already arranged,” she said. “Four days from now. An audiologist. In town.”
“You’ve scheduled it without asking me.”
“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” Morticia replied, unflinching. “So I did not give you the opportunity to say no.”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes.
Morticia didn’t waver. “You are free to attend in absolute silence, if you wish. You may glower the entire time. But you will attend.”
Gomez offered a shrug. “We thought it best to tell you now, so you have time to plan your resentment accordingly.”
Something in Wednesday's chest tugged. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want her body made into data. She didn’t want questions she didn’t have answers to. But under the irritation and the resistance, there was something quieter. Relief.
She didn’t have to organize it. Didn’t have to ask. Didn’t have to speak the need aloud. They already had.
After a long pause, she said, “I will go. Once. And I expect no lectures.”
Gomez beamed.
Morticia’s voice softened just slightly. “We expect only that you be heard. However that needs to happen.”
The morning was still. Too still.
Wednesday woke before the sun had fully risen, as she often did, but the air felt heavier than usual. Not ominous. Not foreboding. Just... loaded. The way the house sometimes felt before a funeral or a storm.
She dressed in silence, pulling on one of her black dresses; high collar, sharp lines, severe but comfortable. No boots. Canvas shoes again. The floor creaked beneath her soles, grounding her as she moved.
In the mirror, her braids were neat. Her eyes are unreadable. She looked the same.
Which made the churning behind her ribs all the more irritating.
By the time she descended the staircase, Morticia was already waiting in the parlor, a dark shawl draped over her shoulders like mourning lace. Her makeup was immaculate, her lips set in a calm, fixed line. Lurch stood by the front door, tall and solemn, keys in hand.
Gomez appeared behind her, holding a silver travel mug in one hand and a lunchbox that was probably full of knives in the other.
“Morning, mi cuervo,” he said cheerfully. “Sleep well?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
He handed her the travel mug. She took it, sniffed, and raised an eyebrow. Coffee, of course. Spiked with something vaguely herbal. Something grounding.
Morticia stepped forward and smoothed an invisible wrinkle from Wednesday’s sleeve.
“The appointment is in town,” she said. “The audiologist comes highly recommended. And... they are not the sort to be easily unsettled.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Wednesday muttered.
“We’ll sit in with you, if you choose,” Morticia offered.
Wednesday didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure yet.
She didn’t want to be asked questions. She didn’t want to describe things she hadn’t finished understanding. She didn’t want tests that proved what she already knew but she would go.
Because her mother had told her she would.
Though she’d never admit it, she wanted to know how much of herself was gone , and how much she could still reclaim.
The long black car was already rumbling in the drive.
Lurch opened the door for her.
She took one final glance at the house, her sanctuary and her cage, and stepped out into the gray morning light.
The car ride was quiet at least, from the passenger seat.
Lurch didn’t talk much, and that suited Wednesday just fine. She sat in the back, arms folded, pressed into the far corner of the leather seat. Her mother and father rode up front, the occasional glance passed between them in the mirror, but no one tried to fill the silence.
She knew where they were going. That didn’t mean she liked it.
After weeks of coping on her own terms, Morticia had finally stepped in with that gentle, immovable grace of hers and scheduled an audiology appointment. Not a suggestion. A fact.
Technically, this wasn’t her first visit. There had been an ENT, once, in the rushed aftermath of confession. That had confirmed the truth: permanent damage. Likely delayed onset. A souvenir from trauma no one had seen coming but this appointment felt different.
This wasn't a diagnosis. This was an intervention.
The clinic itself was cleaner than she expected. White walls, low lighting, a receptionist who didn’t try to smile too much. She appreciated that. The hum of the fluorescents was grating, particularly on the left, but tolerable.
They were led into a private consultation room. Morticia entered with her. Gomez looked like he wanted to follow, but his wife rested a hand on his shoulder and gave a silent shake of her head.
“We’ll give them space, cariño.”
Wednesday sat stiffly in the exam chair, arms folded, gaze unfocused. The audiologist skimmed the referral, then began speaking clear, professional, practiced. Wednesday kept her left side angled toward her. The voice was audible enough. But she hated how much effort it took to follow.
Testing. Baseline comparisons. Speech recognition thresholds.
Then: hearing aids.
Wednesday’s fingers curled tight in her lap.
“…Of course,” the audiologist continued, “we’d take impressions today so we can have a custom fit made. In the meantime, we can offer a loaner set. Something basic, but it should help with general amplification.”
“I don’t need help,” Wednesday said flatly. Her first words since entering the room.
The audiologist blinked. “It’s entirely your choice, of course. But we find that-”
“I said I don’t need it.”
Morticia didn’t flinch. She simply watched her daughter with steady, unreadable calm.
“No one is suggesting you’re not managing,” she said. “But managing and thriving are two different beasts.”
Wednesday’s jaw flexed. She didn’t respond.
That was when Gomez opened the door, apparently ignoring the silent agreement he’d just lost. He stepped in with the same quiet gravity he used for funerals and family duels.
“You know,” he said gently, “your cousin Mordecai lost most of his hearing as a child. Woke up one morning and it was just... gone. Uses hearing aids sometimes. Says they give him an edge when he needs it.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “Good for him.”
Morticia leaned in slightly, her voice low and velvet-edged. “Think of it like a knife, querida. You can tear into a body with your hands, crush bone, make a mess. But a blade... a blade is cleaner. Efficient. Sharp. You still do the work. But with control.”
That earned the faintest twitch of her lips. Not a smile. Not exactly. But something passed between them.
She turned her eyes to the audiologist.
“Fine,” she said. “But don’t expect me to be grateful.”
The audiologist merely nodded. “No commitment. Just impressions and a loaner today. You’re in control of every step.”
The mold was cold as it was injected into her ears. An odd, wet pressure, too soft and invasive. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t complain.
When asked questions, Wednesday answered with the bare minimum: “Yes.” “No.” “Obviously.” Morticia filled the gaps where needed, her tone smooth but not indulgent. It was clear she’d spoken to the staff beforehand. How to speak clearly, how not to over-explain, that Wednesday would prefer precision to empathy.
When the loaner aids were fitted, Wednesday didn’t speak. But her brow furrowed. The sound was strange, too layered. Like everything was coming through cracked vinyl and warped speakers.
Wrong.
She didn’t rip them out. Not yet.
Morticia smiled; warm, deliberate, quiet.
“We’ll see how they feel after a day or two. That’s all. No decisions today.”
Wednesday nodded once, stiffly. She’d tolerated worse and she knew better than anyone how to adapt.
Wednesday shoved the loaner hearing aids into the top drawer of her desk the moment they returned from the audiologist. She didn’t slam it but the gesture was final. Defiant.
She hadn’t said a word in the car. Neither had Morticia. Just one glance, one slow nod, like she understood something Wednesday hadn’t said aloud.
The hearing aids were hideous. Bulky, flesh-colored, slightly too loud if she breathed near reflective surfaces. Even Thing had signed something vaguely resembling “ugly.” He wasn’t wrong.
She didn’t need them. She had survived worse and now she would prove it.
The next morning over breakfast, Wednesday moved with deliberate calm, her hair neatly braided, her posture sharp as ever.
“Pugsley,” she said, brushing a strand behind her ear. “We’re going hunting.”
Pugsley lit up instantly, abandoning his half-eaten waffle. “What kind?”
“Anything with teeth.”
He grinned, practically vibrating as he grabbed his slingshot and darted for his boots.
Across the table, Morticia didn’t speak, but arched one elegant eyebrow.
Gomez cleared his throat. “You sure?”
“I can manage,” Wednesday said, buckling her boots without looking up.
She didn’t wait for a reply.
The forest was familiar. It always had been. She had mapped it as a child, measured it in footprints and silence, catalogued its creatures by the scatter of their bones and the shapes of their teeth. This was her terrain but not like this.
Today, the woods felt wrong. Muted. It was not quiet in the way she loved. Not peaceful. Disconnected . Birdsong was there but unfixed. Floating. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Her left side picked up fragments, but the right ear might as well have been plugged with cotton. The usual layering of space and movement. The creaking trees, wind shifting through underbrush, small creatures rustling through dead leaves was off-kilter.
She tried to ignore it. Vibration worked at home. In the old, wood-floored halls. In the echoing training rooms. But here, the ground was soft. Damp. The forest swallowed sound. Her boots sank too deep for echo. Everything that made her sharp, her perception, her sense of space, had dulled without her consent.
Still, she pushed deeper. Further than she meant to. She thought she was circling toward the ridge. Instead, she was drifting. Unmoored.
The crack of a branch didn’t register. Neither did the shift in air behind her. Not in time. She knew there was something. She turned just as the mountain lion launched.
The blur of fur and claws came from nowhere, and she barely dodged, throwing herself sideways into a rough patch of leaf-strewn earth. A claw scraped her arm. It was a shallow but stinging cut. Her blade was still sheathed. Too far. No time.
She grabbed the nearest rock and struck as it lunged again.
“ Pugsley! ” she snapped, voice sharp enough in her ears that she hoped it carried..
Another snarl. Another movement. Then a sudden impact, a yelp, and the weight lifted.
Pugsley stood over her, slingshot in hand, panting.
“You’re bleeding!” he said, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”
Wednesday sat up slowly. Pressure to the scratch. Breath tight and even. Blood soaked her sleeve. She stared at it and didn’t flinch.
“I’m fine,” she said coolly but her jaw clenched.
Pugsley didn’t argue.
She didn’t speak on the walk back. Not when the wound stung. Not when the house came into view. Not when her pride burned more than the blood.
She had missed the signs and she never missed the signs.
She hadn’t heard the snap of the branch. The growl. The change in weight in the air. She used to catch knives in the dark. She used to track footfalls by pitch alone. Now she didn’t even know which direction was home.
In her room, she washed the cut in cold water and wrapped it with gauze from a small metal tin beneath her bed. Clinical. Precise. Controlled.
Then she opened the drawer. The hearing aids sat where she’d left them: ugly, whistling, smug little machines. She didn’t put them in but she stared at them longer this time. Thought of the woods. The blood. The twist of wrongness in her gut when she realized she was no longer certain .
She hated that feeling, hated it more than she hated the devices. After a long moment, she closed the drawer again.
Wednesday hadn’t moved from her seat near the window. Her arm was bandaged, her boots were caked with dirt, and her braid was fraying around her shoulders. The drawer remained shut.
She heard the knocks, three gentle yet loud taps, precise, like everything Morticia did.
“I’m not in the mood for platitudes,” Wednesday said, not turning around.
“I know,” Morticia’s voice replied, cool as ever. The door creaked open anyway. “I brought tea.”
Wednesday didn’t respond. The scent of something herbal drifted through the room. Lavender, maybe chamomile. She didn’t like chamomile. She said nothing.
Morticia placed the cup on the small table by the window, then gracefully lowered herself into the nearby armchair. She didn’t comment on the bandage or the stiff way Wednesday held her side.
They sat in silence for a while. Outside, a crow cawed.
“I spoke to Pugsley,” Morticia said finally. “He was… shaken.”
“He overreacted.”
Morticia arched her brow. “He found his sister bleeding in the woods after a mountain lion attack. I think that allows a bit of dramatics.”
Wednesday’s lips twitched in that near-smile that never reached her eyes. “He’s an Addams. He should’ve been thrilled.”
“Oh, he was. Once he stopped crying.”
Wednesday scowled faintly and looked away. She didn’t want to imagine Pugsley crying. Not because of her.
Morticia’s tone softened. “He thought you might’ve… gotten lost.”
“I wasn’t lost.”
“But you weren’t exactly found either, darling.”
Wednesday tensed. Her fingers twitched toward the drawer, then stilled.
“I had control of the situation.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I don’t need the hearing aids.”
“I believe you.”
Wednesday looked at her sharply. That wasn’t the answer she expected.
Morticia met her gaze evenly, a quiet weight behind her eyes. “You’ve always been adaptable, mi corazon. Your mind is too sharp to remain caught in your own resistance forever. You’ll use them when you choose to and you’ll do so for your own reasons.”
“I didn’t say I would.”
“No,” Morticia said. “You didn’t.”
Another pause.
“I was used to hearing certain things,” Wednesday muttered, almost to herself. “Birds. Wind. How footsteps shifted between trees. The stillness meant something. Now it’s all… the same.”
Morticia simply nodded.
“I’m not weak,” Wednesday added. “I just made a miscalculation.”
“No one said otherwise,” Morticia said smoothly. “Though I must say, the way you cracked that mountain lion’s jaw with a rock was a particularly charming touch. So... visceral. ”
Wednesday’s head tilted, pleased despite herself.
“You remind me of your uncle Basil,” Morticia went on. “He lost part of his hearing after that incident with the antique cannon. Your father swore he’d never hear again but Basil learned to feel vibrations through his prosthetic foot. Used it to pick up on heartbeats.”
“That’s... excessive.” Wednesday murmured.
“Isn’t it?” Morticia smiled. “But resourceful. The Addams way.”
Another long silence then, softly, “I might keep them in the drawer a little longer.”
Morticia rose to her feet, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her gown. “Of course. Just long enough to make them think you won.”
“I always do.”
Morticia leaned over, and kissed the air next to Wednesday’s head, and drifted out of the room without another word.
Wednesday waited until the door clicked shut.
Then she picked up the teacup, definitely chamomile and took a single sip.
Disgusting.
She finished the cup anyway.
Notes:
Oh jeez, so I realized that when I type fast, I use hyphens in lieu of actual punctuation. This chapter was HELL to edit. I'm really happy that people are already enjoying this. I think I have one or two more chapters of Wednesday at home before she heads back to Nevermore and the REAL fun begins. Lots of anger, lots of tears, lots of slow burning and just a touch of stabbing. What fun!
I'm going to be binging what was released today with my friend so I may be distracted for a hot minute.
I wasn't TOO terribly happy with this chapter but I have shown a lot of how resilient she is, finding other ways to navigate her surroundings but there are also going to be things she just...probably shouldn't do alone.
I also really need to edit this stuff better. Thank you to Luna_panda for pointing out mistakes that I will take care of this weekend I just couldn't resist posting another chapter. I can't wait to throw Wednesday back in Nevermore.
Chapter Text
The Addams playroom still smelled faintly of blood and varnish—nostalgic and oddly comforting. One entire wall was lined with thick, well-worn wood, pocked with the marks of years’ worth of knives and axes.
Pugsley stood by the rack of throwing weapons, shifting from foot to foot, rubbing his fingers anxiously along the handle of a balanced knife. His eyes flicked to Wednesday as she stepped barefoot into the room, her posture as unreadable as ever.
She stopped a few paces away, close enough to ensure he could see her clearly. He needed to look at her now when she spoke.
“I need you to throw knives at me,” she said, calm as a held breath.
Pugsley’s grip faltered. “Wha-why?”
“I’m testing something,” she said flatly. “It’ll make sense. Just throw.”
He glanced between her and the knives again, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. This feels… different now.”
Her brow furrowed. Her expression shifted with something tight and restrained.
“You think I’m fragile.”
“No-” he said quickly, defensively, “I didn’t mean-”
Thing, resting on the table behind him, signed something quick and firm. He doesn’t understand.
Wednesday exhaled through her nose. Her tone dropped to a hiss. “You know you cannot hurt me. You’ve never even come close. Don’t pretend like I’m suddenly breakable.”
Pugsley swallowed. His shoulders curled inward. He nodded, still uncertain.
She turned her back
He hesitated, then lifted the knife. His first throw was laughably off, clattering far to her left. The second came closer, but still nowhere near the center. He was holding back.
Wednesday didn’t move. But her voice, cold and sharp, carried easily: “Don’t patronize me.”
Pugsley winced. “I wasn’t-”
“Yes, you were,” she snapped, spinning to face him. “You were protecting me. Don’t.”
He flinched, and that spark of guilt twisted into something hot. “Fine,” he muttered, lifting another blade.
Wednesday turned again.
The next knife cut the air cleanly, landing near her shoulder. She tilted her head minutely as it passed, no fear, just instinct. Another knife followed, closer. Then another. Still silent, still sure.
She was right, she didn’t need sound. She never had. What she’d relied on had been mistaken for sound. The subtle air shift, muscle memory, pressure, instinct. But also…something else.
She hadn’t heard the usual whistle or felt the faint vibration she depended on before while fencing with her father.
Instead, there was a strange sense that was difficult to place. A flicker in the air, a tension she could feel in the back of her mind. It was familiar, yet unlike anything she’d known before.
It felt like instinct, but it wasn’t quite that. Like a thread pulled taut inside her chest.
She couldn’t explain it.
Pugsley kept throwing, gradually losing himself in the rhythm. For the first time since the semester began, he felt like he was playing again. He threw faster, and Wednesday dodged without ever looking. His breathing picked up. The tension melted from his shoulders. His grin appeared slowly, then spread wide.
He ran out of knives. His eyes flicked around and landed on the rack. Without thinking, caught in the momentum, he grabbed a small axe and hurled it.
Wednesday had already started to turn, having counted the knives.
She froze mid-turn as the hairs on her neck lifted.
The air changed.
She pivoted fast, hands flying up, catching the axe clean between her palms. It stopped dead with a shock of impact that echoed up her arms.
She looked down at it. Silent and completely still.
Pugsley’s hands flew to his mouth, eyes wide in alarm. “Oh no. I didn’t mean to! Are you okay?!”
She looked up at him, chest rising and falling in short bursts, her expression unreadable.
He expected her to be furious. Or worse, betrayed.
But she wasn’t either.
She was… thinking.
It was the feeling, the change in the air, the anticipation, the echo in her bones.
Had it always been something else? Something deeper?
She stepped forward. “What did you say?” she asked, half breathless, half wondering.
He stopped, grinning still. “That was amazing!” he said again, clearly this time, slowing down and keeping eye contact. “You caught an axe!”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then looked at the weapon in her hands again.
“I’ve been catching axes since I was five.” she murmured.
Her feet moved of their own accord. She crossed to the wall, lifted the axe, and embedded it into the wooden panel with a satisfying thunk.
Then turned back, face impassive.
“Again,” she ordered.
Pugsley cheered.
Pugsley was already scrambling to collect the scattered knives after their third round.
Wednesday stood still for a moment longer, gaze fixed on the embedded axe Pugsley had thrown at her the first time. Her breathing had steadied, but something lingered beneath it; a thought, unresolved.
She hadn’t heard it. She hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t heard or seen any of them. But she had known it was coming. The more it happened, the more she questioned if it was just the sense of the air shift or the vibration. Instinct was what she called it before but now… She wasn’t sure it was something she could name. Like a flicker in the air, or a thread pulled taut in her chest. Not entirely. It had been familiar and unfamiliar at once. Something she'd done a thousand times before, but didn’t feel it like that .
She didn’t know what it was. Only that it felt like it had always been there, hidden under the noise. And now that the noise was gone, it was… louder.
She turned away before Pugsley could say anything else.
Thing scuttled off the table and followed her, catching up in the hall outside the playroom. She didn’t speak at first, walking barefoot down the corridor toward her wing, arms loose at her sides, her jaw tight with unspoken frustration.
When she finally paused, it was just outside her room. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“I didn’t hear it or feel the vibration. Or at least I don’t think I did.” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “But I still caught it, it”
Thing crept onto the low table beside her, tapping once to announce himself.
She didn’t look at him.
“It’s different now,” she added, more quietly. “It felt… like instinct. But not. I don’t know how I knew it was coming. I just did . It was the same when I was fencing with father.”
She shook her head, pushing it aside.
“I don’t need the aids. I can still do it. I can hunt. I can spar. I can dodge blades midair.” Her tone was firm, almost too firm—like if she said it enough, she could make it true in every context.
Thing waited.
Then signed, slow and deliberate: You can do most things.
Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “Most?”
He shrugged with his thumb; Not all things alone. Not without help. That’s different. Not weaker for it.
She turned fully toward him, expression unreadable. “You’re saying I’m just… limited.”
Thing signed back quickly, fingers sharp with intent: Everyone is limited. You’re still better than almost everyone at everything you put your mind to. A pause, then: But sometimes, you even need the knife to be sharper. Or a backup dagger up your sleeve or in your boot.
Wednesday’s lip twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close.
She looked away, then back.
“There’s something strange about it,” she said finally. “Like there’s a part of me that knows where danger is before I do.”
Thing signed, Maybe it was always there. You just had other ways of noticing before.
She didn’t answer. Just stood there, quietly.
“I don’t like needing anything,” she said after a moment.
Thing signed, Needing isn’t the same as depending. You’re still dangerous. Still terrifying. Still Wednesday.
She stared at him, her silence loud and bristling. Then, slowly, she pushed open her bedroom door.
She didn’t reach for the drawer yet.
But she didn’t walk past it, either.
Her steps were quiet as she crossed the room.
She didn’t pause.
She opened the drawer.
And this time, she reached in.
Her fingers curled around the loaner hearing aids, still ugly, still beige, still faintly whistling if she angled them wrongbut she didn’t flinch.
This time, she didn’t hesitate.
She took out the hearing aids, rolled them briefly in her palm. Ugly things. Awkward. But she didn’t grimace.
She lifted her hair, twisted it into one braid to clear the way.
And she put them in.
The world didn’t explode. It didn’t fix itself.
But it shifted—slightly clearer on one side, strangely artificial, a filtered layer she hadn’t asked for.
She exhaled.
Thing signed, Still you.
Wednesday didn’t answer. But she didn’t take them out.
Not this time.
Wednesday collapsed onto her bed with none of her usual grace, arms sprawled wide, limbs heavy with exhaustion. The day had been…long. Fester’s visit had drained what little tolerance she’d regained. She had wanted to retreat hours ago, but appearances were important, and so she endured.
Worse than Fester, though, had been the constant strangeness of sound.
The hearing aids didn’t just make things louder. They made everything unfamiliar. Every noise had edges now. Footsteps were too crisp. Utensils clinked like glass breaking. Voices, especially Fester’s, sounded hollow and sharp, like they were being filtered through a cheap speaker at the bottom of a well. The paper crackled too loudly. Chairs scraped with a shrillness that set her teeth on edge. Even silence buzzed faintly. It was like she’s never heard things before.
The only reason it all seemed so loud was because she’d been living in a state of near-quiet for weeks. Her brain had adjusted to stillness, to muffled noise and muted rooms. Now, it was like someone had torn the world open and poured sound into it without bothering to separate the important from the irrelevant. It wasn’t just overwhelming and disorienting.
She lay still for exactly six seconds.
Then sat up, stripped the hearing aids out of her ears, and dropped them onto the nightstand with a muffled thunk.
The quiet returned like a wave, warm and dense. Not total silence, her left ear still picked up pieces, but the world dulled again and her jaw unclenched. Her eyes fluttered closed as she exhaled slowly through her nose. Just a break. She needed a break.
The door creaked loud enough that it was soft in her left ear. Thing clambered up the mattress, a familiar weight landing beside her. She didn't look up until something cold and rectangular tapped against her forearm.
Her brow furrowed. She turned her head and stared at the object in his fingers.
Her phone.
The one Xavier had given her. She had nearly forgotten it existed.
“Where did you-” she started, voice hoarse, she felt it was wrong.
Thing unlocked the device with practiced ease. He signed that the Nightshades had been checking in. Some of them had found his texting surprisingly efficient. Enid, predictably, was the most persistent.
At the sight of her name, Wednesday blinked. The fatigue dulled slightly.
The screen was cluttered with threads, mostly focused on nail polish, exfoliating recipes, and horror movie critiques. But nearly every thread from Enid had, at some point, included a question:
“How is she?”
“Has she been sleeping?”
“Tell her I miss her, even if she rolls her eyes at it.”
Tonight, Enid had messaged again.
[Enid]: How was your break? I keep hoping you'll answer eventually. I promise not to be too much. I just miss you.
Wednesday stared at the blinking cursor. Then, slowly, she tapped out:
[Wednesday]: It’s been quiet.
The word felt strangely vulnerable, though it was the truth. Break had been a distorted silence, full of exhaustion, adaptation, and blood.
Enid responded immediately.
[Enid]: OMG you're ALIVE. I mean I knew that, but still.
[Enid]: Tell me everything. My mom is driving me nuts. At first she was happy I shifted. Then she decided I’m still not a real wolf or something. Like… what does that even mean?
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, fingers hovering over the screen. She hated how that sounded. She hated how familiar it felt. But she didn’t respond right away. Not with words. Not when her fingers felt clumsy and uncertain.
The phone was too bright. The letters were too small. And the act of texting felt artificial, yet strangely intimate. She tried typing again, correcting the same word twice before settling on:
[Wednesday]: Your mother sounds insufferable.
Thing gave a satisfied wiggle beside her.
Enid replied almost instantly.
[Enid]: Yeah. I keep trying not to let it get to me, but I still feel like I’m failing some test I didn’t agree to take.
Wednesday stared at that for a long moment. Then closed her eyes.
[Wednesday]: You aren’t.
Her thumb hesitated before she hit send. When she did, it was like exhaling. A small release.
She didn’t mention her hearing loss. She could barely even think about it without flinching. For now, this was enough.
She let the phone rest on her chest, screen dimming.
Thing settled beside her, his fingers brushing hers.
Wednesday didn’t move. But for the first time in days, she relaxed.
The vibration against her ribs stirred her from sleep.
Wednesday blinked awake, disoriented at first by the strange weight on her chest until her eyes focused and saw the faint glow of the phone screen. It buzzed again, another incoming message lighting up the dim room. Thing was still curled up beside her, motionless but clearly watching her stir.
She sighed through her nose. Loud. Intrusive. Too bright.
The message was from Enid.
[Enid]: 🌊 Morning!
[Enid]: Hope I’m not waking you.
Wednesday squinted against the glare. The light from the screen seared into her half-conscious vision, and the text felt microscopic. She hissed, shifting the brightness down with clumsy fingers.
Thing reached over, gently taking the phone. With quick taps and swipes, he enlarged the text size, adjusted the screen to dark mode, then handed it back.
It was… honestly better. Manageable.
She stared at the wave emoji for a moment longer than she intended, then tapped out:
[Wednesday]: You were.
A beat passed.
[Wednesday]: But I suppose I forgive you.
It was the most normal conversation she’d had in days.
Enid’s texts came in like bursts of sunlight: warm, fast, a bit too much, but this time it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt grounding. Wednesday could almost see her bouncing on her heels, typing with too many emojis, her face animated with every word she sent.
She couldn’t quite recall the exact cadence of her voice anymore. But she remembered the rhythm. The way her tone curled at the ends of her questions. How her excitement made everything sound like a secret being told just for Wednesday. That memory, once annoying, now felt… comforting.
They texted off and on across two days.
It was unspoken, but consistent. Every time Wednesday checked her phone, there was something waiting. Updates about Enid’s pack, her brothers, her mother’s nonsense. Enid never asked for too much. Never asked what was going on with her. Just talked to her like nothing had changed. Still, she would give her snippets of the books she’d been reading, fencing with her father and sessions torturing or throwing knives with her brother.
Until the message that stopped her cold.
[Enid]: Sooooo my mom saw my face and complained about the scars again 🙄
Wednesday stared.
[Wednesday]: Scars?
Seconds later, a photo came through.
Enid, half grinning, because of course she would be grinning, head tilted, strands of blonde hair falling into her eyes. The left side of her face bore a series of red, pale gashes. Narrow, ragged, but clean. Precise. One dragged just beneath her eye.
Wednesday stared at the image. Her pulse slowed.
She remembered now. The bandages before they left. How Enid had tilted her head so Wednesday wouldn’t see. She’d assumed they were shallow wounds, nothing… lasting.
But they were permanent. Marked into her skin like a signature and Wednesday had caused them.
Enid had fought the Hyde for her. Fought Tyler, monstrous and blood-crazed, without hesitation. She hadn’t flinched.
Wednesday swallowed a bitter taste that rose in her throat. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Then she typed:
[Wednesday]: They suit you.
[Wednesday]: You were magnificent that night.
A pause. Then:
[Wednesday]: No one who has faced a Hyde head-on has ever survived.
[Wednesday]: Until you.
There was a long pause on Enid’s end.
Then:
[Enid]: That means a lot coming from you. Really.
[Enid]: I’m glad they don’t scare you. They kinda scared me at first.
[Enid]: I almost got my face torn off. I feel better about them now that they have faded A LOT.
Wednesday read that twice. Then stared at the photo again. A quiet twist in her chest.
She didn’t text back right away. But she didn’t put the phone down either.
Thing reached over and gently patted her wrist.
Wednesday allowed it. Her grip tightened around the phone.
She had no words left just yet but she’d remember those scars. And what they meant.
It was late again when the message came, the phone vibrating lightly against Wednesday’s chest where it rested. She stirred, eyes fluttering open, the soft blue glow casting shadows across her ceiling.
Thing shifted from his post on her bedside table, lifting a curious finger.
She squinted at the screen, blinking blearily at the brightness. Thing nudged her hand and helped her adjust the lighting and text size without needing to ask.
Enid’s name pulsed softly at the top of the screen.
[Enid]: I miss your cello.
Wednesday stared at the words.
[Wednesday]: You had previously informed me that my late-night practice was an ‘annoying habit’
[Enid]: It’s weird, right? I didn’t think I would. But I do. It was kind of our background noise. The angry playing when you were mad. The slow stuff when you were thinking. I even miss when it sounded like murder.
Across the room, the new cello stood untouched in its corner—an elegant replacement her parents had acquired without comment after she shattered the last one in rage and greif. The strings gleamed under a thin layer of dust. She hadn’t so much as brushed her fingers across them.
[Wednesday]: Could you not find something on the internet like where you watch those incessant videos or a record
[Enid]: I tried. It’s not the same.
Enid missed her playing.
Not just music. Not the cello in general. Hers.
Her throat felt tight, though she didn’t understand why.
The cursor blinked in the message box for a long time before she finally typed:
[Wednesday]: I haven’t had the time to play.
It was short. Evasive. Easier than explaining the truth.
She set the phone aside with a quiet breath through her nose, curling slightly toward it as it rested beside her on the blankets. Thing gave her a look, less curious now, more thoughtful. She ignored it.
The cello stayed silent in the dark corner where she stored it but Enid’s message echoed in her mind. Somewhere beneath her skin, Wednesday felt the faintest ache of strings waiting to be pressed.
The phone went quiet again after she replied, the soft glow fading back into darkness. Wednesday lay still, unmoving, her eyes open to the dim ceiling above, sparing the occasional glance across the room,
The instrument sat in the corner like a ghost, strings slightly slack. It was both a gift and a challenge. An invitation she had refused.
But now… now she heard Enid’s voice in her head. I miss your cello.
After several minutes, she rose. Slid from the bed barefoot and wordless. Thing scuttled off the blankets and followed her as she approached the cello. She reached for it slowly, pulling it into her arms, knees bracing the lower bout as she sat.
The bow stayed on the floor beside her chair. She didn’t reach for it yet.
Instead, Wednesday lifted a hand and gently plucked the lowest string. The sound was dull. Off. Wrong.
She frowned.
“I don’t know how to tune it now,” she muttered, not frustrated, but uncertain. “It doesn’t sound right.”
Thing immediately perked up and signed something rapid and excited in the moonlight.
She blinked at him, brow furrowing. “What is… an app?”
He practically vibrated with impatience and darted for her phone. She followed his movements with suspicion as he navigated with practiced speed, then proudly held it up for her to see.
Simply Tuner
She stared at it. Then back at him. “You trust this.”
Thing gave her a very clear thumbs up and tapped her chair insistently.
Still skeptical, Wednesday brought the phone to the nearby table and returned to her seat, cello between her legs. She rested the scroll against her collarbone and followed the app’s instructions. The phone gave gentle vibrations and flashing color cues with each string.
She turned one peg slowly until the bar turned green. Then moved to the next. It was deliberate, mechanical and oddly soothing. Almost familiar.
When the last one buzzed a soft confirmation, she tensed.
The bow was still at her side.
Thing climbed the edge of her chair and signed: Try it.
Wednesday inhaled slowly and reached down. She lifted the bow, placed it on the string, and drew it across with a steady push.
The note hummed out.
It wasn’t what she remembered. The sound was hollow, slightly warped in her ear, but she could feel it. The vibration buzzed up through the cello’s frame, into her ribs, her sternum, her fingertips. It wasn’t sound as she had known it.
It was sensation. It stirred.
Her expression didn’t change, but she shifted the bow and played a second note. Then a third - lower, heavier. Her eyes narrowed, shoulders loosening with a sharp exhale through her nose.
Across the room, Thing had already moved. He scrambled to the bookshelf near the window and grabbed a thick book from the bottom shelf. The music stand gave him some trouble, collapsing once before he slapped it back upright. Wednesday stood and helped, adjusting the height with a few sharp clicks.
The book landed on the stand with a soft thud.
Thing scrambled up and flipped it open, eagerly paging through until he found it; Vivaldi’s Spring.
One of her favorites. She used to play it when her mind needed quiet. When words and people were too much. The pieces had given her something she could control.
Wednesday hesitated, eyes scanning the sheet. But her fingers twitched before she could think better of it.
She didn’t need the book.
She hadn’t needed it in years.
She lifted the cello again, found the right place for her hands, and let her fingers remember.
The bow met the strings and she played.
The notes poured out of her, not perfect, but close. Each one humming through her bones like lightning under skin. The world narrowed to the movement of her arms and the resonance of pressure and tone. The familiar rhythm, half-remembered and wholly instinctual, pulled her forward.
She let her eyes fall closed.
It wasn’t the same but there was new satisfaction. Her muscle memory allowed her to play the notes without hearing them the same. The reverberation from the floor and through her feet, in her thighs that balanced the instrument, into her chest and collar bone, in her chin. It was like a completely new experience
Over the next several days, Wednesday practiced. Not often, and not for long. But consistently.
Her sessions were quiet and focused, almost meditative. She said nothing. Sometimes she didn’t even use the music book. Other times, she’d prop it open and follow it with only half her attention, the motion more important than the notes.
The sound still didn’t feel right. The loaner aids helped, somewhat. Dulling the disorientation, giving her a vague frame of the higher notes but it wasn’t the same and it was no longer entirely about the sound.
It was about the feel.
The way the strings hummed against her fingertips, the way each drawn bow sent a shiver into her chest cavity. The familiar patterns. The control.
It was one of the few things that didn’t exhaust her now. It kind of amazed her that she never realized how music physically felt.
Thing was there for most of it. Watching, perched nearby. He’d learned not to tap her unless she looked upset or something needed her attention that she didn’t catch, but he always signed encouragement. A little thumbs-up. A dramatic swoon. Once, he clapped with just one finger.
Wednesday almost smiled.
That night, after the first full piece she played since coming home, she felt… off-kilter. Not unsettled exactly, but tightly wound. The kind of energy she couldn’t quite burn off with bows or notes.
On a whim, she pulled the aids from her drawer and fitted them in. They whined slightly in her ear, as if protesting her disuse. She considered them for a long moment in the mirror, then shrugged on her coat and boots.
She wanted to take a walk.
The woods weren’t far. She took Thing with her, just in case. She didn’t bother to tell anyone where she was going.
The forest was still grating. Tinny and sharp in some places, muffled in others, with a thousand small sounds she couldn’t parse. But… it was far less disorienting.
She could hear the direction the wind was coming from. Could tell where the brush cracked louder, where distant birds startled from the canopy. None of it was pleasant. But it gave her bearings.
She didn’t walk long. Just enough to feel the tension slip off her shoulders and into the earth.
And she didn’t tell anyone she’d done it.
Over the following week, she began experimenting.
Wearing the aids for short periods. Walking with them. Practicing. Removing them halfway through if they became too much. Sometimes she tried to read with them in. Other times, she focused entirely on the cello.
Some days were better than others.
There were mornings when the sound was clearer, more balanced. She could tell when Thing snapped, or when the kettle hissed in the kitchen. Once, she even heard the faint clicking of Lurch’s shoes in the hallway.
But most of the time, she still preferred the vibrations. It was more reliable. More honest. The pressure of the cello’s body against her sternum. The strings humming in her fingertips.
It didn’t require interpretation. It simply was.
Then came Enid’s text.
Enid 🌈:
Hey! Just wondering…have you had time to play your cello lately?
I keep thinking about it. I miss hearing it. It was like… weirdly calming? But also very you. Like if a thunderstorm could do ballet.
Wednesday stared at the message for a moment, considering her answer. She hadn’t told Enid anything yet. Not about the audiologist, or the lion, or the aids still sitting like judgment in her drawer.
She started typing:
I’ve been busy.
Paused.
Then deleted it.
Thing, watching from the arm of her chair, signed once. You should show her.
She raised an eyebrow.
He pointed to the cello.
Then to the phone.
Wednesday considered. Her first instinct was to say no.
But the way Enid had asked; so easily, so casually, like it wasn’t strange at all to crave the sound of her cello, made something catch in her chest.
Without a word, she moved to the instrument and sat down. Adjusted her posture. Her fingers hovered over the strings.
Thing scrambled into position, bracing the phone between two stacked books. He gave her a thumbs-up.
She rolled her eyes. But didn’t stop him.
The piece was short. A low, solemn melody. Something she’d once played in the middle of winter, when the sky had been the same color as bone. Her technique was still imperfect, her timing uneven. But she played it through. Just once.
Then Thing, pleased with himself, sent it off before she could stop him.
An hour later:
Enid 🌈:
OH MY GOD.
You actually played?! I wasn’t expecting you to actually send me a recording! Wow! You sound amazing, Wednesday. You’re seriously so talented.
I’m gonna try listening to it again before bed tonight. I think it might help with the weird dreams.
Thank you so much!!!
Wednesday stared at the screen for a long time.
She didn’t reply.
But she left the message open.
And let the screen fade on its own.
Notes:
Just thought she needed an outlet. This was essentially like a slice of life plus a hint as to something else going on with her...hmm wonder what it could be. I think this is the second last chapter before she goes back to school. I want to start introducing the overarching plot but also her follow up with the audiologist.
I hope you guys are enjoying so far and sorry if it is a little dry at places. OH! Also fixed a couple bits in the first 2 chapters where I essentially repeated myself.
I also am super excitable and do not and probably will not have a post schedule. I will just post chapters after they're done and edited. Each chapter has about 3 drafts. I might post ch 5 tomorrow or Tuesday...today maybe? If I'm feeing motivated IDK. Thank you all for the wonderful comments
ALSO is it to wordy? I know I enjoy poetic speech but does it come off as too jumpy or not making sense?
Chapter Text
Wednesday sat at the dining table, her left ear adorned with the loaner aids but otherwise pretending not to notice the faint hiss whenever she turned her head. The family was midway through breakfast; Lurch’s low hum of concern briefly filling the space between her practiced modulation of “pass the syrup” and Morticia’s calm inquiries into Thursday’s weather.
Morticia cleared her throat and set down her teacup. “Good news: Dr. Aldon called this morning. Your permanent aids are ready for pickup.”
Wednesday’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She had worn the loaners to a few meals already, times when Thing insisted and she acquiesced, if only to prove she could ‘survive masking the devices beneath her braids. The transition from practice at home to wearing them in company had been awkward: too loud in one range, too quiet in another. But each meal felt less jarring than the last.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Wednesday lifted her eyes to Morticia and gave a single nod.
Morticia and Gomez exchanged surprised looks. Neither had expected such immediate acquiescence.
“Ah,” Morticia said, masking her astonishment with a soft smile. “This afternoon, then?”
Gomez set down his coffee. “We’ll accompany you, cara mia. No need to travel alone.”
Wednesday offered nothing more. Her mother’s gaze was soft but firm, yet neither commented on her sudden change in attitude toward the aids.
She swallowed her toast in deliberate bites, thoughts swirling. The loaners had taught her how to catch Pugsley’s footfalls after a day in the woods. They had shown her that a distant creak, even faint, could still be a warning. The thought of something custom‐fit, wired precisely to her audiogram, both thrilled and unsettled her.
Morticia inclined her head. “I think you’re ready.”
Wednesday simply met her mother’s gaze, jaw steady.
Gomez lifted his mug in a silent toast. “To sharper edges.”
Wednesday allowed herself a single, faint nod, then returned her attention to breakfast. She could feel, rather than hear, the promise of something new slipping beneath her skin, another layer of control she could turn, like a peg on her cello, until it rang true.
Dr. Aldon’s office was quiet except for the subtle mechanical hum of the fitting equipment. On a clean cloth laid across the desk were four distinct devices: two matteblack ITC aids and two sleek, skin-toned RIC aids, lined up in mirrored pairs.
Wednesday sat in the exam chair, shoulders straight, the tension in her jaw barely visible. Morticia and Gomez stood behind her, quieter than usual, sensing the gravity of the moment.
Dr. Aldon greeted them with a pleasant nod. “Welcome back. Today we’ll be fitting both of your custom sets, the ITCs and the RICs. They’ve all been programmed to your hearing profile and can be used interchangeably in either ear. You’ll be able to mix and match based on comfort or environment.”
Wednesday blinked slowly, absorbing the information. “Two full sets.”
“You’ll have options,” Dr. Aldon confirmed. “The ITCs are low-profile, harder to spot, good for discretion. The RICs give you a little more amplification and have easier manual controls and charging options. You can wear both ITCs, both RICs, or one of each depending on your needs that day. I do thing you’ll find that your right ear in particular will not be as clear with ITC because there is more significant loss of hearing on that side.”
She gave a slight nod of approval. Pragmatism always earned points.
He held out the ITC set first. “Let’s start here.”
He guided her through inserting each one, gently pressing them into place with the precision of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Wednesday winced at the snugness but didn’t comment this time.
“You’ll notice these fit more tightly than the loaners. That’s intentional,” he said. “The loaners you had were, frankly, cheap and generalized, meant to give you a basic sense of amplification. These are molded exactly to your ear canals and programmed specifically for your type of hearing loss.”
Wednesday tapped a fingernail against the left device. “Still sharp in the high end.”
“We’ll calibrate that,” he said, already adjusting the high-frequency bands on his tablet. “Remember, this isn’t like restoring normal hearing. You’re not getting your old ears back, you’re getting new ones. Every brain processes sound slightly differently. The aids are just teaching yours how to interpret sound again. That takes time.”
“How much time?”
“Some people start adjusting in a few weeks. Others take months. You’ll get there. It’s like relearning a language you forgot you ever knew.”
She didn’t respond. The simile wasn’t inaccurate.
Dr. Aldon moved on to the RIC set. “Now let’s try the second pair.”
She pulled the ITCs out, and he helped her guide the RIC domes gently into her ears. The sound quality changed immediately. Less pressure in the canals, a cooler sensation behind her ears. The RICs weren’t invisible, but they were sleek enough that her hair would likely cover the backs of them with her braids.
He walked her through a comparison test: environmental noise, speech recognition, switching between listening programs. Wednesday gave clipped responses, but she was more vocal this time; describing which settings felt grating, which were tolerable, which moments sounded “too digital.” If she was going to willingly use them, she wanted them to be as un-irritating as possible.
“Both sets have Bluetooth capability,” he added. “You can use the same app for each. You’ll just switch profiles depending on which pair you're wearing.”
He pulled out a small, structured case with custom-cut compartments. Inside was:
-
All four devices labeled and color-coded (left and right for each set)
-
Two brush-and-loop cleaning tools
-
Twelve filters for each type of aid
-
A charger for the RICs
-
Charger and extra batteries for the ITCs
-
A travel case for either set in isolation
-
A six-month maintenance supply
“Everything you’ll need for self-care is in here,” he said, handing it to her. “Cleaning instructions, charging docks, extra wax guards. The app will notify you about maintenance like when to change filters, when to charge, battery health, and so on.”
He showed her the app again, this time toggling between “Profile A: ITC” and “Profile B: RIC.”
“You’ll find the RICs easier to adjust mid-day. But if you want discretion or prefer canal stimulation, the ITCs are great for quieter environments or even playing music.”
“Noted,” Wednesday said, examining the controls more closely this time.
He hesitated. “Any discomfort with the sound?”
“Yes. But it's consistent.”
“That’s a good sign, it means your brain’s starting to interpret things predictably. The consistency will make it easier to adapt and the discomfort will progressively lessen”
Morticia gently placed a hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. “Which will you wear home?”
Wednesday glanced at both sets and picked up the RICs, wordlessly put both in her ears.
Dr. Aldon nodded approvingly. “Good choice. They’ll give you more flexibility while you adjust.”
He handed over a final folder; insurance paperwork, the model manuals, and a customized quick-start guide.
Dr. Aldon tapped a note on his tablet, then looked up. “I also wanted to mention, I know you’ll be heading back to school in Vermont before our next follow-up window.”
Wednesday gave a small nod, already anticipating the shift in location and routine.
“I’ve sent your full audiogram and programming data to a colleague in Burlington,” he continued. “Dr. Margaret Lee. She’s experienced with teen and young adult fittings and works with a lot of university students. You’ll be in good hands if anything needs adjusting while you’re away.”
Morticia gave a graceful smile. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”
“You’ll still have access to remote support through the app,” he added to Wednesday. “And the aids are programmed with multiple memory slots, so you can adjust them yourself as needed. But Dr. Lee will be able to tweak things in person if your needs change or if one set ends up more comfortable than the other.”
Wednesday blinked once, accepting this information without protest.
He handed over the last piece of paper, a referral slip tucked into the back of her folder. “Here’s her contact. I’ve already made the introduction.”
“Noted,” Wednesday said, her voice level.
She packed the sets carefully into their structured case, tucking it into her satchel along with the printed materials and folded pamphlets. As she walked out, the RICs humming softly in her ears, she suppressed a flinch at the sound of the door closing behind her.
Later that evening, Wednesday sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor with both new sets of hearing aids and their respective cases laid out on a folded towel. The folders, printouts, and the glossy manufacturer pamphlet were fanned out beside her like the pages of a particularly uninspired grimoire.
Thing perched on the edge of her nightstand, tapping an impatient rhythm with two fingers.
“I am aware,” she said flatly, not looking up. “You said there was an app.”
Thing pointed dramatically at her phone where it lay unopened beside her.
“I do not trust software, I cannot dissect myself.”
He snapped his fingers at her and made a repeated tapping gesture toward the screen.
With a long-suffering sigh, Wednesday picked it up, unlocked it, and watched as Thing guided her through downloading the app the audiologist had mentioned. It took three attempts and a minor tantrum from Thing when she tried to reject the user agreement.
“It’s asking for access to Bluetooth,” she muttered, squinting.
Thing gave a thumbs up.
“I know what Bluetooth is,” she added defensively, then paused. “Roughly.”
Once the app was installed, Thing demonstrated how to link her RIC aids through Bluetooth, setting up the memory slots Dr. Aldon had programmed earlier that day. “Quiet Environments,” “Group Conversation,” and “Outdoor Activity.”
“They read like failed Addams family reunion themes,” Wednesday muttered, but she didn’t resist as Thing nudged her hand to adjust the volume slider for each.
He signed a suggestion to try toggling between memory settings.
“Later,” she said.
Thing then showed her how to check battery levels, clean the microphones, and activate “Find My Aids” should she misplace them. Wednesday raised an eyebrow.
“I do not lose things.”
Thing slowly turned his wrist in a little shrug. For being just a hand, his brief looking over her folder when she had gotten home had seemingly made him an expert on her hearing aids.
“I gave the loaners back,” she added. “That was a strategic abandonment.”
By the time the sun had fully vanished behind the trees outside her window, Wednesday had both new sets paired, the app installed and configured, and a vague working knowledge of what each setting meant…even if she resented it.
She glanced down at the in-the-canal pair in her palm. They were smaller, more discreet—easier to hide under her hair or with a tilt of her head.
When she looked back at the screen, a simple message blinked at the top: “Memory profile saved.”
A green checkmark. Final. Practical. Slightly condescending.
Wednesday smirked faintly. “Functional necromancy.”
Thing gave her a thumbs up.
The first time Wednesday used the Group Conversation profile, it was over dinner.
Pugsley was in one of his chatty moods, relaying a half-finished story about a survival trap he’d set in the east woods. Morticia gently corrected his grammar between bites, while Gomez interrupted with enthusiastic questions and a booming laugh. Normally, it was the kind of dinner she’d tolerate in icy silence, but tonight, she watched.
Then, in one silent moment between forkfuls, she tapped her phone beneath the table and switched her hearing aids from Quiet Environment to Group Conversation.
The difference wasn’t immediate, not like flipping a switch. But slowly, the blur of voices began to separate. Her mother’s tones smoothed out. Pugsley’s rapid-fire words sharpened. Her father’s laughter still sounded like a shotgun going off beside her ear, but it didn’t rattle her skull nearly as much..
It wasn’t perfect. She still missed parts. Her brain lagged behind in processing what she was hearing. But the shape of the sound was clearer. And that was… something.
She didn’t comment. Didn’t let it show. Just ate her food and listened until Pugsley got to the part where the squirrel gnawed its own leg off.
Later, when the house quieted, she slid her boots on and slipped out the side door, past the garden.
Thing joined her, clinging to the back of her collar like a smug little barnacle.
She switched the profile to Outdoor Activity as she stepped into the trees.
The forest was alive, and the setting made it clearer: the wind brushing leaves, a crow croaking overhead, the scuffle of some creature in the underbrush. Some of it sounded wrong, too sharp or oddly flattened, but it wasn’t the unrelenting wall of noise she remembered from her first walk.
She moved slowly, tuning herself to the new symphony. Her footfalls were soft against the mossy ground. She followed a vague trail down toward the creek, where the water whispered like secrets being spilled. It was almost like nails on a chalk board at first but it was better after a few moments.
By the time she reached the clearing, her brain buzzed with auditory fatigue. Every processed sound felt like a layer added to her skin; unseen, but heavy. Over the past week, she had been practicing in small bursts. Incremental adjustments. Carefully applied noise. But it took energy, more than she liked to admit.
Without a word, she touched the shell of her ear, held her breath, and turned both aids off.
Instant relief.
Not complete silence, just the duller hum of a world far away in her left ear..
Thing, sensing the shift, scuttled forward. He tapped her forearm gently.
Wednesday didn’t speak. Instead, she raised her hands and signed, slowly, getting used to using her own hands to communicate with him: Too loud.
Thing signed back, with exaggerated clarity: Okay. No words. Just signs.
She nodded, grateful in a way she didn’t vocalize. They had been working on it; sign language, finger spelling, their own hybrid gestures. It wasn’t fluent, not yet. But it was enough for when she couldn’t stand the effort of her own voice.
Tired? Thing asked.
Wednesday gave a curt shrug.
Nothing new there. he replied in jest
She smirked faintly, then pulled her coat tighter and sat beside the creek’s edge.
No talking. No overstimulation. Just quiet hands and shared understanding in the twilight hush.
The house had quieted around her in slow degrees, first the clang of enthusiasm that followed her initial fitting, then the cautious support from her family as she pushed herself through daily use. By the third week, Wednesday had developed a rhythm: morning walks with the Outdoor Activity profile, selective use of Group Conversation at meals, and retreating to the Quiet setting during cello practice or when her brain simply refused to process another distorted syllable.
And yet, it was still not good, though she and thing had been able to adjust each profile setting so it was more comforting.
Every sound still came with edges, jagged or softened in all the wrong places. Conversations blurred if they overlapped. Music sounded too crisp, like glass under pressure. Crowded rooms were torture; even with filtering, she could never quite tune the world to her liking.
Some days were better than others. Some days, she removed the aids by midday and spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, speaking only to Thing in slow, practiced fingerspelling. He never rushed her. He always signed back.
She had started to map her triggers. Kitchens were worst. The sharp clinks and overlapping voices, water running and drawers slamming. The library was best: hushed, predictable. Pugsley’s pitch grated less now, but Gomez’s laugh still made her physically flinch.
She didn’t complain. But she tracked everything. Every glitch, every failure. She documented it. Because progress, if it was happening, needed to be proven, measured. Even if it never felt like enough.
Now, it was only a few days until she was due back at Nevermore. Her room at the Academy would be quieter than the Addams dining room… probably. But the unpredictability of dorm life loomed. Classes loomed.
Enid loomed.
Morticia gave her a look. “Wednesday.” It was Morticia who brought it up, of course, over breakfast, as if they were discussing luggage or the weather.
“We needed to let Larissa know about the accommodations,” she said lightly, slicing the top off her soft-boiled egg with surgical precision.
Wednesday didn’t look up from her tea but her brows twitched in confusion. “She’s dead.”
“Miraculously not,” Gomez added, setting down the morning paper with a rustle. “Apparently, her morphing ability let her survive the Nightshade toxin! Her abilities slowed it down just enough for someone to find her.”
“Disappointing,” Wednesday muttered, a plethora of feelings shoved to the back of her mind for the moment.
“I meant for narrative consistency.”
Gomez chuckled. Morticia didn’t.
“In any case,” Morticia went on, “she’s back in the role of Headmistress, and she’s aware of your condition. She’ll be discreet.”
“I don’t want anyone knowing,” Wednesday said sharply. “No students. No teachers.”
“There’s a difference between privacy and choosing who to trust,” Morticia said gently.
Wednesday leveled her gaze at her mother. “There’s no one there I trust.”
But that wasn’t entirely true.
There was one person, Enid . The only person who made the constant noise of Nevermore feel quieter, the only one who made Wednesday feel normal in a world that wasn’t anymore. The one who saw her without all the layers she wore for everyone else. The one who’s normal conversations made returning to Nevermore less daunting.
She didn’t want Enid to know. Didn’t want anything to change.
“There’s me,” Pugsley offered. Then, realizing what he’d said, backpedaled. “I mean… if I went there. Not now.”
“Precisely,” Wednesday said.
“Weems knows, and we’ve spoken to the new dorm parent,” Morticia continued. “She’ll need to know for emergencies-”
“I am the emergency.” Wednesday replied sharply, folding a sharp-creased pair of slacks.
“We know,” Morticia said, resting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “But if you're hurt, or your hearing aids are damaged-”
“They’ll be told.” Wednesday muttered. “Need-to-know basis. No more.”
“And someone has to coordinate your transport to follow-up appointments.” Morticia added in a stern tone.
Wednesday didn’t argue, but the tension in her shoulders gave her away.
“It’s not a weakness to have support, stormcloud.” Gomez said, his voice soft.
“I am aware,” she said through gritted teeth. “That doesn’t mean I want it announced to the school.”
“Of course not,” Morticia said, resting a hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. “We won’t draw attention to it. We just want to make sure you’re not alone in managing it.”
“I’m never alone,” Wednesday replied, glancing down the table to where Thing was trying to spoon jam onto a scone.
“Still,” Morticia said delicately, “this isn't something you have to navigate entirely on your own, you are very capable, Wednesday, but sometimes those around us can offer us more.”
Wednesday bristled. “It’s need-to-know. And the only ones who need to know already do.”
Her voice brooked no argument.
There was a beat of silence.
“Fine,” Morticia said finally. “We’ll respect that. But we will have to meet with Larissa before classes to discuss potential accommodations for you.”
“But no mysterious fainting spells or cryptic injuries at school, okay, mi hija?” Gomez added with a grin. “We’ve already seen your definition of ‘fine.’”
Wednesday muttered a begrudging, “Fine.”
Wednesday stood in the middle of her room, a stack of neatly folded black shirts laid out beside an open suitcase. Crisp collars. Sharp lines. Dark hues. She packed with precision, not sentiment. Even with laundry days at Nevermore, she’d need enough clothes for four months: uniforms, sleepwear, spare layers for colder days, training gear, gloves, socks, boots. Undergarments precisely rolled, tucked between heavier layers.
A separate small case held her cello maintenance supplies. She’d already packed the collapsible music stand, some of her older sheet music, and a notebook where she’d begun transcribing new compositions. Thing had insisted on adding the tuning app to her phone's home screen and labeled it in all caps.
Her two new sets of hearing aids, RIC and ITC, were each packed into their cases with their full maintenance kits, labels sharp and clear. She’d practiced using both, alternating depending on the setting. She didn’t like either. But she tolerated them now.
She folded the last shirt and slid it into her suitcase with care. Her eyes flicked briefly to the cases holding her hearing aids. those necessary burdens she tolerated for survival. The thought of trusting others, of relying on more than just herself, was still foreign.
She zipped the suitcase halfway before pausing. Something flickered in her peripheral vision. Thing, dragging her phone toward her with more urgency than usual.
The screen lit up. One new message. No name. No contact saved.
“Looking forward to seeing you again. Thought you were ignoring me.”
Wednesday stared at the message. She hadn’t seen the first one in weeks; not since Thing had been managing her inbox. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the phone, eyes narrowing.
She didn’t respond. She simply locked the screen, slid the phone into her inner coat pocket, and continued packing.
She resumed folding with methodical precision, but the silence had shifted—too tight, too expectant. Thing lingered near the edge of the bed, his fingers twitching with nervous energy.
He signed, Was that the same number from before?
Wednesday gave the smallest nod, Buried under your nail polish threads.
He had the decency to look apologetic.
She didn’t blame him. Not really. She’d forgotten about it too. The first message had arrived the day she’d claimed her phone, barely a blip under the weight of medical appointments, new routines, mountain lions... But now? Now it felt deliberate. Timed.
The message wasn’t threatening. Not exactly. But it was personal.
And worse; it sounded like someone who thought they knew her.
Her hand brushed her pocket. She hesitated, hen slid the phone out again and checked the number.
Still the same number.
Wednesday locked the phone, the screen going dark in her palm. She slipped it into the outer pocket of her bag and reached for the last stack of folded shirts.
Thing gave a little chirp of approval and signed, Almost done?
Wednesday nodded. “Just one last sweep.”
Notes:
Hello! Not as sure about this one cause It may be kind of dry in places but I really wanted to show the audiologist thing because it's now an important thing she has to do. But I DID leave out things that would usually happen for time and this is a story. Now she has hearing aids!
Note, ITCs are in-the-canal hearing aids and RICs are reciever-in-canal hearing aids. Like the over ear aids but more powerful. The ITC aids are good for her better ear but the RIC aids are better for her right ear as it is the most damaged. I put a picture of the different aids in the bottom of the chapter.
Now lets be off to Nevermore! Danger lurks, more challenges arise and how long can she keep her hearing loss hidden before it causes...problems.
Thanks for reading! Please leave questions, comments and concerns in the comments. I love reading what you think!
Chapter 6
Notes:
Ah I just couldn't stay away from you lovely people! Might have one more in store for you tonight or tomorrow but I may be a bit before you get chapter 8, onward.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was 6:03 a.m. The sun hadn't breached the tree line, but pale blue light filtered through her curtains, washing the room in a dull haze.
Wednesday stood in front of her mirror, her long-sleeved black shirt tucked neatly into charcoal trousers, her traveling boots laced tight. Her coat, long and heavy, was draped over the back of her chair. The cello case rested by the door, her satchel already packed and propped beside it.
Without ceremony, she reached for the RIC and clicked it into her right ear. A soft hiss, then filtered sound.
The ITC followed, fitting snug into her left. The difference in quality was subtle but present, each offered something the other lacked. She didn’t like the way it all felt, but she could admit, grudgingly, that it helped.
She blinked at her reflection. “Functional.”
Behind her, Thing gave an approving wiggle from the vanity. His nails tapped out a reminder: Phone. Charging cable. Aid cases. Snacks for Pugsley.
Wednesday nodded once, gathering her last few items. Her fingers hovered over her phone just as it lit up.
[Enid 🐺🌈]:
Landed at the airport!! One step closer to hug-tackling you!! 💕💛💥🖤
Wednesday sighed at the new version of Enid’s name that thing had programed while she was asleep. He refused to change it.
[Wednesday]: Try to contain yourself. Your color palette is already an assault on several senses.
The reply came instantly:
[Enid 🐺🌈]:
😂🧡💜💛✨😜
YOU MISSED ME!!
Wednesday stared. The emoticon (or ‘emoji’ as Thing put it) swarm made no linguistic sense. But the meaning wasn’t lost on her.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she shut the phone off with a click and tucked it into her satchel next to her hearing aid kits. Then, after one last glance across her room she shouldered her bag and headed down stairs, cello in her hand.
The kitchen smelled of scorched toast and Morticia’s calming rosewater tea. Wednesday poured herself a black coffee, ate half a piece of dry toast, and gave a nod of thanks when Pugsley pushed the butter across the table without being asked.
Her parents were dressed in impeccable travel-coffin couture. Gomez was already tearfully monologuing about her ‘final breakfast before another chapter of darkness.’ Morticia remained composed, her lips painted as sharp as her cheekbones, though her hand rested gently over Gomez’s in quiet solidarity.
Wednesday endured their commentary in silence.
After a good ten minutes of listening to her parents go from lamenting her absence to being grotesquely lost in each other, she was thinking about shutting off her aids and closing her eyes. Even Pugsley pushed his food away.
Luckily, Wednesday heard Lurch’s heavy footsteps enter the dining room. He groaned loudy, and vaguely raised his thumb, pointing towards the hall, indicating the car was ready. He then turned and walked away.
She turned back around and eyed her parents, who were now looking at her with an overt amount of sorrow. Even Pugley frowned into the table.
Wednesday held back a scoff, “Don’t look so disquieted. It only took me a few for Weems to expel me. I’m going for a record.”
Her mother and father smiled.
Wednesday rolled her eyes and stood, “Besides, who can say they got expelled from the same school twice.”
Gomez clutched his chest in joy, “That’s my little storm cloud. You leave brimstone with every step.”
Wednesday simply turned and left the dining room.
Lurch stood by the open hearse door like a butler from the underworld.
The cello case and luggage strapped to the roof. Wednesday slid into the front-facing seat without ceremony. Pugsley jumped into the front bench with Lurch, waving down at Thing, who scrambled in beside Wednesday and climbed to rest between her and her satchel..
Her parents took the rear-facing seat, already murmuring affectionately to each other.
Wednesday turned toward the window, her hand resting on her satchel. The faint rumble of the engine layered over the filtered buzz of her hearing aids. It still felt foreign, but the dual clarity; the separate, strange little worlds each device gave her; was better than the disorientation she’d felt.
Honestly though, the sounds of her parents ogling each other in the seat across from her made her nauseous. She reached up, powering off both of her hearing aids, actually thankful that she didn’t have to listen to every little whisper and sound. Very little of her parent’s display came in through her left ear as the ITC acted more like an earplug when powered off.
Before she could close her eyes and enjoy the movement of the hearse, her phone buzzed on the leather seat beside her.
[Enid 🐺🌈]: T-3 hours!! I even wore black for you today. Kinda. There's glitter.
Wednesday huffed faintly through her nose because of course Enid would taint black with glitter . She locked the phone and tucked it away.
She wouldn’t say it aloud. But she was starting to look forward to seeing her. Just a little.
Maybe.
The Addams family hearse rolled past the black iron gates of Nevermore Academy just before noon. The sky was overcast, gloomy and appropriate. The grounds were a flurry of motion. Students and parents milled about, trunks clattered on cobblestones, voices layered over voices in a chaos of greetings, instructions, and complaints. A banner strung above the archway read:
WELCOME BACK, NEVERMORE STUDENTS!
Wednesday’s jaw tightened as she powered both of her aids back on. She hadn’t thought much about the return itself, too focused on the physical preparation: the packing, the devices, the appointments. Now, with the crowd pressing into her ears from all angles, she realized what she hadn’t accounted for:
Noise. So much noise .
The filtered hiss of her aids was normally manageable. But in a crowd, this crowd, it layered with everything else: the scrape of shoes, the wheels of luggage, the chitter of gossip, squeals, laughter, footsteps echoing against stone. Someone nearby was chewing gum too loudly. A wolf kid’s laugh cracked in her right aid. Someone dropped a case and the resulting metallic clang lanced through her head like a blade.
Her satchel bounced slightly at her side.
Thing, who now stood on her shoulder, tapped her once, then slipped from his perch, into the main pocket of her bag. His fingers found her phone. After a brief pause, he opened her hearing app and switched her aids to a crowd filter , a setting they’d practiced.
The high-end RIC in her right ear adjusted first, narrowing its directional focus. The ITC in her left smoothed its input. Together, the chaos dulled into something more manageable; like someone had turned the cacophony down one layer, just enough to breathe.
Wednesday exhaled slowly through her nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. She still hated it. The sound was garbled in a way that felt wrong, like strangers were speaking underwater in a language she should understand. But it was better than nothing. Better than feeling untethered again.
She followed her family inside.
Weems had apparently wanted to meet with them upon their arrival before Wednesday would be allowed to go up to her dorm and get unpacked.
Wednesday’s jaw clenched when she saw the smiling woman standing in front of the familiar set of heavy oak doors. Wednesday refused to even remain neutral, simply glaring up at her as they approached.
Weems stood waiting in her usual regal posture, alive and as crisp as pressed silk. Her smile, though civil, held a guarded politeness, unsurprising, considering their last encounter had ended in near-fatal deception and a lethal Nightshade cocktail.
"Wednesday," Weems greeted coolly. "You’re looking well. Welcome back to Nevermore"
"Surprising, considering the company I keep." Wednesday deadpanned, stepping forward.
Morticia gave a serene smile, and Gomez placed a hand over his heart. “She means it with love.”
Weems did not acknowledge that and Wednesday just scoffed. She didn’t even have respect for the woman.
"Your dorm room is unchanged. Your new dorm parent has been informed of your return and your… accommodations."
Wednesday’s jaw clicked, but she said nothing.
Weems’ eyes flicked to her parents. “I’ve received the file, including the referral for follow-up care in Burlington. I’ve already made arrangements with your new dorm parent to ensure any necessary appointments are covered by transportation. I trust that’s acceptable?”
Wednesday muttered, “Fine.”
“I just wanted to assure you that the school is both willing and able to provide support with you dis-”
“I do not require further assistance.” Wednesday interrupted, glaring hard at the woman, “Not from the school and definitely not from you.”
Weems seemed taken back as Wednesday felt her blood boil, “I anticipated as much. That being said, it is you discretion on if you choose to let your teachers in on your condition.”
Wednesday glared harder before turning and promptly leaving the adults behind in the office.
Once she was out of the office, the noise of the hall greeted her again like a slap. She winced, then adjusted her satchel strap. Pugsley, who was sitting just outside the office, frowned and rose from his seat, looking at her with a silent question. She didn’t acknowledge the look as she headed toward the dorms without another word. Pugsley hesitated before following after her.
“You do not need to babysit me, Pugsley.” She growled through gritted teeth as she spun to face him.
The boy scoffed, “Of course not, but I’m not being left with mom and dad while they ‘reminisce’” The last word punctuated by a shiver.
That, Wednesday could understand, whether or not she believed him was in the air.
She simply turned and continued walking.
The air in Nevermore’s entry hall was thick with noise and motion.
A knot of returning students parted as the Addams siblings stepped through the doors. They dodged quickly, not out of fear but something stranger…respect. Whispers trailed behind them, reverent and reverberating.
Wednesday walked with her chin high, but her eyes flicked sharply between faces, mouths, movement. Nothing stayed still long enough to make sense of. She caught glances, fragments of speech she couldn’t follow. The return to Nevermore had felt like a necessary step. A familiar place. A controlled place. But she hadn’t anticipated this much noise. Not like this.
The RIC in her right ear fed her a layered stream of overlapping voices, footsteps on stone, wheels of trunks, laughter and echoes. None of it felt decipherable. It was just loud .
Her left ear was quieter with the ITC, but even that felt like too much now.
She forced her stride to remain even as she climbed the stairs to Ophelia Hall, her brother still on her heels. Pugsley was trying to get her attention, asking if she wanted him to leave her any rat bones. His voice collided with the others, not blending, just crashing into one another.
Finally, she got to the top of the tower. The door was already open, revealing a lurch setting down one of her trunks at the end of her bed before leaving again, likely to grab more luggage. Her room was blissfully still. Mostly empty, for now. The noise, however, followed her in like a cloud.
Wednesday stood just inside the room, spine stiff, and tried to process it all. Touching her temples as a headache threatened to emerge.
It was a moment later when more people entered the room. Her parents having caught up to them, talking. Adding to the layers and layers of noise.
Her father's humming, her mother marveling at the view again, her brother asking to open the suitcase with the formaldehyde samples. Everything sounded off , flattened in one ear, tinny in the other. Like listening through a cracked porcelain shell. The overlapping, broken threads of speech wound tighter around her temples.
“ Silence! ” she snapped, louder than she intended, voice sharp and cracking.
They all went still.
Wednesday turned sharply away from them and reached up, tugging the RIC from her right ear and the ITC from her left. Her breath hissed out between her teeth. The sudden quiet was disorienting in its own way but less so.
Thing scrambled from her bag and signed to her.
Are you okay?
She signed back, stiffly: I’m fine. It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Her fingers fumbled briefly in the front pouch of her satchel before closing around both hearing aid cases. She popped open the ITC case and grabbed the other one putting away the RIC. After a deep breath, she seated both ITCs into place.
Muffled, yes. The right ear still felt a bit off. But it was far more manageable.
The sharp edges dulled. The voices were still there; Pugsley muttering something, Morticia cooing about the bedspread she’d apparently already dug out of her suitcase, Gomez pointing out the coffin-shaped bookshelf she didn’t remember being there last semester, but they no longer hit her all at once. Her jaw unclenched slightly.
She’d barely realized until now: this was her first crowd since coming home. The first time she hadn’t had control over the sound around her.
She stood there quietly, composing herself while the room bustled around her again. Thing hopped onto the desk and gave her a look that was part reproach, part encouragement.
She didn’t respond. But she didn’t pull the ITCs out again either.
Once the last trunk had been set down and the remaining small talk run dry, Morticia touched her shoulder lightly and offered a tender, wordless look. Gomez pulled Pugsley gently by the collar, guiding him toward the hallway as he attempted one last sitch for sharing her room “just for the night.”
“We’ll see you off properly before we leave,” her father said.
Her mother added softly, “If you need anything, mon cœur noir... you know how to reach us.”
Wednesday nodded once, short and silent. They didn’t ask for a hug and she didn’t offer one.
The door closed behind them with a soft click. Blessed stillness settled like dust.
She exhaled. Then looked to Thing.
He was watching her from the desk, perched atop the lid of one of her open cases, fingers splayed slightly in question.
Better? he signed.
Wednesday nodded again and moved toward the bed, sitting stiffly on the edge, then letting her spine curl forward slightly as she reached for the closest trunk. She opened it not out of intention, but just to do something. Her fingers brushed the folded black clothes, books bound in threadbare leather, bottles of ink and sharp things tucked into velvet.
“I was unprepared,” she said flatly. “The volume. The motion. The distortion .” She looked toward him. “I shouldn’t have been.”
Thing drummed his fingers.
You need time to adapt to the school.
She scowled mildly, but not at him.
“I dislike the implication that I require more time.”
Thing responded with exaggerated, slow signing.
You are not a vampire, Wednesday. You’re not immortal. You’re not immune. You’re and Addams. Neurodivergent. Deaf. It doesn’t make you any less you than you were last semester.
She blinked, not liking how he just called her on all her weaknesses. She hated them, she hated that she was in this situation and she hated the feeling of her lacking control over her own body and mind.
She sighed in frustration then lifted one hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. The ITC hearing aid was invisible from the front. She’d checked.
“I wasn’t expecting it to feel like drowning in a different kind of silence,” she murmured. “Everything was... layered. Flattened. Just slightly wrong .”
Thing tapped the desk twice in thought, then signed:
You can adjust your settings. We practiced that. Or try pairing your phone again.
He pointed meaningfully at her satchel, still on the floor.
With a sigh, she picked it up, retrieving her phone and glancing at it warily. Notifications blinked at her. Enid had texted again. She’d respond later.
She let Thing climb onto her shoulder while she pulled up the hearing aid app. She hadn't expected to need it so soon , but... the familiar shape of his presence beside her steadied her. She adjusted the input down in both ears, toggling the environment filter manually. The overwhelming buzz eased even further.
Better.
Not perfect. But tolerable.
Sitting there in her dim, sparse dorm room, the noise finally under control, she realized something unsettling:
She’d made it through that crowd. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t snapped irrevocably. Though the thought that she was not in control of herself usually was something that frustrates her to no end.
She glanced at Thing, who was already dragging one of her books toward the bed, the one she had begun reading the night before.
“If anyone ever asks,” she said, “you’re the only being on Earth I trust with my auditory cortex.”
Thing bowed dramatically.
Wednesday had just finished zipping up her satchel when she decided to go find her family. She stepped out of her dorm and let the door click shut behind her, only to nearly collide with someone standing just outside.
The woman was tall, poised, with short-cropped iron-gray curls and a long plum-colored skirt. She held a clipboard in one hand and a lukewarm smile on her face.
"Miss Addams, I presume," she said.
Wednesday straightened. "You are?"
“Evelyn Dorsey,” the woman introduced herself. “I’ll be your dorm parent this term.”
Wednesday observed her warily. The woman just smiled as Wednesday looked down at her hand that seemed to tick off a box on the clipboard..
“I do not wish to be a part of any tragedy you have or will be involved in.” She stated simply.
The woman gave her a confused look but moved on after a moment.
"I trust you're settling in," Evelyn said, tone neutral but not unfriendly.
Wednesday gave a nod in return. “As well as can be expected.”
“Well, I figured I would introduce myself and let you know that my door will always be open.”
“I’m not in the habit of needing things,” Wednesday said, but something about the quiet, unassuming nature of the woman’s manner gave her pause. She was nothing like Thornhill. She seemed friendly enough but the energy radiating off of her was an authoritative one. She wasn’t there to be her friend.
That earned her a single notch of Wednesday’s guarded respect.
She gave a brief, courteous nod before heading down the stairs.
The lack of small talk was welcome as well.
She found her parents and brother standing before the Nevermore trophy case like tourists in a museum. Gomez was gesturing grandly at a plaque from 1983, Morticia’s eyes misty with recollection, while Pugsley pointed out a sword sealed behind glass. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she realized that it wasn’t a whole sword. It was what remained of the hilt and blade of the broken sabre her mother killed Garret with. The one that she used against crackstone.
"Father," Wednesday announced. "Mother. Pugsley."
They all turned at once.
"There you are, darling!" Gomez said. "We were just admiring your legacy. You know there’s an Addams in nearly every decade on this wall?"
Wednesday didn’t spare the case another glance, “That would explain the collective sense of unease radiating off it.”
Morticia laughed softly, brushing her daughter’s arm. "We thought we might go into Jericho. Get lunch before we leave you to your… routine."
Wednesday didn’t protest. Mostly because she was tired of the echoes bouncing off the hallway walls.
As they exited the gates of Nevermore, Wednesday glanced up at the Weathervane. The sight of it made her stomach shift. Her hearing might be different, but her memory wasn’t.
Tyler had worn that café like a second skin. Smiling while he lied to her face. Smiling while people died.
She glared at it in passing.
They chose a small restaurant with a mostly empty dining room. Quiet. Calm. Thank the void.
Wednesday slid into the booth across from Pugsley, while Thing took a perch between her and the window. The family murmured softly about the menu.
Then her phone buzzed.
She reached into her satchel, pulled it out, and turned it over.
The message preview froze her in place.
Unknown Number
🖤
Welcome back.
🖤
[Image Attachment]
She tapped the image.
It was her. She was standing in front of the Nevermore trophy case, flanked by her mother and father, with Pugsley mid-sentence and Thing just barely visible over her shoulder.
The timestamp was from five minutes ago.
Her heart didn’t race. It didn’t need to. Cold settled into her gut like frost.
She tucked the phone facedown on the table, spine straight, expression unreadable.
Morticia looked at her, something sharp flickering behind her eyes. “Is everything alright, little raven?”
Wednesday tilted her head, “It appears someone missed me.”
Her mother gave her a questioning look but didn’t press.
She was glad for the quiet of the restaurant, it allowed her a moment of peace with her family before she had to be thrown back into the chaos of the school. She could compose herself.
The gates of Nevermore loomed behind her like the mouth of a familiar crypt.
Wednesday stood near the base of the stairs, her satchel hanging from one shoulder, her parents flanking her on either side while students swarmed in and out of the entryway in waves of luggage and laughter.
Gomez placed a hand on her shoulder. “Try not to start any cults this term. Or at least… not without telling us first.”
Morticia smiled with a more delicate pride. “We’ll call on next weekend, darling. Just to hear how the first week has gone.”
Pugsley gave a shy little wave from behind Gomez. “Send pictures of monsters, okay?”
“I don’t take pictures,” Wednesday replied flatly. “If something wants to be remembered, it should leave a scar.”
Gomez chuckled and stepped forward, arms open.
She didn’t flinch this time.
He hugged her tightly, murmuring something in Spanish against her temple before stepping back.
Pugsley was next, throwing his arms around her middle. “You’ll come home for break, right?”
She nodded.
Morticia air-kissed both of her cheeks, her cold hands briefly cupping Wednesday’s face. “Be brilliant, my starless sky. But don’t burn out.”
With that, they turned. Thing lingered a moment on her shoulder, squeezing lightly before crawling into the bag on her shoulder. Then, with a final glance from her father, the Addams family departed.
She turned slightly, prepared to return to her dorm, and froze when she felt a tap at her back. Thing had emerged partway from the flap, signing quickly.
Someone’s behind you.
Wednesday turned in time to see Eugene Otinger jogging toward her, flanked by his two moms. His curls had grown out slightly, and his glasses were new. He was grinning.
“You made it back!” he called, too loudly.
Wednesday blinked, her brain needing a second to parse the emotional tone of the words. She tilted her head slightly, assessing.
“Yes, it seems that stabbing a homicidal pilgrim results in overwhelming forgiveness of one’s perceived wrongdoing.” she said flatly, though not unkindly.
“I mean, yeah, they’d be crazy to expel you.” Eugene said, catching up and pushing his glasses up his nose. “You said goodbye that night, after the Hyde stuff when they took me back to the hospital. But I wasn’t sure if they’d let you back. I’m really glad they did.”
She studied him, her expression unreadable. Somewhere in her chest, something shifted. He looked healthy. Animated. Less pale than the last time she’d seen him unconscious and pale beneath hospital lighting. But his words felt... disconnected, the emotional intensity not quite translating.
Thing made a small wave from the side of her satchel, just in Eugene’s line of sight.
“I see coma survival agrees with you,” Wednesday finally said.
He laughed, albeit awkwardly. “Better than the alternative.”
Sue smiled from behind him, “We just wanted to say thank you again. We never got to. Not properly.”
“You were there for him when it mattered most,” added Janet, her voice warm.
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed slightly, her tone as even as ever. “He saved my life. We’re even.”
Eugene flushed, a hand drifting toward his satchel strap. “Still. You didn’t have to-”
“Neither did you,” she cut in. Trying not to snap at him. She did not want to have this conversation. Ever.
That shut him up with a small, bashful smile. Then, after a beat, he offered, “The hive missed you.”
Wednesday gave a very faint nod.
Eugene rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be around. You can stop by the hives whenever. The bees’ll wanna say hi.”
Wednesday gave a slow blink, but the corner of her mouth twitched, barely, and only for a second.
“I’ll consider it.”
“Cool. See you around, Wednesday!”
He gave her a quick, two-fingered salute and retreated, his moms calling after him to slow down before he knocked someone over with his bag. The crowd swallowed them up, voices and footsteps fading into background hum.
Wednesday watched him disappear for a moment longer, then turned and headed for the stairs.
Thing adjusted himself in her satchel, peeking up at her. She gave him a glance. “No, I’m not touched,” she said flatly, already climbing the first step. “I simply prefer bees to people. At least they serve a purpose.”
He signed a skeptical gesture she chose not to acknowledge.
The hallways were still teeming with returning students and their families, but most were heading in the opposite direction; out, rather than up. By the time she reached her dorm floor, her ears were ringing from the sound bouncing between the stone walls. Even with both ITC aids in, the muddled chaos grated against her thoughts like the scraping of a violin out of tune.
Her hand tightened around the strap of her satchel. Familiar. Irritating. Manageable.
When she reached her door, she paused. The hallway was quieter here. For a moment, she stood still, letting her shoulders drop half an inch as she reached for the key in her coat pocket.
One last glance down the corridor. No one.
She stepped inside her room and shut the door behind her.
Silence. Well, relative silence. The quiet, padded hum of ambient noise filtered through her aids, softened by the ITCs' subtle compression. The air in the dorm was stale and undisturbed. The bed was made. The other half of the room, Enid’s half, was still mostly empty, but a pink suitcase and rainbow explosion back pack leaned against the bed frame.
Wednesday exhaled slowly and let her satchel slip to the ground.
Thing hopped out and began inspecting the corners of the room with brisk efficiency. Wednesday, for her part, stood in the center for a moment, taking in the space with a practiced eye.
The walls hadn’t changed. The ceiling still bore the faint stains from one of her early experiments. The ghost of Enid’s scent lingered beneath the dry air, something vaguely floral, annoyingly bright.
Her fingers brushed the back of her ear, tapping the edge of the ITC where it nestled just outside the canal. A little more bearable. Still strange.
She turned toward the window and let the sunlight spill over her face.
Then she began to unpack.
Wednesday unpacked with clinical precision. Her dark wardrobe was a study in utility: starched blouses, pleated skirts, dressed, etc, and the occasional heavier garment for Vermont’s colder days as they head into spring. She lined them up neatly in her half of the wardrobe, each hanger spaced evenly. New uniforms seemed to have been hung for her before she had arrived.
Her shoes followed. Some well-worn, others newer, gifted or acquired during her break. She paused as her fingers brushed the smooth canvas of a new pair of black Converse.
They were unlike her usual fare, lighter, quieter, less imposing. Still black, at least. She held one in her hand for a long moment, thumb brushing the white rubber toe. Not the type of shoe she’d normally be caught dead in.
But the weight of her boots had become oppressive lately. At least with the converse and her other new pairs of flats, she should feel the wooden floors.
Wednesday sat down and unlaced her usual heavy pair of boots. Her feet felt strangely light without them. For a brief second, she considered going barefoot. But the idea left her feeling too exposed, too visible , so she tugged the black Chucks on instead. The soles were thin, but she could feel the floor better beneath her. Grounded, somehow.
Next came her cello case, which she set by the window with care. She flipped the latches open, checking that the instrument was secure. The subtle varnish glinted in the sunlight. She stepped back, satisfied.
She set her typewriter on the desk next, sliding it into its usual spot with a small thunk. The familiar weight of it filled the room with a sense of permanence.
Then-
BANG!
A loud thud echoed behind her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She even felt it through the floor.
She turned sharply, instincts ready, heart jumping.
Enid Sinclair stood in the doorway, halfway through tumbling a duffel bag, suitcase and a few other small bags onto the floor, winded from the effort and already talking a mile a minute.
Her blonde hair had been freshly cut, shorter and easier to manage, the dyed pink and blue at the tips brighter than ever. She wore well-fitted blue jeans, a black and red band t-shirt, the red a very sparkly pair of lips, and a grey denim jacket covered in enamel pins and patches—wolves, rainbows, hearts, a tiny coffin.
Wednesday blinked, trying to process the flood of movement and sound. Enid’s mouth moved rapidly, her hands gesturing as she spoke with the enthusiasm of someone who had been saving up words all summer.
Wednesday tracked her lips, or at least she was trying. But Enid was talking too fast, and her face wasn’t always in full view as she moved around.
By the time Enid stopped, eyes bright with anticipation, Wednesday realized she had absolutely no idea what had just been said.
Luckily, Thing had already emerged from his hiding spot and was signing helpfully from the desk.
“She wants a hug.”
Wednesday stared at him. Then at Enid. Her roommate’s wide eyes were full of expectation and, of course, hope.
With a theatrical sigh, Wednesday muttered, “Just this once.”
Enid beamed and threw her arms around her, pulling her in. Her head landed on Wednesday’s shoulder; coincidentally, the side of her better ear. She smelled like citrus shampoo and too much travel.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she murmured.
Wednesday didn’t reply at first. But then, almost inaudibly, she echoed the words she’d spoken the first night they’d ever roomed together, months ago, on that balcony under the stars.
“The feeling is incredibly mutual.”
Notes:
Finally back at school! Reunited with Enid. It can only go up from here, right? ....Right?
Your response to this story had me editing through 5 and 6 in the same day. I technically have one more that is one read through away from post-able. BUT technically another 9 that need some more TLC. I started writing this in June but didn't at all in july due to a lot of stuff. Still, I look forward to seeing what you guys think! I have read ALL the comments I have just yet to respond but know they are read and exiting for me to see!
Since I wrote a large chunk before the season, there is a lot I won't be adding, obvi. However, I may throw elements around.
NOTE Weems is alive because I kind of want to explore Wednesday's anger at her. I did kind of have Dort at first but I think this will be an interesting aspect. I do know my own stalker which I think you guys will find intriguing.
Chapter Text
The dorm was quiet again. Enid had gone off to greet her other friends after picking up the rest of her luggage from the office where other students had shipped things ahead of time, giving Wednesday a rare pocket of solitude. Their belongings were unpacked, the room once more shaped into the familiar duality of pastel chaos and gothic order.
Wednesday sat on her bed for a moment, fingers laced, eyes on the opposite wall. She thought about the brief conversation she'd had with Enid. Not the words, which had been lost to the whirlwind of excitement and speed, but the feeling. After Enid had settled a little, slowed down, it had been easier to follow. Easier to understand . It had been grounding. A reminder that there was, perhaps, a way forward. It felt almost normal.
Still, she was glad for the reprieve.
She stood, took a breath, and made her way downstairs. Hunger was more of an obligation than a need, but the dining hall called.
The crowd was thick with loud voices, scraping chairs, clattering trays. Wednesday pressed her lips together and joined the line, her posture straighter than usual, almost rigid.
A tap on her shoulder.
She looked down. Thing waved and pointed.
Following his gesture, Wednesday spotted Xavier and a few of the Nightshades seated at a table not far off. Enid was there too, her head bobbing as she laughed at something. Bianca sat like a queen among knights, arms crossed but gaze sharp. Yoko gave a nod as their eyes met. Beside her was someone unfamiliar: a butterscotch blonde girl with high cheekbones and aquamarine eyes.
Wednesday hesitated only a beat before crossing over, standing at the right side of the group, where she could better catch the rhythm of their voices.
“Xavier,” she greeted.
“Wednesday,” he returned, an easy half-smile crossing his face.
“Bianca. Yoko.” A nod to each.
The unfamiliar girl raised a hand slightly. “Divina. We haven’t officially met, but I’ve heard about you.”
“Everyone has,” Bianca said dryly, a small teasing smirk on face.
Enid moved over so Wednesday could sit on her right. She hesitated before carefully setting her tray down next to Enid’s and taking a seat at the end of the bench.
Enid grinned and launched into a story, clearly excited, but a group of Furs burst through the cafeteria doors in a noisy wave. Laughter, growls, and jostling movements made Wednesday wince. The words in front of her dissolved into meaningless noise.
She clenched her jaw, her face stony, and glared at the source of the disruption. “Heathens,” she muttered under her breath.
“Anyway,” Enid said again, a little slower, “I was invited to join the Nightshades!”
Xavier looked toward Wednesday. “And if you ever do consent to join…”
“My answer remains no.”
Yoko smirked, her fangs flashing. “They’d have to do more than invite her to get Wednesday Addams to do anything .”
A twitch of something like amusement touched Wednesday’s mouth. Barely.
“Come on,” Enid urged. “It could be fun if we all joined together-”
But another cluster of students pushed into the dining hall. The noise spiked again. Wednesday’s temple throbbed. She tensed, suppressing a flinch and straightening in a practiced motion.
“I have notes to organize,” she said flatly, picking up her tray. “For an investigation.”
Enid raised her brows. “Already wrapped up in a new mystery?”
Wednesday didn’t respond, only turned and strode back toward the dorm.
She didn’t eat.
By the time she reached her room, her pulse had slowed but the tension hadn’t quite eased. She closed the door behind her and set the tray aside untouched.
Her phone buzzed again.
She checked it.
Another message from the unknown number.
This time, it was a photo. Wednesday, seated at the table with the Nightshades. The image was framed slightly from above, likely taken from one of the upper stairwells.
Welcome back.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Her expression didn’t change, but her heart did a slow, deliberate twist.
Wordlessly, she opened her nightstand drawer and took out the small black cases. She slipped both hearing aids out of her ear, easing the pressure behind her eyes, and tucked them away with care.
She pulled out a clean notebook, inked in black, and opened to the first page. Her pen hovered as she thought.
What do I know?
- The stalker has visual access to student areas.
- They have my number.
- They knew when I returned.
- They were close enough to photograph me unnoticed.
Not much. But it was a start.
A knock against her desk made her glance up.
Thing was perched near her notes, fingers signing thoughtfully.
You did well at dinner. You stayed long enough to get food and you tried to sit.
Wednesday nodded once. That was true. She had.
It didn’t show on her face, but the acknowledgment settled something deep inside her. It had felt, for just a few minutes, normal.
Or something like it.
Wednesday tapped her pen against the page once, then twice, before writing one more line beneath her fledgling list:
They want me to know they’re watching.
There was a difference between surveillance and performance. This wasn’t just someone hiding in the shadows. This was someone showing off.
She stared at the photo again, examining every detail. The angle, the lighting, the slight blur. It had been taken quickly. No attempt to frame it artfully. But still close enough to suggest they were nearby… and confident.
Thing tapped the edge of her notebook, then signed:
Should we tell someone?
Wednesday didn’t answer right away.
Her gaze sharpened, jaw tightening slightly. Telling someone now would mean eyes on her. Questions. The possibility of being coddled, or worse, pitied. No. She needed more information before bringing anyone else in. Before it became anyone else’s problem.
She signed back, crisp and deliberate:
Not yet. I want to see how bold they get.
Thing hesitated, then flattened his fingers in what she interpreted as reluctant agreement.
Wednesday leaned back in her chair, one hand toying with the notebook’s corner.
This wasn’t like last time. The Hyde had been sloppy. Emotional. Tyler had slipped under her radar because she hadn’t expected him. But this? This was different. Calculated. Whoever this was had waited. Observed. And they weren’t following her across the country… they were here.
Which meant they were either already a Nevermore student, or someone who had easy access to it.
She flipped to a new page and began jotting down names.
Students who stayed over break? Someone posing as a staff member?
The idea that the stalker might be someone she'd already met left a sour taste in her mouth.
Thing nudged her phone. A subtle reminder.
“It just started.” Wednesday murmured, “If they’re watching me now…I’ll give them something to see.”
She picked up the phone and slowly typed a message in reply:
Your welcome is noted. I suggest you make your next move carefully.
She didn’t expect a reply. Not immediately.
She wanted to see what they would do now that they knew she was playing the game.
Enid came in about an hour later, the floorboards vibrating softly beneath her steps, through the socked foot the goth had on the floor.. Wednesday, curled in her leather chair beside the desk, didn’t look up right away, too absorbed in the murder mystery novel spread open in her lap. Her shoes were discarded as always, a quiet ritual she found oddly grounding, her other foot curled beneath her.
She hadn't put her hearing aids back in. The quiet was a relief, and she'd slipped so easily into focus that she'd barely noticed the time pass.
Enid dropped onto her bed with a huff and twisted around to face her, though the angle was awkward. From her position, Wednesday could just make out her lips. Enid was saying something about Ajax.
Something about how they’d agreed to stay friends.
Wednesday looked up then, raising an eyebrow. Ajax: the gorgon boy who always wore that ridiculous beanie to keep his snakes in check. She only remembered him in brief flashes: awkward posture, nervous smile, a faint hissing if you got too close. The kind of boy who got lost in the library stacks and made puns about shedding.
“You deserve better than a boy with the IQ of a damp sponge,” she said without inflection, eyes returning to her book.
Enid grinned and tossed a throw pillow at her in mock offense. Then she grew quiet. After a pause, her lips moved again.
“Did anything new happen since we stopped texting last week?”
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. Not a lot has changed since last week. No, but a lot had changed since they were last at nevermore. And yet… nothing had, not really as far as Enid is, or will be, aware. She flipped the page in her book without reading it.
Then, something caught her eye. Or rather, the absence. Enid’s sleeves, long and carefully tucked over her wrists. It was deliberate, she could see the stretch where they were constantly pulled down. She looked back at her face, squinting at the near invisible indentations on her left cheek.
“Why are your scars covered?”
Enid blinked. Her lips moved slower now, and Wednesday leaned forward to read them better.
“My mom didn’t want them showing.”
Wednesday's eyes darkened. “Your mother wasn’t there. Those are a testament. You should wear them as such.”
Enid smiled faintly, but didn’t answer.
Wednesday shut her book, not loudly, but decisively, and set it on her lap. Her eyes flicked down to Enid’s sleeves again.
“I’m serious,” she said, voice low but deliberate. “Hiding them implies shame. That the pain didn’t happen. That what you survived doesn’t matter.”
Enid’s mouth turned downward for a moment. “It’s just easier this way. If people don’t ask, I don’t have to explain.”
Wednesday tilted her head. “If people ask, it’s an opportunity to make them uncomfortable with the truth.”
That earned a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Not everyone’s as good at that as you are.”
Wednesday leaned forward, elbows on her knees, gaze sharp. “It’s not about comfort. Not yours, not theirs. It’s about what was real. You bled for this place. For me. You don’t get to erase that because your mother doesn’t like how it looks.”
Enid swallowed hard. Her smile had faded completely now. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve before she finally pulled it up—just a bit, just to show the edge of a scar along her forearm. The skin was still pink and shiny in places, healing but clearly once torn open. She looked down at it like she was seeing it for the first time again.
“She said people would stare.”
“Let them.” Wednesday’s voice was firm. “You were brave. That is more than most of them can claim. Besides, everyone is likely well aware of your part in saving the school.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Enid looked back at her.
“You don’t… think it’s gross?”
Wednesday blinked. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have let you bleed all over me.”
Enid laughed, sniffling once and wiping under her eyes, even though she wasn’t quite crying. “God, you’re such a weirdo.”
“Correct.”
A beat passed, and then Wednesday added, more quietly, “You should never be ashamed of what you survived, Enid.”
Enid looked at her, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way she rarely let them be. “Yeah,” she said after a long pause. “Okay.”
She pushed the sleeves up a bit more, both of them now, and lay back on her bed without saying anything else. The room was quiet again, but Wednesday didn’t return to her book. She just sat for a moment longer, watching Enid breathe, the visible scars on her arms catching the soft light from the window. Testaments, indeed.
Enid, finally relaxing, pulled a throw blanket over her legs and reached for her phone. She didn’t notice Thing creep up from where he’d been tucked against the desk lamp.
He crawled silently onto the arm of Wednesday’s chair and tapped her forearm with two fingers. She glanced down. He signed slowly, clearly.
You should take your own advice.
Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes flicked sideways to Enid, who was lost in her phone, earbuds in now. She didn’t look like she was paying attention, so Wednesday signed back quickly, guarded.
It’s not the same.
Thing hesitated, then tried to protest. He began to sign again; It is. You’re- but Wednesday turned her head back to her book and flipped it open without looking at him.
Message received.
Thing paused, then gave a small sigh-like flex of his fingers before crawling quietly back to his perch by the lamp.
Across the room, Enid muttered something too quiet for Wednesday or even Thing to hear; content, maybe, or tired. She didn’t look up. But Wednesday’s eyes lingered on her for just a moment before dropping to the page.
The weight of her words hung in the room. So did the contradiction. But for now, she would leave it alone.
They had the weekend to settle in before classes began. It was a mercy, in theory; time to unpack, adjust, and orient themselves to the new term. In practice, it meant loud dining halls, overenthusiastic greetings, and a persistent barrage of sounds that left Wednesday overstimulated by the end of most days. She visited the quiet of the hummers shack at least once per day, it didn't matter if Eugene was there or off in the school doing other things. It was peaceful.
She allowed Enid to drag her to breakfast more than once. She acquiesced, mostly in the name of hearing aid adjustment. Mealtimes were chaotic, but Enid helped anchor her without realizing. Her chatter was predictable, and she spoke with enough expression that Wednesday could usually piece things together even when the din of the room overwhelmed her.
Throughout the week, Wednesday began methodically testing her hearing aids in this new setting, pushing through the frustration and overstimulation with her usual grim determination. There was no single correct configuration, but patterns began to emerge.
In the classroom, she found herself gravitating to the far right side of the room, always within the first two rows. She hadn’t expected to care, but quickly realized that it was simply easier. From that vantage point, she could better see faces, track voices, and isolate speakers when the room filled with echoes or shifting chairs. It wasn’t comfort; it was strategy.
Reluctantly, she also realized she defaulted to wearing both RICs during class. They offered the clearest directional sound and best clarity in more structured environments. The moment class ended, however, she often swapped them out; replacing left RIC with an ITC to dull the edge of conversation in the hallway, or switching to both ITCs when she felt the throb of sensory overwhelm coming on.
She hated that she needed to think about it at all. But it was effective. And she was nothing if not pragmatic.She and thing had added a couple sound profiles for a couple of the more…problematic classrooms.
A few students came up to her that first week, some offering awkward thanks for the events of the prior term. Her return had not gone unnoticed. Most students didn’t mention the rumors. Some seemed shy, some merely curious. There were a few excitable ones that she did her best to avoid while walking the halls. Wednesday offered nods, vague hums, or simply continued walking.
She shared a few classes with Enid and a couple Nightshades. In one of them, she ended up in the front row beside Enid, with Yoko seated just behind them. Enid beamed like it was fate. Wednesday didn’t complain. She could hear better on her right side in that room, and Enid’s voice was as familiar as ever, animated, clear, and easier to follow than most. She assumed it’s due to them being roommates and so far, the person Wednesday had conversed with the most, other than Thing
So far, it was manageable.
Barely.
But still…manageable.
By midweek, Wednesday had established a rhythm—not a comfortable one, but one that allowed her to function. Academic life lent itself to order. The structure of her days provided just enough routine to anchor her thoughts while still leaving enough chaos for her to feel on edge.
Each morning began with Enid dragging her to breakfast, a compromise she barely tolerated under the guise of ‘acclimatization .’ Wednesday had never particularly enjoyed meal times, but she supposed she couldn’t accuse her hearing aids of being defective if she refused to use them in loud environments. And Enid’s obnoxious cheerfulness at least offered her a fixed point in the noise.
Thing had started managing her sound profiles for her, perched beside her satchel in every class. The subtle brush of his finger along the control panel just before the teacher began speaking had become routine. Volume lowered, background noise dimmed, clarity increased. As classes ended, another brush would signal a shift, sometimes back to normal, sometimes into a ‘social’ mode that helped in the corridors. The transitions were almost seamless now. She hadn't even asked him to do it.
Still, she hadn’t stopped tracking the photos.
They came like clockwork, though never at the same time of day, and never from the same location. She had already compiled a dozen. All outdoors or in shared spaces: the quad, the steps of Ophelia Hall, the entrance to the greenhouse. One from the edge of the woods near the beekeeping shed. And not a single one from inside a classroom.
She’d begun to wonder if it was intentional.
On her latest page of analysis, she wrote in neat, stark ink:
No indoor photos. No classrooms. No library. No dorms. Just halls, grounds, and exits.
Conclusion: Either they avoid confined areas or lack access to them.
Unknown: coincidence or design.
She studied the angles again. None had caught anyone’s reflection in a window or even a passing blur in the background. They were clean shots, like someone was waiting for the moment she was alone, or at least unguarded.
She tapped her pen, letting her eyes drift across her ceiling for a long moment before she added:
Possibility: they know her routine.
The thought unsettled her, though she would never admit it aloud. She hated the idea of someone watching. Not because of the intrusion, but because she hadn’t caught them yet.
Thing rapped the desk beside her, drawing her out of her spiral. When she looked over, he signed simply:
“Class profiles working well?”
She nodded once.
He then signed: “You’re adapting well”
Wednesday frowned slightly. That wasn’t the point. But it was true.
Wednesday reviewed the images again that night, sitting at her desk in the dim glow of her lamp. The familiar subtle buzz of her left hearing aid grounded her focus. Her eyes scanned each photo in the folder she had in front of her titled ‘Uninvited,’ holding it up or zooming it in on her phone to better look in on shadows, corners, reflections, any detail she might’ve missed before.
It was the third photo taken outside the greenhouse that caught her attention. She’d seen it a dozen times already. But this time, when she enlarged the pane of the greenhouse door, something flickered behind the warping of the old glass.
A shape. Indistinct. But undeniably there.
She froze.
It was barely visible; twisted slightly in the reflection, but too well-aligned to be random. A hint of a boot. A sliver of motion caught in the curve of the doorframe. She adjusted the contrast with Thing’s help, then tilted the screen slightly to look at it from another angle.
Not enough to identify a face. Not even a body.
But enough to know one thing for certain:
She hadn’t been alone.
Her heartbeat didn't quicken, but her fingers curled tighter around her pen. She leaned back in her chair, letting the thought settle like stormclouds just over the horizon. Someone had been watching from inside. Or passing through. Or waiting.
She glanced toward her bag, where her hearing aids were stored. ITCs and both RICs in their respective cases. She had taken them out for the night, the silence offering some form of peace, but now it felt...too quiet. Too vulnerable.
Thing perched on her bookshelf raised a finger and pointed at the laptop. Then he signed slowly:
Not a coincidence.
Wednesday’s reply was flat. “Obviously.”
You almost saw them.
She nodded.
Thing then signed, more slowly: They’re getting bolder.
Her jaw set.
Wednesday stood on the piste, fencing mask in one hand, blade in the other. She was facing coach Vlad as he raised his hand to start the match.
The mask went on.
The world dimmed.
She watched the motion carefully; the sharp flick of his wrist and the subtle downward chop that signaled the beginning.
Sound, already inconsistent through the hearing aids, became muted. Flattened. As if the gymnasium had been blanketed in fog. The hum of students watching dulled. Enid’s voice in the stands was lost completely. Even Bianca’s movements were hushed, only the ring of blade against blade cutting through.
They had agreed not to count touches, just spar for the rhythm of it. For practice. For Wednesday to feel the sense of control she lacks. But Wednesday lost herself to it quickly, hyperfocus narrowing her world until there was only Bianca. The flicker of her wrist. The glint of steel. The way her weight shifted before a feint.
And the sound. The sharp hiss of blades clashing. It was the only consistent noise that pierced the fencing mask’s muffling layers and the unpredictability of her hearing aids. It was just loud enough for her to register in her good ear.
To her confusion, Bianca froze mid-step, lowering her guard. But Wednesday didn’t see it soon enough. Didn’t hear the breathy call of her name from across the mat. Her aids fuzzed, recalibrating too late, and the only sound she caught was the faintest screech of air before she advanced again.
Bianca jerked her épée up defensively, deflecting the thrust with a grunt of effort. The moment stretched; tense, off-balance, wrong.
Bianca dropped her sword and yanked off her helmet, brow damp with sweat and eyes wide, breath catching. “Jesus, Wednesday! What the hell?”
It wasn’t cruel. Just startled. Frustrated.
It was then she realized that the coach had halted the match.
Wednesday didn’t flinch, didn’t answer. She turned, jaw tight behind the mask, and stalked off the piste, ignoring the prickle under her skin. The walk to the locker room felt too long. The mask thumped to the floor beside the bench as she sat hard, hands pressed to her temples. The sound was still buzzing, ricocheting between her ears like trapped bees.
A quiet pat against her knee.
Thing. Cautious.
She snapped before she could stop herself. “What?”
He curled his fingers into an apologetic sign, tapping his palm, then gesturing toward her ears. I tried to adjust the setting. It didn’t take.
Wednesday closed her eyes. A breath.
Then her hands moved. It’s not your fault , she signed, slower than usual. The mask blocks too much. There are limitations. I have to learn them.
He nudged her leg with a little more confidence. That’s called growth.
She narrowed her eyes. “It’s called not wanting to stab the fencing captain in front of witnesses.”
You should tell Vlad. Then, Thing made a rude gesture and skittered away with a smug little flip.
Wednesday got changed before the class was even over before heading back up to her dorm.
Wednesday stepped out of the closet in her fresh black shirt and dark trousers, the clean lines of her outfit sharp. She moved efficiently to her desk, retrieving the charging case from a drawer and slipping the ITCs inside without a sound. She didn’t turn until the lid was fully closed, the aids out of sight. Her hair fell just right over her ears, she checked with a small, calculated tuck.
The door creaked open. Enid strolled in, tugging a hoodie over her freshly washed hair. The pink and blue tips were a bit darker, still damp. She collapsed onto her bed with a theatrical groan before flipping over to face Wednesday.
“You okay?” Enid asked, genuine concern in her voice.
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. “I’m not bleeding and Bianca is still breathing.”
“So... a win?”
“I suppose that depends on your perspective.”
Enid smiled faintly, watching her for a beat before her tone softened. “You want to talk about what happened?”
Wednesday turned toward her but kept a careful distance. “I missed the cue. I was... focused.”
“Not on stabbing the fencing captain, I hope.”
“Undecided.”
Enid giggled at the banter. They stood for a few minutes before Wednesday speaks.
“I would like to get some homework done.”
Enid grins with a nod, “All good. I promised Yoko I’d help her pick out her outfit for her date with Divina this weekend. Don’t wait up!”
The Blonde grinned and bounced back out of the dorm while Wednesday settled at her desk with her books, happy for the quiet and normalcy.
Notes:
My first draft is a MESS. This might be the last chapter for at least the rest of the week while I weed through it, I had 3 chapter 7s and 2 chapter 8s though I think all of those scenes were weaved into chapter 6 and 7 of my posting draft. I do not wish to repeat things. my mind is all over the place.
So! Question for you all. You don't have to answer, of course. But are any of you reading this hard of hearing and/or neuro-spicy?
I won't drag out Wednesday hiding from Enid for too much longer. Your comments keep me going an excite me, pushing me to write more!
But yeah, busy for the rest of today, all of thursday and saturday, I'll probably see you guys after all that!
Chapter Text
Finally, the weekend has come. She had no desire to be anywhere near people. She was stressed from trying to focus and catch things in class, trying to follow conversations where there are multiple people talking all at once, not to mention the back of her ears were a little sore from the RICs sitting just behind them.
Wednesday sat curled in her desk chair, one leg tucked beneath her and the other with the ball of her foot planted on the floor. A pen moving steadily over parchment. The familiar silence was welcome. She had left her hearing aids in their case, tucked in her top drawer. The distorted hum of ambient noise wasn’t worth the distraction when her thoughts were focused and her world comfortably narrowed to ink and paper.
Then, the faintest tremor passed through the floorboards. Barely perceptible, but enough.
She glanced up just as Enid peeked her head into their dorm, the way the hinges sent a wave through the wood giving her away. Wednesday glanced up from her desk.
“You’ve been surgically attached to that notebook all day,” Enid said, walking to the invisible center line of the room.Wednesday carefully reading the shape of her mouth, “Come watch a movie with me. We can turn your brain off for a bit.”
Wednesday didn’t answer. As Enid ducked out of sight to change, Wednesday reached into her desk drawer and retrieved her hearing aids. She slipped them in quickly, one of each, fingers practiced now. The wave of background noise returned; hums, clicks and subtle creaks she could categorize by now. Familiar chaos.
When Enid reemerged in pajama shorts and a t-shirt covered in pastel werewolf cartoons, she had her laptop already in hand and a hopeful look on her face.
“We’re watching it down here,” she announced. “It’s not happening on my bed, too many rainbow throw pillows. I know you wouldn’t survive the visual trauma.”
“Correct.”
“I’ll grab the bean bags,” Enid said brightly.
Wednesday nearly flinched. “Must we?”
“Yes,” Enid grinned, already crouching to tug the oversized blobs from under her bed. “You can pretend they’re furniture. Theater seating, even. For ambiance.”
She dragged out a bright pink one first, well-worn and sun-faded in spots, and dropped it onto the rug for herself. Then, with a quiet sort of triumph, she disappeared in her closet and returned with a black one. Unscuffed. The fabric still had a slight shine, and the seams were pristine. New.
Wednesday didn’t comment as Enid just plopped the black bean bag beside her pink one and sat down, booting up the laptop. “You coming?”
Wednesday hesitated for a heartbeat, then moved from her desk. She sank stiffly onto the black bean bag on Enid’s left, uncertain how she’d look but strangely…comfortable.
The fabric was cool against her palms. Untouched. Chosen, clearly, for her.
She almost smiled. Almost. But what she did feel was a flutter of warmth low in her chest; curious, unfamiliar, and not entirely unpleasant.
Enid started the movie. The laptop sat between them on a pillow, angled so they could both see. As the title sequence rolled, Wednesday noticed the subtitles flashing automatically.
“You use captions?” she asked, not hiding the curiosity in her voice and a small swell of anxiety built in her chest.
Enid nodded without looking away. “Started doing it when I was watching stuff with background noise. Got used to it. Now I need them. I actually follow the story better.”
“I see.” the anxiety dissipating.
Enid turned to her, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Do you want me to turn them off?”
“No,” Wednesday said. “They’re fine.”
They fell into quiet as the first act of the film played. A college kid impaled himself on a broken tree branch. Enid clapped a hand over her mouth in delighted horror.
“He just swan-dived right into it!” she cackled.
Wednesday arched a brow, not expecting the rainbow werewolf to find in the least bit funny. “He deserved it.”
Enid nudged her, shoulder brushing Wednesday’s. “You’re into it.”
“I am present.”
“You’re enjoying it.”
“I’m tolerating it. Don’t mistake my silence for approval.”
Enid laughed again, softer this time, and leaned a little closer without realizing. Her voice dropped as she repeated one of the characters’ lines under her breath, and this time, Wednesday caught it only because she was watching her lips.
She didn’t comment. But the warmth from Enid’s side of the room was noticeable now, and still strangely tolerable.
Another scene played. This time, two characters chased each other with tools they didn’t know how to use. Enid glanced over, probably ready to joke, but paused when she saw Wednesday watching intently, not the screen, but the words below it, the expressions, the rhythm.
Enid didn’t say anything. She just smiled quietly and settled back into her bean bag, her knee brushing Wednesday’s now and then.
From the rafters, Thing clambered down with practiced stealth. He landed gently on the bed frame, then ambled up and perched on Wednesday’s shoulder.
She gave him a sideways glance. He tapped lightly against her collarbone, then signed:
You should tell her.
Wednesday frowned.
Thing pointed toward Enid, who was now giggling as another character accidentally flung himself off a ledge, and signed:
You trust her.
She shot him a sharp look and subtly signed back out of enid’ view, using one of things single handed signs
Not the same.
Thing made a huffy gesture, the hand equivalent of a dramatic sigh, but didn’t press the issue and walked off.
“What’s up with thing?” Enid asked, watching where he had disappeared under Wednesday’s bed.
“He has no respect for privacy.” Wednesday murmured.
Enid shrugged and looked back at the movie.
Wednesday refocused on the screen, but her gaze drifted to Enid for a moment longer than necessary. Enid, still oblivious, snuggled into her pink bean bag and whispered another line along with the movie.
Wednesday didn’t hear all of it. But she didn’t mind.
The next afternoon passed quietly. The dorm was steeped in soft, golden light through the gothic-paneled windows. Wednesday sat at her desk, typing with deliberate rhythm, the click-clack of her typewriter steady and grounding. Enid was sprawled across her bed, earbuds in, flipping lazily through a magazine while her nails dried a muted lavender.
Thing waved from his perch on the desk. Wednesday paused mid-sentence and turned her gaze to him. He tapped her wrist pointedly, then gestured to the crystal ball case in the far corner of the desk.
Almost time.
Wednesday’s fingers hovered over the keys for a moment longer before she drew back and looked toward Enid. The line dividing their room wasn’t marked, but it was understood. Enid’s side was still an explosion of soft colors and texture, while hers remained stark, orderly. She stood and crossed it only when necessary. Now, apparently, qualified.
Enid noticed the movement and tugged one earbud free. “What’s up?”
Wednesday studied her for a beat. “My parents are going to call soon.”
Enid blinked, then nodded with an easy, understanding smile already blooming on her face. “Oh! You want the room to yourself?”
“Yes.”
There was no reason to feel strange about it, Wednesday had asked for less with more intensity before. But something about it now felt heavier.
Enid didn’t question it. “No problem. I’ll go catch Yoko and have a mani date. She just got a new chrome polish I’ve been dying to try.”
Thing froze like he’d been hit by lightning. Then slowly turned to Wednesday and vibrated with anticipation.
She gave him a sidelong glance, debating internally. Did she need him here for the call? Probably not. She hadn’t for years, interpreting wasn’t exactly necessary when her parents had their own peculiar rhythm of conversation with her. Still…
No. It would be fine.
Wednesday gave a small nod, and Thing launched himself gleefully off the desk, scaling Enid’s arm with practiced ease to land on her shoulder.
“I’ll be gone a while,” Enid added, grabbing her manicure kit. “Text me when it’s clear.”
Wednesday offered a curt nod.
With that, Enid offered a cheery wave and headed out, Thing happily perched beside her neck, signing excitedly about nail shapes and colors as she disappeared down the hall.
Once the door closed behind them, Wednesday locked it. The click echoed in the still room.
She exhaled, not quite a sigh, just enough to release tension and turned back to her desk. The typewriter was gently set in its case and lowered to the floor. In its place, she opened the crystal ball case, adjusting the stand until it caught the filtered light. The orb shimmered faintly, waiting for the inevitable.
A call with her parents. A return to sharp scrutiny pleasantries. She could manage that. For now, she had the quiet.
The crystal ball flared softly, blooming from smoky silver to a steady blue as the call connected. Wednesday sat stiffly in her chair, arms folded as the shimmer resolved into three familiar figures.
Gomez’s grin hit first, warm and effusive. Morticia sat beside him, elegant as ever in her dark silk gown, one hand on her husband's shoulder. And in front, elbows propped on the table, was Pugsley, eyes wide with barely-contained mischief.
“Mi pequeña tormenta,” Gomez beamed. “You look positively menacing. We miss you terribly.”
Morticia offered a subtle, amused smile. “Darling, you’re a touch pale. Are you eating? Or at least hexing someone regularly?”
Wednesday opened her mouth to speak and paused. All three of them were signing.
Nothing extravagant. Simple signs layered under their words. Synchronized as they spoke.
Her brow furrowed.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked flatly, her hands still on the armrests of her chair as her gaze swept across the trio.
Pugsley brightened and, in a flash of pride, held up a sleek black tablet. “I asked for a phone after I saw you with one,” he explained, his fingers fumbling slightly through the accompanying signs. “Then I found this guy on YouTube who teaches ASL. It was cool. I thought maybe… it’d help.”
Wednesday stared at him, eyes narrowing.
“Why?” she asked, voice low but not harsh.
Pugsley shrugged under her scrutiny. “You looked… tired when we left,” he said honestly, avoiding her eyes for a second. “Like… end-of-the-day tired. And I dunno. I just wanted to help.”
Wednesday said nothing.
Morticia reached out to gently ruffle Pugsley’s hair before speaking, her own signs graceful and elegant. “We found a lovely little application,” she said, “and some online courses that helped quite a bit. Once we realized what he was doing, we joined in.”
“We had an advantage,” Gomez added proudly. “Decades of deciphering Thing’s rather expressive communication system. The Addams family has always spoken in many tongues.”
“Some less living than others,” Morticia said with a nod. “But we felt this was worth learning.”
Just then, a tall, familiar shadow passed slowly through the background of the crystal ball’s projection. Lurch, carrying a silver tray with practiced grace, paused near the doorway. He looked directly at the orb and gave a slow, deliberate sign with long fingers:
YOU LOOK WELL.
It was slow, yes, but precise. Clear. Intentionally paced so even tired eyes could catch every movement.
Wednesday blinked, caught off guard for a moment. Her right hand hovered in front of her chin as she signed Thank you.
Lurch gave a slight, approving nod and lumbered on.
Morticia smiled softly. “He insisted on learning a few phrases. Just in case you ever called during tea.”
“We just wanted to give you options, mija,” Gomez added, his voice a touch quieter now. “So you never have to work so hard just to be heard.”
Wednesday grimaced. Her fingers curled slightly before she forced them to relax against the desk.
She hadn’t asked for any of this. Didn’t want pity. Didn’t think she needed anything.
And yet…
She had been dreading this call. The strain of trying to read lips through magical haze. Of filtering sounds through overworked aids. Of nodding when her brain was too tired to process both speech and intention and hope it was the right response.
She looked at each of them now, her brother sheepish, her father hopeful, her mother composed, and felt something unexpected stir in her chest.
Relief.
“I see,” she said finally, lifting her hands and signing as she spoke; clean, precise. “Your effort is noted.”
Pugsley smiled.
“Returning to Nevermore has been more exhausting than I anticipated,” she added, quieter now, “But I have been able to adjust fairly well.”
Morticia and Gomez exchanged a glance, their worry hidden beneath well-practiced elegance.
“We trust you to adapt,” Morticia said gently. “But even you, my raven, need rest.”
“Though if anyone could conquer exhaustion with a scathing look,,” Gomez said, “it would be you.”
Wednesday let the smallest twitch pass through her expression, not quite a smile, but close enough.
“Don’t let Thing hear you,” she said. “He already thinks I’m insufferable.”
Morticia raised an eyebrow with a smile that didn’t quite hide the softness in her gaze. “Insufferable, perhaps. But adored nonetheless.”
Wednesday stared at her mother through the shimmer of the crystal ball, the flicker of magic making Morticia’s black hair glint faintly silver at the edges.
Gomez leaned forward. “Are the accommodations… sufficient? You haven’t said much about how Nevermore is handling things.”
“They’re… tolerable,” Wednesday said coolly. She wasn’t about to tell her she had refused them all. There are adjustments. I’m learning.
Pugsley squinted. “Do people know?”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “Enid does not.” She didn’t clarify whether she meant no one, or just Enid.
“She will,” Morticia said gently. Not judgment. Not even warning. Just certainty.
Wednesday gave a tiny nod, barely perceptible. “Eventually.” but she wasn’t sure.
There was a short pause. Morticia broke it.
“You know, your father and I weren’t sure you’d answer this call.”
“I considered not,” Wednesday admitted.
“But you did,” Gomez said. “Which means a lot to us.”
Wednesday looked at each of them again; her father’s soft optimism, her mother’s cool steadiness, Pugsley’s unshakable loyalty, even Lurch’s quiet effort.
You tried, she signed slowly, then said aloud, “I unfortunately appreciate it.”
Morticia’s expression flickered, that unmistakable flash of pride she wore rarely, but fiercely.
“We are Addams,” she said. “We adapt. In style.”
Pugsley tilted his head. “Do you think you’ll start talking less and signing more?”
“Doubtful,” Wednesday said. “I find both to be efficient and I do not expect that the entire world will learn to sign to accommodate.”
“You always did hate repeating yourself,” Gomez grinned.
Morticia leaned in slightly. “Do you want us to continue this way? Signing as we speak?”
Wednesday considered the question. She was tired; a deep, bone-deep exhaustion that reached into her eyes, her limbs, her thoughts. But not tonight. Tonight, she didn’t have to fight to keep up. She wasn’t watching mouths or asking for repetition. She wasn’t guessing.
She was just… understanding.
“Yes,” she said softly. Then, again in sign: Yes.
Her family nodded. No fanfare. No dramatics. Just quiet understanding.
After a few more minutes of gentle conversation; updates on Pugsley’s newest pet tarantula, Morticia’s newest midnight blooming lily, Gomez’s increasingly chaotic fencing club for bored retirees, the call slowly wound down.
“We’re proud of you, mi amor,” Gomez said, his sign a little too fast but full of heart.
Wednesday didn’t answer at first. Just stared at them all. At the effort. The grace. The small ways they were trying to meet her where she now stood.
Finally, she nodded once.
Then, as the conversation drew to a close, Morticia’s eyes held hers a second longer. Something unreadable in her expression. Gentle. Sharp. Knowing.
“I won’t tell Enid,” Wednesday said, voice low, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Not if I can help it.”
Morticia said nothing. But her smile curved ever so slightly, and her gaze… lingered. As if she knew something Wednesday didn’t yet.
Wednesday swallowed hard, spine straightening.
She chose to pretend she hadn’t seen it.
The crystal ball flickered, dimmed, and went still.
She sat back in her chair. The room was quiet again.
She hadn’t even realized the tightness in her chest until it loosened.
The crystal dimmed to nothing. Just glass again.
Wednesday stared at it for a few seconds longer than she meant to. Then she slowly reached for her phone and typed out a short message.
[Wednesday]: You may return.
A moment passed after sending it. Then another. She let her hands fall to her lap, fingertips pressing lightly together, motionless.
The dorm felt strangely hollow without the sound of keys clacking or Enid’s subtle background hum of motion. She should have felt at peace. Instead… she wasn’t sure.
The weight of the week clung to her shoulders. Every masked moment, every strained conversation, every muffled word. The low whine of effort behind her temples, like a thread pulled too tight.
She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling.
They had all signed. Fluent or not, they’d tried. They were trying.
The echo of Morticia’s gaze lingered longer than it should have. That look. Like a chess move she hadn’t made yet. Like something inevitable.
Wednesday exhaled slowly through her nose.
She didn’t want to think about it.
Instead, she reached down and gently packed the crystal ball back into its case. Smoothed the cloth inside. Clicked it shut.
A few more minutes passed.
Then the lock clicked.
The door creaked open as Enid stepped inside, humming something soft and vaguely familiar under her breath. The tune didn’t stop when she spotted Wednesday, just shifted, almost warmer. Thing scurried in ahead of her and immediately hopped onto the desk, hands flying in a cascade of signs.
Wednesday didn’t look up, but nodded. He would understand. .
Thing beamed, or whatever passed for beaming with no face, and proudly leaned back on his palm and raised his fingers to show off his nails. Alternating black and white stripes, with a few little skull decals clinging defiantly to the pinky and ring fingers.
Wednesday gave him a slow blink. “You look like a haunted candy cane.”
Enid snorted. “I told him the skulls were overkill. He told me I lacked vision.”
“I’m far past due for cello practice,” Wednesday announced, already moving toward her cello. She hadn’t practiced since she had left home.
“Oh!” Enid perked up. “Want help bringing it to the balcony?”
Wednesday hesitated at the offer. Something in her posture stiffened… then softened. A short nod. “Yes.”
They moved in practiced silence. The case wasn’t heavy, but awkward, and Wednesday handled it with deliberate care. Enid retrieved the chair and music stand without being asked, and by the time Wednesday had her sheet music in hand, Enid was already at the window.
"Wait!" she called, returning moments later with a fluffy pillow and a rolled-up magazine. At Wednesday’s raised eyebrow, she smiled sheepishly. "I was hoping I could listen. Promise I’ll be quiet."
Wednesday gave no verbal reply, but her nod was slower this time. Measured. Permission granted.
The balcony had cooled with the sun starting its descent. Enid set up her pillow opposite Wednesday’s chair, leaning back against the low stone wall. Her magazine rested in her lap. Wednesday took her seat and quietly tuned her cello. She was getting better at tuning by feel, not perfect, but passable. Enid didn’t seem to notice her phone on the stand as she used it to confirm her tuning.
Leaning forward under the guise of fiddling with the sheet music; Wednesday covertly tapped a preset on her hearing aid app, the one her and thing specifically tuned for playing her cello. The action went unnoticed by Enid, and by the time she sat upright again, everything was set.
She selected a song.
Something calm. Soothing. Something to counteract the chaos of the first week back.
The bow met the strings.
The sound wasn’t perfect. Not crisp like before. But she had practiced this piece enough times to know its mood, to feel its flow in her fingers and chest. She focused not on the sound, but the vibration of each note as it moved through her arms and into the air. When she looked up near the end of the song, Enid wasn’t flipping through her magazine. She was just… listening. Eyes closed. Still.
Wednesday let the final note fade before lowering her bow.
Enid opened her eyes slowly, smiling in a way Wednesday couldn’t name.
"That was beautiful," she said, quiet and sincere.
Wednesday gave her a brief, scrutinizing look, then adjusted her cello in silence.
She wasn’t sure what possessed her but she found her mouth moving before she could stop it, “Do you have any requests?”
Enid blinked, surprised written on her face before a soft smile graced her lips, "What’s your favorite piece?"
She didn’t have to think about it. "The Death Waltz."
Enid grinned. "Of course it is. Play that one."
Wednesday flipped through her music folder, finding the piece. She hadn’t practiced it much since her hearing changed, not recently.
Wednesday adjusted the sheet music on her stand and set her fingers in place, bow resting just above the strings.
Enid, curled up with her pillow against the low wall of the balcony, watched quietly as Wednesday inhaled once, then began to play.
This wasn’t like the last piece. There was a ferocity to this one, an urgency that made Enid sit up a little straighter. Wednesday’s posture didn’t change, still impeccable, but her movements did. Sharper. Focused. Her eyes slipped closed before the first page was through.
And then it was like watching someone else entirely.
The bow danced. Her fingers flew. It was wild, chaotic, and elegant all at once. The sound was stormy and strange; not always clean, but powerful. Like something ancient being summoned, not just performed. The wind shifted against the balcony railing as if even the air wanted to listen.
Enid forgot about her magazine. Forgot to breathe.
There was nothing performative in Wednesday’s playing; no desire to impress. This wasn’t for anyone but her despite Wednesday offering her a request. And somehow that made it even more breathtaking. Like Enid was seeing a version of Wednesday that no one else had ever been allowed to.
Not just brilliant.
Alive.
The last note hung in the air longer than it should have. Not because of reverb or delay, but because Enid’s heart was still holding onto it.
Wednesday opened her eyes slowly, and for a moment, they met Enid’s.
The blonde blinked, caught, words caught somewhere between awe and affection.
"...Holy shit," she said softly.
Wednesday tilted her head, but didn’t respond.However, her face felt a little heated against the cool, early spring air.
Enid found her voice again. "That was... intense. But also kind of... weirdly beautiful?"
A pause.
“I mean, in a terrifying sort of way. Obviously.”
Wednesday didn’t look away, but she said nothing. She reached for her sheet music with quiet precision, tapping the normal setting for her aids before bringing it closer.
Enid swallowed. "I didn’t know you played like that."
Still no response. But Wednesday’s hands were slower now, her movements less mechanical. And Enid’s chest was still tight with something she didn’t have a name for.
She didn’t press it. Just tucked it away.
She’d felt something shift.
Even if she didn’t know what it meant yet.
Back inside, the room was dipped in amber light from Enid’s fairy lights and Wednesday’s desk bed side lamp, the warmth softening the clash between their opposing aesthetics. Enid hummed to herself as she moved about the dorm, pulling out her pajamas and sorting through her skin care kit. Wednesday, sat at her desk, quietly returning her sheet music to its proper folder and placing her cello back into its case with careful precision.
They moved around each other like two planets in orbit; occasionally brushing paths, never colliding.
Enid eventually vanished into the bathroom to wash up. When she returned, she was already yawning, her pastel pajamas a blur as she flopped onto her bed and pulled her comforter over herself.
“I liked that,” she said into the stillness, soft and sincere. “Thanks for letting me listen.”
Wednesday, seated on her own bed now with a book propped in her lap, gave only a small nod in return. “You were tolerably quiet.”
Enid huffed a laugh, then rolled onto her side, facing the wall. “Goodnight, Wednesday.”
Wednesday didn’t answer. But her gaze lingered on Enid’s turned back for a moment longer than necessary before she finally glanced away.
The room fell silent. Enid’s breaths grew slow and even after a while. From across the room, Thing gave her a wave, deciding he wanted to do some exploring before classes the next day.
The room had gone quiet again, except for the occasional rustle of Enid settling into her blankets. Wednesday had already changed into her nightclothes; a simple long-sleeved black cotton shirt and drawstring pants, softer than her usual wardrobe allowed. Her braids rested over her shoulders as laid down.
She picked up her phone to check the time but paused.
A notification blinked.
[Unknown number]: That was beautiful.
Attached was a photo.
She tapped it open.
The picture was zoomed in, clearly taken from across the lake. Blurry, grainy—but unmistakably her. Her face tilted in concentration, cello under her chin, eyes gently closed in focus as the moon lit the strands of her braid like ink soaked in silver.
Taken during the piece she’d just played.
Her grip on the phone tightened. She said nothing. Her expression didn't change.
But a cold, deliberate stillness settled over her shoulders.
After a moment, she turned off the phone and slid it beneath her pillow.
Then she reached up, fingers brushing her ears.
With practiced care, she removed her hearing aids and placed them into their small charging cases in her drawer. A soft light blinked to life as the case closed.
In the dark, she lowered herself to her pillow, facing the wall.
Notes:
OO Looky looky here. I found some time to give a chapter some TLC. The next few are actually pretty good now that I've dug through the treasure trove of mixed and matched scenes and got them pressed together how I think I want them. Going to have to edit to be sure. NOW, though. You must wait for chapter 9! or will you?
I do like to see the Addams family trying to accommodate
I think Enid will get in on EVERYTHING in say....maybe....4 chapters? Something to look forward to!
See you all next time! Your comments bring a grin to my face every time!
Chapter 9
Notes:
I, very clearly, do not believe in post schedules. Or keep track of chapter word counts! Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday hadn’t slept.
She had closed her eyes. She had turned toward the wall, let the dorm fall into silence around her, let the weight of the day sink over her like a heavy quilt. But her mind never stopped moving. The stalker’s message played on a loop behind her eyelids, That was beautiful. The words weren’t a compliment. They were an intrusion.
By the time her alarm buzzed through her pillow, she was already awake. Already cold with fatigue. She dressed mechanically, twisted her braids with less care than usual, and clipped her hearing aids into place without giving them her usual meticulous attention.
The Cafeteria buzzed with morning chatter and the clinking of cutlery. Wednesday’s world was a step behind the sounds.
She slid onto the bench across from Enid and Eugene, whose voices blurred in the low, echoing murmur of the dining hall. Her hearing aids struggled to isolate their conversation from the ambient noise. Their words came in fragments.
“-and I said, no way that was a hex, I mean-”
“Wait, didn’t Bianca say she-?”
“I think she was just being-oh, good morning, Wednesday!”
Enid smiled brightly, distracted mid-sentence when she noticed Wednesday’s arrival.
Wednesday nodded once in acknowledgment and poured herself a cup of black coffee. The pot was almost empty, and the liquid came out in a reluctant sludge. She didn’t care.
Enid nudged the tray toward her. “I grabbed you toast. Thought you might-”
“I'm not hungry.” The words came out clipped.
Enid blinked. “Okay.”
A beat passed. Eugene returned to his story about a botched beekeeping experiment near the solarium, but Wednesday only caught a few words. “-swarm got loose-Yok- screamed-”
Her temples ached.
She stared down into her coffee, as if the swirling black surface could explain the hollow ringing in her ears. She adjusted the volume subtly with her phone under the table, but everything still felt like it was underwater. Slightly out of sync. Too much and too little at the same time.
A fork scraped across a plate nearby and she winced.
“Wednesday?” Enid leaned forward slightly, concern soft in her voice. “You good?”
“Fine.”
She didn’t look up.
Enid shared a glance with Eugene but didn’t press.
Thing, perched beside the fruit bowl like a tiny sentinel, made a questioning sign; thumb brushing across his palm.
Wednesday shook her head once. Not now.
The greenhouse was humid. It always was, but today it felt unbearable.
Wednesday stood at her workstation, jaw tight and shoulders hunched as she stared at the unfamiliar bloom in front of her. The assignment was simple: identify, classify, and document the feeding method of a lesser-known carnivorous plant species.
She’d normally have it cataloged within minutes. Instead, the instructions on the chalkboard blurred together, and the low hum of the other students' voices made it hard to focus.
Professor Heron walked the aisles, voice muffled even when she stood only a few feet away. Wednesday caught pieces, “diurnal trap patterns… note the coloration…”
She gritted her teeth. Her hearing aids were picking up the whirr of the ventilation fans, the drip of condensation, the occasional screech of a chair leg against concrete; everything except what she needed.
She adjusted her phone’s settings again beneath the table, but it did nothing helpful. It was like she was mentally skipping half a sentence at a time. There were definitely words in there somewhere, she was sure of it.
This is beneath me. She clenched her jaw, pretending to examine the tendrils curling from the soil.
Enid leaned over slightly from the adjacent table. “Hey… uh, yours is moving a lot. Is that normal?”
Wednesday squinted. She hadn’t noticed the slow, pulsing quiver in the plant’s central stalk. Was that normal?
She didn’t answer.
Enid hesitated, watching her. “You okay?”
“Do I look like I’m in need of assistance?”
Enid held up her hands, stepping back. “Just… trying to help.”
Before Wednesday could respond, a shout rang from the back of the room. A student yelped and stumbled back from their station as a trap plant snapped closed around the sleeve of their lab coat. Professor Heron was already hurrying over.
Wednesday took the moment of distraction to lift her notebook and begin sketching the specimen. But her hand moved too fast, her lines uneven, annotations smudged and hurried. Her normally meticulous handwriting was bordering on messy. She was becoming increasingly frustrated at her own confusion.
And she didn’t hear the professor calling her name until the second time.
“Miss Addams?”
She looked up sharply.
Professor Heron stared at her, one brow arched. “I asked you to summarize the defensive mechanism of the Strigoi Vetch . It’s been crawling toward your sleeve for the last minute.”
Sure enough, the vine-like tendril had reached the edge of her coat and was curling in. She yanked her arm back instinctively.
A few students snickered.
“I see,” the professor said slowly. “Not like you to be off your game, Wednesday. You were always studious in biology last semester.”
Wednesday forced her face back into its usual expression of studied indifference. “I was observing its hunting behavior up close.”
“Of course,” Professor Heron said dryly. “Make sure it doesn’t take a bite out of you.”
Enid winced across the table, clearly picking up on how unlike Wednesday this was. But she didn’t say anything. Not yet.
Thing had stayed behind this period; a small mercy. Wednesday wasn’t sure she could have handled his watchful commentary on top of the static flooding her ears.
In History, Wednesday sat in the front row, as always, her back straight, eyes locked on the board. History was one of the few classes that relied heavily on lectures, and she preferred to position herself close enough to catch every syllable, every inflection, every flicker of expression. In theory.
Today, the classroom sounded like gibberish, and not the same gibberish many of her family members were fluent in.
She could see Mr. Valmont speaking, his dramatic gesturing as energetic as ever, the faint creak of the chalk against the board filtered through static and distortion in her hearing aids. A sentence would form clearly one moment, then dip into muffled noise the next, like a record skipping mid-track.
She tried to follow along anyway. Her pen hovered over her notebook, but the structure of her notes; typically immaculate, had already started to fall apart. Lines were half-finished, points disconnected. Names blurred together.
“-significance of the Ides-” Valmont said.
Then nothing she could understand. She could barely make out the words.
She squinted, trying to read his lips. The man’s mustache did her no favors. Her eyes darted to the board, scanning the bullet points he’d jotted down, trying to fill in gaps with context clues. A few students behind her whispered something and laughed. It prickled at the back of her neck like a sting.
She adjusted one of her hearing aids subtly beneath her braids, pretending to tuck a strand behind her ear, though it did little to help. She hadn’t slept. The hum in her ears, the weight of her own exhaustion, made it harder to concentrate, harder to process.
Her jaw tensed.
This wasn’t how she worked. She was methodical. Disciplined. Efficient. She was not the kind of student who lost track of a lecture because her brain had decided to short-circuit in the middle of it.
She hated that it made her feel defective.
From the other side of the room, Bianca glanced over briefly, her brow faintly furrowed. Just a flicker of something. Curiosity? Concern? Suspicion? She wasn’t close enough to hear anything, but she caught the way Wednesday’s pen dug into her paper with an unusual force. She studied her for only a second longer before turning back to the lecture.
Wednesday didn’t notice the look. She was too busy trying to keep her grip on the class.
Her pen pressed harder than intended against the paper, carving a deep line across the page.
It wasn’t rage. It was fatigue disguised as anger. A quiet ache behind her eyes, a pressure in her skull, and a simmering panic she refused to acknowledge.
Focus , she told herself.
But the edges of everything were already starting to blur.
The bell rang, sharp and grating, but Wednesday remained still in her seat, her pen halted mid-word. She stared at the mess of a page in front of her. Her handwriting was jagged and erratic. Some of it was nonsense, other parts half-missed sentences, guesses at what might have been said. A smear where her hand had brushed through wet ink. She could barely remember the topic.
Bianca glanced over, sharp-eyed as ever. She’d noticed something earlier. Maybe it was the way Wednesday’s clenched jaw, or the way she kept fidgeting with her hair behind her ear. Maybe the rare crease of frustration around her eyes. But it was the open page of her notebook that drew her gaze now.
Bianca approached slowly. “Hey,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Are you… okay?”
Wednesday didn’t respond at first.
She followed Bianca’s line of sight to the page. That pathetic excuse for a lecture summary. Her hand moved on its own, closing the notebook with a precise snap, but the sound was louder than intended. Several students looked their way. Bianca tensed slightly, taken off guard by the suddenness of it.
Wednesday replied coolly, standing with calculated grace, “Mind your own business.”
She met Bianca’s eyes, dark and unreadable, then turned on her heel and walked out of the room, ignoring the eyes on her back.
At lunch, the din of the dining hall hit her like a wave: overlapping voices, trays clattering, the smell of warm bread and questionable meat. She didn’t have the patience for it.
She cut past the line, ignoring the social rules she normally at least acknowledged. Reaching past a pair of arguing sophomores, she grabbed a wrapped sandwich from the tray.
“Hey, what the hell?” someone protested.
Wednesday turned, her glare landing on them like a cold blade.
They stopped speaking immediately.
She walked off, sandwich in hand, silent and seething as she left the hall again. Missing how some students just jumped out of her way and the worried glances from the Nightshade table as she escaped. Finding a nice, quiet hallway to relax in before being forced into more interactions.
The next two classes bled together. Wednesday barely looked at the front of the room. She sat, stared through people, through words. She wasn’t even pretending to listen. Just hoping that it would all end soon.
There were a couple times she noticed a teacher looking right at her, like they were about to ask her something, when they decided to move on. One time her Algebra professor muttered to himself less than a foot in front of her, mid sentence, and she wanted to rip his vocal cords out with her bare hands.
She’d snapped at several students in class and in the hall.
By the time she walked into creative writing, she was tired and beyond frustrated with everyone and everything. Even her seat mate had decided that elsewhere was better than in her space.
It was like a pinprick to the chest. Excellent.
The chalkboard saved her this time. The prompt was written in clean block letters. She didn’t have to strain to follow.Trying her best not to tear her peers to shreds. Though the world could do with less teenagers with their loud voices, giggling groups and way too much body spray or perfume.
Still, her knees bounced under the desk. Her thumb traced the seam of her sleeve again and again and again.
Wednesday slammed her dorm door behind her with enough force to rattle the hinges.
The silence was immediate, almost too immediate. The faint pressure in her head intensified now that she wasn’t trying to keep up appearances. She stalked across the room and flung her bag toward the closet. It hit the wall with a dull thud, sliding down in a defeated slump.
She sat heavily on her desk chair, yanking at her boots with sharp, frustrated movements. One thunked to the floor. The other she kicked off mid-motion, and it spun once before hitting the leg of her desk.
Her breath was shallow, jaw tight, vision hot with the burn of unshed fury. Not at anyone in particular, just the strain of the day grinding against every nerve.
Then came the final crack in her restraint.
She reached up and pulled her hearing aids from her ears, not bothering with the gentleness she usually showed them. She hurled them in the direction of her pillow with more force than she meant to.
They bounced harmlessly on the soft bedding, intact but clearly discarded.
She didn't even look at them.
Wednesday pressed her fingers to her temples, elbows digging into her knees. The weight of her own pulse throbbed against her skull.
Everything was too much and still not enough.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to reel herself back in, but her skin still felt too tight, her thoughts too jagged, and her exhaustion far too loud.
Wednesday paced.
Not with purpose. Not with control. The rhythm was erratic, her bootsock-covered feet dragging slightly on the floor as she turned at sharp, uneven angles.
The silence pressed in from all sides.
Her blazer came off in one sudden motion; nearly flung, but she caught herself at the last second, gripping the fabric too tightly before draping it over the back of her desk chair with effortful precision. The tie was next. She tore it loose, fingers clumsy with frustration, and tossed it to her bed without looking.
She reached up and undid the top two buttons of her shirt. The sensation of constriction across her collarbone eased marginally, but it did nothing for the pressure behind her eyes.
Her arms folded tightly over her chest one moment, dropped to her sides the next. She dragged a hand through her fringe, gripping her scalp hard enough to sting before releasing it.
Wednesday Addams did not cry.
She did, however, occasionally reach a state in which everything burned. Her nerves, her thoughts, her sense of failure, all wrapped in a tight coil just under her skin.
The pacing resumed. Three strides, pivot. Four strides, stop. Hands twitching with the urge to hurl something, to break a mug or sweep her books to the floor.
But she didn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She swallowed down the sharp thing clawing at her throat. Her eyes darted to the hearing aids, resting innocently on her pillow like they hadn’t betrayed her today; like she hadn’t betrayed herself by relying on them too much. By needing them.
She hated how tired she was. How impossible it felt to keep up. How the world expected her to just adapt without missteps.
And how deeply she loathed that anyone might notice.
Her pacing slowed, breath uneven. She faced her desk, then turned away again. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t write. Couldn’t read.
Her pacing was sharper now, strides longer, breaths shallower. Her whole body itched with agitation. A wildfire trapped inside her skin. The collar of her shirt still felt tight despite the loosened buttons, her arms stiff at her sides as if bracing for impact.
Then her phone buzzed where it lay on the bed.
She didn’t look at it. Not at first.
Another buzz. Then another.
Against her better judgment, Wednesday stalked over and snatched the phone up. Her thumb unlocked the screen with muscle memory. One new message.
[Unknown Number]: Rough morning, W?
[Unknown Number]: You looked ready to snap.
[Unknown Number]: It’s kind of beautiful, you know… watching the cracks start to show.
Her blood went cold.
She hadn’t seen anyone. The door had been locked. No windows faced the hall, her own padlock preventing access to the balcony. Her room was her sanctuary. She’d paced within its walls, vulnerable, unsettled… and they’d still seen her?
Her fingers tightened around the device, and her next breath came ragged. Her entire body coiled like a spring.
Then, the door opened.
She felt the shift in pressure through the soles of her feet; the distinctive creak of the heavy wood. She turned instinctively on the pivot of her heel and hurled the phone like a throwing knife.
It was caught with a gasp and a smack of skin-on-glass and metal.
“Jesus, Wednesday!” Enid yelped, cradling the phone in both hands, wide-eyed in the doorway.
Wednesday's chest rose and fell violently. “Just leave me alone!” she shouted, voice cracking in a way that infuriated her further.
Enid's brows snapped together. “You’ve been biting everyone’s head off since this morning,” she snapped back, her voice sharp. “I was coming to check on you, not start a fight! But clearly , that was a mistake.”
She took a step back toward the hallway. “I told you, I’m here if you want to talk. But if you’re just going to lash out at everyone, don’t expect people to stick around and take it.”
She tossed the phone back, not hard, but fast. Wednesday’s reflexes caught it automatically, her grip tense and white-knuckled.
Then Enid was gone, the door slamming behind her with a reverberating crack .
Wednesday stood frozen, heart pounding, gaze locked on the door. Her ears rang with the echo of the impact, her whole body shaking with the effort of staying upright.
The interruption had broken the feedback loop in her mind… but not gently.
From the ceiling molding above, Thing dropped silently to the floor, landing beside her.
He signed, sharp and pointed: Why did you throw the phone? At her ?
“I didn’t know it was her,” Wednesday muttered, her voice tight. “I thought… I didn’t think.”
Thing’s hand paused, then signed slower: She’s upset.
“I’m… tired, ” Wednesday admitted, barely audible, shoulders slumping. “Everything’s too loud. And too fast. Everything just needs to stop and leave me alone. Is a few moments of peace too much to ask!?”
Thing hesitated at her volume, then gave her hand a light pat. Do you need-
“I don’t need anything.” Wednesday interrupted with gritted teeth.
She turned the phone over in her hands, screen still dark.
The stalker’s message burned behind her eyes.
You looked ready to snap.
She was.
She already had.
And someone out there had been watching when she did.
Enid hadn’t returned that evening. She only popped up a few minutes before class to get changed. Wednesday had been standing on her side of the room, rigid and silent, opting to forego breakfast altogether, waiting for the last possible moment to put her aids back in. They didn’t speak but the silence had them both on edge.
Wednesday didn’t feel better than the day before. She felt tightly wound. She didn’t talk to anyone but glared at people who tried. Only snapping at her morning politics professor when she clearly didn’t want to talk. Thing dutifully muted her aids the minute she was out of class or working on a worksheet on her own.
She avoided any of the nightshades and even Eugene when they got close. She kept telling herself it was fine. She was fine.
The moment the bell rang for lunch,, Wednesday stood, clutching her notebook against her chest like a shield. She didn’t look at anyone as she turned sharply for the door.
But Yoko was already there, stepping into her path.
“What did you say to Enid?” she demanded, Thing deciding now was a good time for her aids to be on. “She looked like she was going to cry at dinner. She refused to go back to your dorm!.”
Wednesday froze.
She didn't respond.
Yoko's eyes narrowed but then she really looked at her. It felt like the Vampire was looking through her.
The usual pristine uniform was slightly off. Wednesday wore her blazer, but her tie was gone along with her vest, the collar of her shirt open at the top. Her braids, while intact, looked hastily redone. Her posture was rigid, but her breathing was too fast, uneven. There was a faint shine at the corners of her eyes, not tears, not quite, but something raw just beneath the surface.
Yoko thought it looked wrong on her. Human .
“I said,” Yoko repeated, quieter now, “what did you say to her?”
Wednesday tried to shoulder past.
Yoko reached out instinctively, grabbing her arm.
Wednesday ripped it away like she'd been burned, stumbling a step back. Her breath caught.
“Don’t touch me.”
The words were low, sharp; but her voice trembled ever so slightly at the edges.
Yoko stilled, stunned.
She’d expected cold, maybe even cruel. Not this.. this... version of Wednesday that seemed to be losing control, fraying at the edges. Chest still rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. Pale fingers twitching. Fury blazed in her eyes, but something wounded behind it.
Wednesday swallowed, composing herself. “I am trying to leave,” she said tightly, forcing every syllable to stay level.
They stood like that, a breath apart.
Then Wednesday turned and walked away, fast but not frantic, rubbing at her arm like the touch lingered unpleasantly.
Yoko didn’t follow.
The hallway cleared around her, students fading into doorways and stairwells, leaving Wednesday alone in the dim hush of the corridor.
She stood frozen, her pulse loud in her ears, her fingers twitching against her blazer cuff.
A sudden pressure on her shoulder jolted her. Firm, not unkind.
Thing climbed from her bag, his fingers signing gruffly, insistent: Go back to the dorm. Enough.
Wednesday didn’t answer. Just stared ahead, the sting of overstimulation curling like smoke behind her eyes.
Thing shifted tactics, crawling up her arm and clutching tight against her collarbone in a rare, almost panicked show of affection. Wednesday felt the tension in his little frame. How tightly he gripped.
It mirrored the tightness in her chest.
She didn’t speak. Just turned and walked, silent and unblinking, up the stairs. Her body moved like it remembered where to go better than she did.
The dorm greeted her like a sanctuary. She closed the door behind her and the quiet settled around her like a fog.
Wednesday pulled her shoes off near the closet with a tug, then stripped off her socks. Her feet hit the cold wood floor. Grounding. Real.
She changed into loose, dark clothes; soft fabric, a little oversized. Familiar and forgiving.
She didn’t bother with lights. Just made her way to the window and sank to the floor. Her hearing aids were removed and tucked into her pocket.
Her half of the sill. Her corner right by her cello.
She sat cross-legged, barefoot, spine pressed to the stone. Then carefully took out her hearing aids, setting them beside her with reverence, not resentment.
Silence fell.
Not the kind that made her ache.
The kind she needed.
She closed her eyes and exhaled.
Behind her, Thing rustled under the bed. A clumsy, muffled shuffling. Then he emerged dragging a familiar weight; her blanket, dark grey and heavily weighted, rarely touched since early winter.
He struggled with it, the edge getting caught on the footboard. She didn’t help, she couldn’t move.
When he finally got it across her lap, she pulled it the rest of the way, the weight settling over her like a lead-lined shield.
She hadn’t needed this in a while.
Apparently, she did now.
Thing hesitated, looking up at her. Then slowly climbed onto her leg, tentative in a way he rarely was. One stitched knuckle nudged at her wrist.
She usually hated it when he asked to comfort her first.
But right now?
She let him.
Her hand opened. He crawled under it, nestling against her thigh.
Wednesday’s fingers found the familiar seams of his stitches. She traced them one by one, feeling their texture, letting her focus shrink to just that; collagen and the way he let her hold him.
Her head leaned sideways until it rested against the cool glass of the window. She could feel the wind outside rattling faintly through the pane, a soft vibration in her skull.
Her fingers idly moved over the rough seams of Thing’s wrist again, more absent-minded now. The wind rattled faintly against the glass in small huffs. Her chest rose and fell steadily, but the tension still sat just beneath the surface; like the aftermath of a storm not yet cleared.
“…I haven’t gotten like… that since I was ten,” she murmured, voice so low it barely disturbed the quiet.
Thing shifted under her hand, tilting ever so slightly, his pinky tapping against her leg, inquisitive.
Wednesday’s brow furrowed. “I used to have… better systems. Strategies.” Her fingers curled into a fist briefly, then relaxed. “I feel like I’ve lost them.”
She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to.
Thing held still for a moment, then raised his forefinger slowly, curling it into a thoughtful motion. Then he gestured; a broad circle, then brought his fingers to his head, wiggling slightly in a way she understood after years of decoding his hybrid language.
Sound and movement are different now.
Wednesday didn’t respond at first. She didn’t argue, but her lips pulled into a taut line.
Thing tapped his head again, then gently tapped hers. Your brain is still learning. Adjusting.
Recalibrating.
The word felt clinical, but also somehow comforting. It gave shape to the disorientation that had been dogging her since her return.
“I hate this,” she said flatly, with no real venom. Just a hollow truth.
Thing answered by scooting a few centimeters closer, then tapped twice against her hand before nudging under her palm again. No lecture. No push to feel differently. Just a reminder that she wasn’t doing it alone.
Wednesday let out a long, controlled breath. Her hand stayed atop his, not gripping, not clinging, just… present .
The blanket was heavy. Her limbs heavier.
The late afternoon sunlight dulled to grey.
At last, Wednesday let her eyes close.
Not to sleep. Not yet.
Just to breathe.
She stirred with a twitch when Thing tapped against her neck; insistent, but gentle. Her eyes blinked open, dry and aching. Her neck cracked slightly as she turned to look over her shoulder.
Enid was just stepping into the room, quietly dropping her bag by her side of the closet. Without a word or glance, she slipped through the door of her closet, no doubt heading to change out of her uniform.
Wednesday’s jaw clenched as she reached into her pocket where her hearing aids had been discarded. She felt the stiffness in her joints as she pushed herself upright. The blanket slid from her legs and she folded it neatly, depositing it at the bottom of the bed with mechanical precision.
Grabbing the charging cases from her satchel, she placed her aids inside, setting them to rest for the time being. The click of the lid closing echoed with finality.
She stood there for a long moment, unmoving, just staring at the wall above her bed. Her face blank, her limbs heavy. She couldn’t tell if the hollow quiet that replaced her earlier distress was better or worse.
Thing tapped her ankle this time, pulling her from the stillness.
He gestured toward Enid’s side of the room.
Wednesday turned.
Enid had emerged from behind the closet in one of her comfortable hoodies and leggings. Her expression was tight; a blend of residual anger and something softer. Concern.
Wednesday took a single step forward, focusing carefully on the shape of her mouth. There was definitely an apology due there. She stopped just short of the invisible line between their halves of the room, tilting her head slightly to the left.
Enid’s voice came softly, “Sorry I yelled. I didn’t know something was going on.”
Wednesday blinked, the words landing heavier than expected. She shook her head slowly, the motion minimal. “Why are you apologizing?” she asked, the sarcasm that usually colored her tone absent. “I threw my phone at you. Normally I don’t make mistakes but you were not a viable target.”
Enid’s brows lifted, faintly surprised at the admission.
Wednesday didn’t let herself hesitate, going against her instinct to never apologize for anything. “I’m sorry.” Then more quietly, averting her gaze, “I just… I don't want to talk about it.”
Enid gave a short nod, accepting the line but clearly still worried. “Are you coming to dinner?”
Wednesday didn’t even consider it. “No,” she answered simply. “I just want to sleep.”
There was something fragile in the way she stood; shoulders slightly slumped, fingers twitching faintly against her skirt hem. Enid looked at her for a beat longer, then turned off the light above the door and her own lamp, leaving only the warm hush of the fairy lights tracing the edges of her bedframe and shelves.
She grabbed her laptop and a notebook from her bag. Then, unexpectedly, she paused again in front of Wednesday. Her voice was soft. “I’ll work in the quad or the library. I won’t keep you up.”
Wednesday’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Only nodded, slow and deliberate.
Enid offered her a faint, sympathetic half-smile. Her hand rose gently to squeeze Wednesday’s upper arm; a small, fleeting yet firm touch.
It didn’t jar her. It didn’t make her flinch.
It was… tolerable.
Comforting, even.
She watched Enid leave.
Then, in the quiet that remained, Wednesday climbed into bed. She unfolded and pulled the weighted blanket up to her chest. The darkness no longer felt heavy, just still.
She closed her eyes.
Wednesday opened her eyes to a world she couldn’t quite feel.
The dorm was quiet, touched only by the filtered morning light that bled softly through the massive window. She didn’t move for several minutes. Just stared at the ceiling, waiting to care about the passage of time.
She didn’t.
Eventually, she sat up and reached for the charging cases in her nightstand. She didn’t rush. There was no need. Her fingers moved with mechanical precision, retrieving the hearing aids and placing them in her ears. The moment they slid into place, she turned them on, sound returned; a layered, abstract buzz of a world that felt far too full.
It was too much. Not in the way that made her want to scream, not like yesterday. This was quieter. A dull throb of overstimulation under skin that only made her feel numb. She turned the left aid down two notches, then the right. The world softened, but not enough. She signed to Thing, who had already emerged from his perch on the shelf next to her desk:
KEEP LOW TODAY.
His fingers crouched in what was similar to a nod. No questions asked.
Wednesday went through her routine the way one might walk through fog. She showered. Dressed in her uniform. Skipped the tie again. Braided her hair in perfect silence. The motions were familiar enough to be done on autopilot, each gesture offering only the most fleeting sense of grounding. It was like puppeteering herself from the outside.
She met Enid for breakfast in the quad with the rest of the Nightshades. They sat at the same table. Spoke in the same voices. Ate the same food. Wednesday said nothing.
She kept her eyes on her plate or her hands. She let the conversations run past her, tracking them in pieces, like scattered subtitles she couldn’t bother stitching together. When Thing tapped her knee under the table, she tapped back, barely, just enough to let him know she was still present, if not engaged.
Enid smiled at her once. Wednesday didn’t return it with a usual nod. Not out of spite, she just didn’t have one in her.
Classes followed. She took her usual seat, eyes flicking to the chalkboard rather than the teacher. She copied what was written, not really absorbing it, only noting that she could review it later. Her handwriting was slightly off, the letters slanted and uneven but it was legible. That was all she needed.
Voices around her sounded like they were coming from underwater. When a teacher asked a question, she didn’t even register it as something meant for her. She just kept writing, slow and methodical.
She didn’t feel anything. She wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than the day before.
Enid glanced at Wednesday from the corner of her eye as they sat under the shade of an elm between classes. Her own laptop sat forgotten in her lap, the screen dimmed with inactivity.
Wednesday hadn’t said a single word since they’d left the dorm that morning.
It wasn’t the same as her usual brooding silences. It wasn’t one of her thoughtful, self-contained moods, either. This was… flatter. Heavier. Like someone had drained the charge from the electric current that always ran under her skin.
Enid itched to ask if she was okay.
But Wednesday had said, very clearly, that she didn’t want to talk about it. And the memory of that tense, exhausted apology still rang a little too raw in Enid’s ears.
So, she didn’t press. She just scooted slightly closer so their shoulders brushed and kept her mouth shut. The seer pressed into her slightly harder, more firmly to ground herself.
Later that afternoon, four of them shared a lecture; one of the more demanding joint electives that made even Yoko groan before she sat down.
Wednesday claimed her usual front-row seat, same desk, same posture, same grim expression. Enid settled beside her without a word, sliding into her chair a little more carefully than usual.
Behind them, Bianca and Yoko dropped into place.
The room hadn’t settled yet. Some students still shuffled in, the professor hadn’t arrived, and Wednesday was already copying down the homework from the board. Her pen moved automatically, the letters tight and uniform, but she wasn’t reading the words.
Bianca leaned forward slightly, tilting her head toward Enid’s ear.
“Is she okay?” she asked in a low voice, careful not to sound nosy.
Before Enid could answer, Wednesday’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
“If I have something to say,” she said without looking up, “I’ll say it.”
Her tone was flat, but the edge was unmistakable, not sharp enough to draw blood, but enough to make Bianca sit back and raise both brows.
Yoko glanced between them and frowned slightly. Enid, lips pressed into a small, worried line, didn’t say anything either. She just stayed next to Wednesday, choosing proximity over pushing. Letting her presence speak for her where words might only make things worse.
Wednesday didn’t react. Just kept writing. One line after another. Still not really hearing the world around her; just letting it pass, like waves breaking over something already submerged.
Wednesday sat cross-legged on her bed, her history textbook open in front of her, pages gently ruffling with the dorm’s circulating air. She twirled her pen between her fingers, not quite fidgeting, more like anchoring herself with the movement. The chapter headings stared back at her without mercy. She could tell she was missing something. Possibly multiple things.
Movement pulled her from the fog. She looked up to see Enid setting a plate wrapped carefully on her bedside table, normal cutlery placed next to it.
She blinked at it, then turned a furrowed expression up to Enid. The question didn’t need to be voiced.
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Enid said simply.
Wednesday looked back at the plate. She wasn’t hungry. Not really. But her hands reached for it anyway, bringing it into her lap like a reflex.
She ate slowly, mechanically. Each bite was just a task to complete, like brushing her hair or charging her aids. Still, it was something.
Enid smiled, small and genuine; and bounced onto her own bed with her laptop and notebooks. Wednesday didn’t look up, but she noted the gesture in that deep, unspoken way she catalogued all things that mattered more than she let on.
When the plate was empty, she placed it carefully back on the end table. The fork made a soft sound against the ceramic. Then she sighed; quiet, more breath than sound, and turned back to her history book, pages still failing to offer the clarity she needed. Her brain was too fogged with fatigue and everything she’d been pushing down since the day before.
She wanted to lie down. To turn off. But that would only set her further behind, and the idea of letting her stalker see even more cracks in her discipline made her spine tighten.
A gentle tap to her leg pulled her gaze downward. Thing signed: Door.
Wednesday looked up just as Enid was already opening it.
She couldn’t make out the words being exchanged; too far, not enough focus as her aids were turned too low to hear more than what was a couple feet in front of her.Enid glanced over her shoulder at her, checking.
Wednesday gave the smallest nod. Whatever the question was, she trusted the answer could be yes.
Enid stepped back to let Bianca in.
The siren carried a stack of papers, her expression unreadable but not hostile. Wednesday stiffened slightly as Bianca crossed into her half of the room, but said nothing.
Bianca stopped beside her bed, then held out the papers.
“No idea who pissed in your cereal this week,” she said dryly, “but I figured these might help.”
Wednesday took the stack and looked at the top page, neatly printed, high-resolution handwriting. It had clearly been scanned and reprinted. A memory stirred: Bianca seeing her notebook the day before. The moment she had snapped it shut.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed it.
Her brows furrowed deeper, but her eyes lifted slowly to meet Bianca’s.
Bianca shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant. “It’s not fun beating you if you’re not even trying.”
Wednesday was fairly certain that wasn’t the real reason.
Still, she nodded. “Thank you.”
Bianca gave her a brisk nod in return and turned on her heel, making her way back to the door with the kind of grace that could be mistaken for indifference if you didn’t know better.
Wednesday looked down at the papers in her hands, flipping through them. Multiple handwriting styles, each dated with the class written at the top. She recognized Enid’s on a few. Others weren’t familiar, one sharp and academic, the other more casual and flowing. She furrowed her brows at the section from her creative writing class. She didn’t even know anyone in that class.
Her eyes darted to Enid, who was already watching her with a soft smile.
“We all have bad days,” Enid said simply.
Wednesday didn’t respond right away. She just looked at her, really looked. The weight in her shoulders didn’t disappear, but it shifted; lighter now, somehow easier to bear.
Her mouth twitched, barely, and she turned back to the notes. She began reading them, organizing the pages by class. By the time she was done, the edges of her exhaustion had dulled. And for the first time since returning, the fog began to clear.
The notes helped. More than she wanted to admit.
But when Enid stretched with a yawn and slid off her bed to get ready for the night, Wednesday lingered in the silence. The lamp on her desk buzzed faintly beside her, its amber glow catching on the corners of the note pages she’d just finished organizing.
Her phone buzzed next to her knee.
She blinked at it, frowning. She hadn’t messaged anyone, and no alarms were set.
It was a text. Unfamiliar number. No name. No photo ID.
[Unknown]: You looked so tired tonight. I almost feel bad.
Attached was a grainy photo. It was clearly taken through a window, possibly even through a pane of the dorm stairwell’s glass. It showed Wednesday standing in the middle of the room earlier that. The angle was strange, slightly skewed, and blurred by distance. But her outline was unmistakable: the stiff set of her shoulders, the dark braid trailing over one side, the focused tilt of her head.
Her jaw tightened.
She glanced at the window behind her, letting in some of the moonlight. She hadn’t thought anyone could see in. Not from where they were.
The timing of the text; it was deliberate. They were watching again. Waiting for vulnerability.
Enid’s voice floated from the bathroom; muffled through the door, humming softly to herself as she brushed her teeth.
Wednesday stared at the photo a second longer, then locked her phone.
Not because she didn’t care. But because she refused to give it more power than it already had.
She opened her drawer and pulled out her black leather-bound journal. With precise strokes, she jotted down the time, content, angle, and possible vantage points. Then she wrote a single underlined note:
Window visibility must be minimized.
She turned off her lamp.
By the time Enid returned, cheerfully oblivious, Wednesday was already in bed, eyes closed, aids charging, and a knife discreetly tucked beneath her pillow next to her phone.
Notes:
Hope you like this one! I was actually going through a post overstimulated meltdown period when I first wrote this chapter AND as I'm editing this. I'm REALLY looking forward to the next couple chapters when they are postable!
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday finally came and Wednesday was feeling better than she did at the beginning of the week. The stalker messages now little more than an irritant that she wanted to be rid of. She was hoping the upcoming weekend would give her an opportunity to deep dive into the investigation now that she didn’t feel so much like she was lagging behind her peers.
The gym rang with faint echoes under the white-hot lights, the air sharp with the tang of sweat and rubber. Wednesday tugged her glove on tighter. She’d done this a hundred times before. It should’ve felt like home.
Her mask slid into place, pressing the world into silence. She welcomed the quiet, but it didn’t come with focus.
Across the strip, Enid bounced lightly, foil upright in a relaxed guard. She was surely grinning behind her mask. Of course she was.
Wednesday lowered herself into her stance.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Coach Vlad’s hand gesture; low, clipped, and brief. A visual cue meant for the whole class. She snapped her attention to it automatically.
It cost her the point.
Enid moved. By the time Wednesday turned her gaze back, her guard was loose, her balance tilted, and Enid’s point struck her shoulder clean.
They reset.
Another cue from Coach Vlad. Wednesday’s eyes darted toward it again. Another hit landed.
Again.
She was too slow. She couldn’t keep looking for the coach’s instructions and focus on the fight. But if she focused on the fight, she missed the instructions completely.
The third point landed barely two seconds later.
Wednesday lowered her blade. “I need a moment,” she said quietly.
Coach Vlad gave a brief nod, already turning to correct another student.
She left the strip without a backward glance and made for the benches, each step heavier than the last. Thing was already there, watching her with concern. He skittered onto the bench.
She sat stiffly, mask hanging from her fingertips, blade resting beside her foot. She didn’t feel like she was about to cry in frustration, thank the ancestors, but her muscles buzzed with irritation.
You’re watching him instead of fighting. Thing tapped out on her leg.
Wednesday didn’t answer.
Thing continued, patient and infuriatingly perceptive. And when you stop watching, you miss the cues. I’ve seen fencing clubs use light signals for deaf fencers. Red, green, easy to catch. You could talk to Vlad.
She bristled immediately.
“I don’t need special treatment.”
Thing flopped back dramatically on her thigh, fingers signing:
It’s not a special treatment. It’s a visual system. So you can focus. That’s what you’re mad about, isn’t it? That you can’t focus.
She narrowed her eyes at him.
He added, more carefully this time: It’s a tool. Not a crutch.
Wednesday said nothing for a long moment, jaw tight. Her thumb rubbed the inside seam of her glove, over and over, as her breathing slowly leveled out.
She hated how right he was.
She hated even more that this would be one more thing she had to ask for. Another piece of herself she had to translate to the outside world just to get through a damn class.
But he wasn’t wrong. She pulled her glove back on, jaw set, and stood. Maybe she just needed to be faster. Or watch her opponent’s body language more closely.
She didn’t go back to spar with Enid.
Coach Vlad paired her with Ajax this time, likely hoping to cool her temper or save Enid from catching the brunt of it. But it only made things worse.
She could feel it the moment the round started. The cues came in gestures she wasn’t watching for, sounds she couldn’t catch, expectations she couldn’t meet. And now, her frustration clouded her instincts.
She moved late. Moved wrong.
Ajax’s blade tapped her chest; again, and again. After the second point, his head and mask cocked to one side, as if confused.
By the third bout, she’d started before Vlad had even given the cue.
His whistle rang sharply.
“Addams, off the strip.”
She pulled off her mask but didn’t speak.
Coach Vlad stalked over, arms folded tight. “You’re not following instructions.”
Wednesday stared at him, face blank.
“You’re suspended from sparring for the next 2 weeks. Hit the showers.”
She should have said something. She knew it. A single sentence, ‘ I didn’t hear the cue’ would have changed her situation. But her throat locked, jaw clenching with quiet fury.
Her silence sealed it.
She turned on her heel and walked out.
Steam clung to her damp skin. Her hair, towel-dried and slightly tangled, was being rebraided as she sat on the bench, fully dressed in her uniform again, trying to center herself.
A sharp buzz interrupted her thoughts.
She pulled her phone from her locker shelf.
[Unknown Number]: Shame about fencing. Maybe you’re not as sharp as you pretend to be.
She froze.
The message sat bright and clean on the screen, timestamped two minutes ago .
Her stomach twisted.
Everyone was still in class. Vlad wouldn’t have announced anything. No one had left the gym. No gossip had time to bloom.
This wasn’t just a stalker watching her around campus. They knew what happened within fifteen minutes. Almost immediately .
Which meant one of two things:They’d either followed her directly, or they were already in the gym.
The blood in her veins turned to ice. For the first time, the stalker felt close ,not in theory, not in abstract games, but physically nearby.
They’d made a mistake.
Wednesday stared down at her phone, heart thudding.
Finally, a crack.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long amber shadows across the dorm. But Wednesday wasn’t still long enough to notice.
She paced. Back and forth, like a pendulum under pressure. Her bare feet whispered against the floorboards. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and her fencing uniform lay in a crumpled heap by the closet. She hadn’t bothered to fold it yet. She was too focused on her supposed stalker
Thing sat on her bed, tapping thoughtfully against his thumb, watching her.
She signed sharply: They slipped.
He did his version of a nod..
Another sign: Too soon. That message came too soon.
Thing tilted slightly, then signed with his fingers: Weems
Wednesday stopped pacing. Her eyes snapped to him.
Then narrowed.
“What little trust I had in Larissa Weems evaporated last semester,” she said, voice flat. “She covered up Rowan’s murder. Let Thornhill manipulate a hyde. She gaslit me when I was all but begging for help. That coverup…” Her jaw flexed. “That coverup is what led to me standing in that crypt. What led to Tyler, the chains, the shovel-”
She cut herself off.
Her ears still rang sometimes, phantom echoes of the impact that changed everything.
“I’m done asking permission,” she said coldly.
Thing curled his fingers in a fist, then pointed to her. Okay. So what now?
She turned sharply and crossed the room to her desk, pulling open the top drawer. Out came a narrow notebook filled with crisp pen markings, color-coded tabs, and several small photographs of Nevermore’s staff and upperclassmen; her early theories from before she was distracted with her sudden hearing loss.
She flipped through it until she found a page titled “Faculty Access.”
Her fingers tapped it. “Coach Vlad. He’d have the class roster for fencing.”
Thing climbed onto her shoulder, reading with her.
“We’re not dealing with a ghost or a phantom,” she said, more to herself than him. “This isn’t supernatural. It’s sloppy. And it’s someone close.”
She closed the book with a decisive snap. “We break into Vlad’s office tonight. Get the list. A real place to start.”
Thing gave a dramatic, excited wiggle and leapt back to the desk, already preparing her lock picks.
Wednesday allowed herself one breath; controlled and measured.
The hunt had officially begun.
The door creaked open behind her just as she slid the notebook back into her desk drawer. Wednesday didn’t have to look to know it was Enid; she felt her presence before the scent of citrus and shampoo even reached her.
Enid toed off her shoes and tossed her bag toward her side of the room. The silence hung heavy. Too quiet for them.
Wednesday didn’t turn around. She simply said, “I have something to do.”
There was a pause. “Okay,” Enid replied carefully. “What kind of something?”
Wednesday moved toward the closet where she kept her coat and boots. “Notthing dangerous.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll come with you.”
“No.” The word came too fast, too sharp.
Enid’s voice followed more softly. “I’m not letting you go at it alone again.”
Wednesday turned then, finally meeting her eyes. There was no anger in Enid’s expression; only stubbornness and a pinch of concern she couldn’t quite mask.
Thing had hopped silently onto the back of Enid’s chair. From there, he signed something behind Enid’s back: She can be your ears.
Wednesday’s gaze flicked to him. Then back to Enid.
“You’re a werewolf,” she said flatly.
Enid blinked. “Last time I checked, yeah.”
“Your senses are heightened. Hearing, smell, night vision... all exponentially better than mine. Even before-” She stopped. Gritted her teeth. Then continued, “Better than mine now.”
Enid tilted her head but said nothing.
Wednesday studied her for a beat longer, eyes calculating. Then she gave a short nod. “Fine. But you follow my lead.”
“Obviously.”
“You don’t ask questions.”
Enid smiled, just a little. “Even better.”
Wednesday grabbed her coat, buckled her boots, and slipped her lock picks into her inner jacket pocket. Enid grabbed a hoodie and fell in beside her, no more words needed. Just a flicker of warmth in her posture, a silent kind of victory, not that Wednesday would ever call it that.
But she didn’t feel alone.
And for tonight, that worked in her favor.
Wednesday moved through the office with the precision of someone who had done this a dozen times before. Papers were sifted through. Folders lifted, scanned, replaced. She pocketed the key pages of the roster without a second thought.
The desk lamp remained on; a detail she noted, but didn’t fully register.
Behind her, Enid had turned toward the hallway again, ears twitching. A subtle click echoed down the corridor. A door. Footsteps. Closer.
“Wednesday,” Enid whispered sharply, panic clipped into the syllable. “Someone’s”
Wednesday didn’t hear her. Not with her hearing aids still dialed low, filtering out the world to a dull hum so she could focus on her task.
So Enid moved.
Fast.
She grabbed Wednesday by the sleeve and yanked her toward the back of the room. Before Wednesday could question it, they were being shoved into a narrow supply closet; cramped, dusty, and stacked with fencing mats, training foils, and storage bins.
Enid closed the door just as the office door creaked open again.
They stood in suffocating stillness.
The light under the closet door flickered as someone walked in. A brief rustle of papers, a cough, the unmistakable squeak of the office chair being pushed back. Then… nothing.
Outside, a chair creaked again. Someone muttered low; the sound muffled and indecipherable to Wednesday even with her focus honed. Her body remained still, posture iron-wrought, but internally she burned with one singular thought: If I were alone, I would have been caught. She mentally berated herself for keeping her aids so low. Electronic buzz be damned.
Her heart pounded loud in her good ear. She could feel Enid’s breath; warm and rhythmic, just inches from her face. The space was so tight their arms brushed, and the moment’s urgency left no room for distance.
Enid stayed quiet. Her gaze stayed on Wednesday, calm despite the tension. Wednesday, for her part, didn’t move a muscle.
But she felt it; that treacherous warmth again, curling low in her chest. A paradox; uncomfortable and comforting all at once. Something she couldn’t name and didn’t want to. Not now. Not here.
Minutes passed. Eventually, the light clicked off. The door shut. Footsteps faded.
Enid waited a full beat longer, then gently cracked open the closet. The office beyond was dark and empty once more.
She exhaled softly. “Come on.”
They slipped out, Wednesday grabbing the folded pages from her pocket again, and made their exit; silent, clean, unnoticed.
The moment the door shut behind them, Enid turned.
“Sorry for, uh… dragging you like that,” she said, cheeks faintly pink. “Didn’t mean to invade your space, but you weren’t- I thought you didn’t hear me.”
Wednesday’s voice was cool, but not cold. “I’m grateful. I have no desire to extend my suspension.”
That gave Enid pause. “Wait… what suspension?”
Wednesday furrowed her brows; “From fencing.”
Enid gave her a questioning gaze, “Why?”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked away. “It’s not important.”
Enid frowned. “It sounds important.”
“It isn’t.”
With a dramatic sigh, Enid rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air. “Fine. Classic don’t-talk-to-me-Addams.’ Got it.”
Wednesday turned away, tugging off her blazer as she began her usual nightly routine. Enid mirrored her a beat later, quieter now, pulling her hair into a loose braid and setting her things in place.
Nothing else was said.
But the silence between them didn’t feel strained.
It felt understood.
Wednesday sat cross-legged on her bed, the stack of student notes beside her mostly sorted. Thing tapped the edge of one, the roster clutched in his fingers. Together, they had begun working through the names, crossing off those she knew she could account for.
"Enid, Bianca, Eugene, Yoko, and Divina," Wednesday murmured, tapping her pen against each name. “Each of them showed up in one or two of the stalker’s photos… but never alone. Never in suspicious proximity.”
Thing signed quickly. Eugene is in most of the bee ones.
She nodded, flipping the page. “I know, honestly he and Enid are the last people I’d suspect. And Divina and Yoko only showed up in group shots. They’re either clean or far better at this than I am giving them credit for.”
Thing huffed and scratched out another name. Wednesday paused at the next one: Xavier Thorpe. Her pen hovered.
She didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Thing eventually tapped the edge of the paper with one finger. Still suspect?
“I can’t dismiss the fact that he gave me the phone.” Her voice was flat. “Even if I’d like to believe he’s too guilt-ridden to be this clever.”
She didn’t say it, but she didn’t want to jump to conclusions again. The last time she had, it had cost her credibility, freedom, and nearly her life.
“Ajax isn’t in any photos,” she said aloud, flipping back to a previous page. “But he also isn’t particularly subtle. If he were stalking someone, I’m fairly certain I would have heard him trip over a trash can by now.”
Thing shuttered an amused set of signs. Wednesday didn’t smile, but her eyes softened slightly in shared agreement.
“We’ll talk to Xavier tomorrow,” she concluded.
Her pen hovered over Xavier’s name when she heard it; her name, gently spoken from across the room.
“Wednesday?”
She glanced up. Enid stood near the shared center line of the dorm, barefoot and casual, her expression open but concerned.
“What are you working on?” she asked, padding over slowly. “You’ve been hyper-focused on whatever that is since dinner.”
Wednesday paused. She didn’t like being asked mid-process. But Enid wasn’t prying; not yet. Just curious. Still, she couldn’t exactly explain that she was trying to catch an amateur stalker who’d made the mistake of revealing they were close enough to watch her fencing suspension unfold in real time.
She looked down at the notes, weighing her answer. “I want more information first,” she said finally.
Enid’s brows furrowed, faintly unsettled. “Will you ever tell me?”
Wednesday met her eyes. For a moment, she considered brushing the question off. But she didn’t.
“I will,” she said, voice low but steady. “If it becomes something serious… or I find more to go on.”
Enid searched her face for a moment. “Okay,” she said softly. “Promise?”
Wednesday nodded once. “I promise.”
That seemed to settle something in the werewolf’s posture. She brightened slightly, pulling back toward her bed. “Movie?”
Wednesday’s eyes followed her. “Sure.”
Enid beamed. “Coraline,” she declared, turning back to grab her laptop.
As the movie flickered to life, Thing settled on the blanket near Wednesday’s side. Wednesday glanced at the screen, then once more at Enid. She still wasn’t used to this; the quiet rhythms of shared space, of being trusted, even in silence. And maybe, just maybe, of offering a little trust in return.
The opening credits began to flicker across the laptop screen, bathing the dorm in shifting hues of deep blue and orange. Enid had insisted they use the bean bags again, and for once, Wednesday hadn’t resisted. They sat on the floor in their usual spots; Enid curled into her pastel monstrosity of a bean bag with a throw pillow in her arms, and Wednesday perched upright in her own black one, arms folded, knees drawn slightly up, her hearing aids dialed to a level that let her follow the movie without the world feeling too loud.
Enid’s laptop rested on the trunk between them, and the fairy lights above glimmered low like dimmed stars.
“I know this one’s a little creepy,” Enid said, voice barely above a whisper, “but it’s one of my comfort movies.”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked toward her, one brow raising. “You derive comfort from sentient dolls, body horror, and a child crawling through a narrow tunnel into a pocket dimension of subtle psychological manipulation?”
Enid blinked. “...Yeah?”
Wednesday tilted her head, genuinely curious. “Coming from someone who hides behind a pillow whenever a character so much as breaks a fingernail, I’m impressed.”
Enid gave a bashful grin, hugging the pillow tighter. “I don’t know. It’s scary, but it’s also… warm? Like, she’s brave and smart and doesn’t let the creepy button lady win. It’s about surviving something horrible. That kind of comfort.”
Wednesday blinked slowly, then turned back to the screen. “We all contain multitudes,” she echoed, dryly.
Enid beamed.
They watched in relative silence, the soft creaks and eerie soundtrack of the movie wrapping around them. Wednesday found herself studying the stop-motion animation more than absorbing the plot; though she’d seen the film once before, long ago. Back then, she’d appreciated the artistry, the unnerving symmetry of the Other World, the subtle decay behind the façade. She hadn’t considered the emotional core.
Now, sitting beside Enid; Enid, who shivered a little during the Other Mother’s final transformation, yet never looked away, Wednesday noticed other things.
How Enid’s hand twitched toward the pillow only when Coraline started crying. How she mouthed along to the dialogue in certain scenes. How, despite the horror elements, her shoulders never fully tensed. This wasn’t fear, Wednesday realized.
This was familiarity.
Halfway through the film, Enid spoke again, barely louder than the sound of the wind in the trees outside.
“What are you working on?”
Wednesday’s gaze had drifted to the small notebook in her lap, her pen still lazily looped between her fingers. She hadn’t written anything in the last twenty minutes, but the pages were still open to her meticulous notes and the roster they’d copied.
She didn’t answer immediately. The truth felt like a weight.
“I’m... gathering information,” she said after a beat. “I want to be sure before I say anything. Speculation isn’t helpful.”
Enid frowned. “Is it dangerous?”
Wednesday hesitated. “It isn’t urgent.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Wednesday turned her head to meet Enid’s eyes. She looked away just as quickly. “I will tell you,” she said, quieter now. “If something drastic happens. Or if I know more.”
Enid nodded after a long pause, though her jaw stayed tight. “Okay. But you better not wait until it’s already too late.”
“I won’t.”
They returned to the film. A few more minutes passed, and then:
“I still can’t believe this is your comfort movie,” Wednesday muttered without looking over.
Enid gave a soft, sheepish giggle. “Yeah, well... I think it’s the buttons. I like the aesthetic.”
“You almost fainted when someone got a paper cut during lab.”
“That was so much blood!”
Wednesday rolled her eyes; but the corner of her mouth twitched. Slightly. Almost imperceptibly.
When the movie ended and the credits rolled with soft piano music, neither of them moved for a while. Thing climbed up to where the bags met between them and signed something that made Enid laugh; Wednesday didn't catch it. Her aids had been turned low again, background fuzz soft against her skin, but she felt the warmth in the room.
Eventually, Enid got up to brush her teeth, humming something tuneless. Wednesday stayed where she was for a moment longer, still turning over Enid’s answer. Surviving something horrible. That kind of comfort.
She understood that.
She looked at the blank notebook page, on her bed when she got up, then slowly closed it.
The late afternoon air was heavy with the scent of damp moss and paint-thinner as Wednesday approached Xavier’s art shed, her blazer collar turned up against the breeze. Thing had opted to remain behind, still scanning the class roster with obsessive diligence, so she walked alone; though not unobserved. Her eyes scanned the treeline with casual calculation.
The art shed smelled like turpentine, damp wood, and overworked ambition. Wednesday slipped in without knocking, letting the door fall shut behind her with a click that echoed faintly through the tall space.
Xavier looked up from his easel, clearly surprised. “Didn’t think you’d come looking for me,” he said, setting down his brush.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I’m looking for answers.”
He wiped his hands on his paint-streaked apron. “Should I be concerned?”
“That depends. Are you hiding anything?”
His eyebrows lifted. “No. But you tend to ask that like you already know the answer.”
Wednesday stepped forward. “You gave me a phone the day I left Nevermore. A gift, supposedly a peace offering.”
“It was,” Xavier said, cautiously. “After everything, I figured it was the least I could do.”
“I had it for less than an hour before I received the first message from someone watching me.”
The humor drained from his face. “What kind of message?”
She tilted her head slightly, watching him closely. “Anonymous. Observational. Mildly threatening. And unfortunately, consistent. Whoever it is, they’ve been persistent ever since. They’ve photographed me around campus. In public. In private. But not once has your reflection shown up in any of the images.”
“You think I’m the stalker?” he asked, incredulous.
“I think you are suspicious,” she corrected. “By circumstance. By timing. By absence.”
Xavier took a breath and leaned back against his table. “Wednesday, I swear to you; I had nothing to do with that. I gave you the phone because I felt terrible about how things ended last semester. You were right about the monster in the woods. No one listened to you until we all almost died. And I-I wasn’t. I figured a peace offering was better than nothing.”
Wednesday’s expression didn’t shift. “I’ve never owned a phone before. I accepted it because it was functional. Not because I needed reconciliation.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But I hoped it might... mean something.”
She didn’t answer that. Instead, she took a step closer. “Did anyone else have access to it before you gave it to me? Did you open the box?”
He shook his head. “Brand new. All I did was put in the SIM card.”
She considered this for a long moment, the silence stretching. Then: “Have you had any prophetic dreams since I returned?”
Xavier blinked at the shift. “No. Not since the start of term.”
She nodded once, absorbing the information. “Let me know if that changes.”
He hesitated. “You’re not going to tell me what’s really going on, are you?”
“I just did.”
“No, I mean... what you’re doing with it. What your plan is.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Then, coolly: “When I have more, I’ll act. If I need assistance, which is unlikely, I will ask those that need to be asked.”
Xavier folded his arms. “Do you even want me to be innocent?”
“I want the truth,” she said. “Whether it pleases me or not is irrelevant.”
With that, she turned to leave.
“Wednesday.”
She paused, hand on the door.
“I meant it. I want to help, if I can.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “That remains to be seen.”
And she slipped out into the cold afternoon, her boots whispering over the gravel, already filing him away in a mental list under ‘pending’.
Thing crawled up from the mouth of Wednesday’s bag the moment they returned to their dorm, his fingers tapping inquisitively against the floor in a question: What now?
Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. She grabbed her coat instead, slinging it over her shoulders with precise force, and muttered under her breath, “We’re going to the site of the most recent photo.”
She didn’t need to elaborate. Thing scurried up her arm and tucked himself into her collar.
The photo had been taken in a corner hallway on the second floor near the trophy case; a stretch of shadowed corridor rarely visited between classes. She stood exactly where the photo had been taken from and closed her eyes, fingers brushing lightly over the nearby wall, searching for the familiar tingle of her abilities. Nothing.
She stepped in a slow circle. Still nothing.
Thing signed from her shoulder: Fencing hall?
Of course. Of all the places someone could have been that quickly after the suspension… it made sense. They must’ve followed her there. Or worse, had already been in the room, watching.
Wednesday made her way across campus, through the back entrance, and into the silent, echoing fencing hall. The air still smelled faintly of metal and chalk. She paced across the strip, her boots soft against the rubberized floor, eyes scanning the racks of equipment and the benches against the far wall. Again, nothing.
Her mind drifted; whoever it was had to be a student. Coach Vlad left his phone locked in his office during practices and demanded the same from his students. That meant whoever had sent that message about her suspension… had broken the rules. They’d been there . Dressed. Watching.
She turned on her heel and made her way to the locker rooms.
She swept through the girls' locker room first, trailing her fingers along each locker door. Hoping to get some sort of vision. She hadn’t had many since last semester. She did, however, know that her visions were routed in emotion; her mother had confirmed that over the summer. She wasn’t sure what emotion or really how to feel them but she hoped her increasing irritation over the situation counted. Wednesday was starting to think that she should have looked more into her powers over the break.
She focused. Thing tapped out that she should try to focus. Touch things at random until she felt something. Lean into the feeling of everything around her.
Wednesday had pressed her hand against the lockers.The metal was cold, at first there was nothing as she closed her eyes and walked, dragging her hand across each door. She barely noticed it at first, it wasn’t visions exactly. It was more the inkling of strong emotions. One caused her to stumble, a sudden flash of shouting matches, slammed books, someone in tears, one vision of a car crash unfolding in the middle of the night. None of it connected to her. None of it was useful but she was surprised. Was it really that easy?
No. Of course it wasn’t. That was the only flash of anything. However, she was more drawn to some lockers than others.
She moved to the boys’ locker room next, eyes flicking briefly at the door before pushing through.
Her fingers trembled slightly; whether from anticipation or fatigue, she couldn’t say, as she repeated the ritual, one locker at a time. Again, the same kaleidoscope of meaningless emotions and more drawn to others. She got a small, momentary vision across her eyelids of one student throwing up in the woods. Exhausting. Emotionally noisy. But not hers .
She slumped onto a bench in the far corner, breath heavier than she’d like to admit. Her temples ached. Her hearing aids buzzed faintly, but she tuned them out. She momentarily felt like nothing was working. The visions, her instincts, her body.
Then it hit.
A crackling snap of electricity surged through her spine, and she jerked upright as a vision overtook her, harsh and blinding.
Text messages. Flashing, familiar.
Her messages
. The stalker’s.
A hallway, her own face twisted in irritation as she snapped at Yoko.
The coach’s face, firm, impassive, telling her she was suspended.
A gloved hand. A phone in their lap.
Thumbs flying.
The sound of fencing shoes squeaking on the mat.
The same masked figure rising, coat zipped, phone pocketed, sword raised.
They were already in gear. Watching her. Watching it
all
.
She snapped out of it with a harsh inhale, head tipping back against the cold cinderblock wall behind her.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down. A photo.
It was HER. Head thrown back, caught in the middle of the vision. Sitting on the same bench. Right now.
Another message followed,
[Unknown]:That looked like it hurt.
Her stomach twisted. Her fingers ached.
She glanced to her side. Thing had been caught beneath her grip, limbs squirming. She released him immediately, and he scrambled upright, flexing his tiny hand dramatically.
“I take it back,” Wednesday said, voice rough. “They’re not just watching. They’re getting cocky.”
Thing signed stiffly, flexing one bruised digit: We’ve got them.
Wednesday looked down at the photo again. The angle. The lighting.
They were in her class.
Still dressing out.
Still playing the game.
But they had just made a mistake.
And Wednesday Addams didn’t let mistakes go unpunished.
Wednesday surged to her feet, her muscles protesting the sudden motion. She stuffed her phone into her pocket and stormed toward the locker room entrance, rounding the corner into the narrow corridor where the picture must have been taken. She scanned every inch; overhead pipes, high ledges, shadows, vents but the hallway was empty.
They were gone.
She clenched her jaw. She had reacted too slowly. The few visions and the emotions around her had taken too much from her; and even now her knees trembled faintly beneath her leggings. Her head still pounded.
She leaned against the door frame but that proved to be a mistake. Another bout of lightning shot up her spine; that had her careening backwards.
Enid was running through the woods with Thing on her shoulder; calling Wednesday’s name.
Enid looking at her alone in their dorm as Wednesday appeared to be sleeping; a deep, worried frown on her face.
There were flashing lights, the ding of carnival games. A person in a hoodie seemingly facing her directly. The glint of a hidden blade pulled from the figure’s pocket.
Lastly; darkness. Disorienting and quiet. The smell of damp earth and pine.
She gaped as she came to with Thing standing on her chest. He tapped her sternum softly as she regained her bearings. Her aids were clearly still in place though the hall was empty. She was laying on the floor, half way in the boy’s locker room. The back of her head hurt. She must have hit it off the tiles. Yet another reason she had a headache.
Wednesday sat up slowly. She was dizzy, exhausted and her limbs felt like jelly. It was unpleasant. She had never had that many visions consecutively, taking way more out of her than she was expecting.
She rose, stumbling slightly before she walked, albeit slowly, back toward Ophelia Hall on stiff legs, every step growing heavier. Her hearing aids buzzed faintly with the rhythmic sounds of her own tired breathing and the squeak of her boots. When she reached the dorm, the door clicked open softly. She didn’t even need to look up to know Enid was in the bathroom; her scent, a strangely calming blend of citrus and honey, wafted under the door. The light was on, the sound of the shower running muffled through the walls.
Wednesday stepped into the room, pulled the door shut, and sank onto the edge of her bed. She reached up to remove her hearing aids, placing them carefully in their case before turning to Thing, who climbed up beside her and signed:
You okay?
Wednesday shook her head slightly. Her fingers responded wearily, stiff but precise.
I didn’t know visions could drain me like that.
Thing signed back, more gently: You’ve never had this many so close together.
She exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them, refocusing.
We need to regroup. But not tonight.
Thing nodded.
Then he signed something else: I should check the tunnels. I might find a path they took to leave unseen.
Wednesday narrowed her eyes at him but gave a slow, conceding nod. She hated splitting up. But she trusted Thing more than anyone.
Fine, she signed. But avoid the east wing. Weems have put more monitors over there.
Thing saluted with two fingers, then hopped from the bed to the floor with a soft thwap and disappeared out the cracked window, moving swiftly.
Wednesday watched the window for a moment after he left, her expression unreadable. The exhaustion was starting to seep into her bones. She stood just long enough to change into her nightclothes, her movements slow and methodical. She didn’t glance at the bathroom door again as she lay back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Even with Enid close by, even with the noise of the world muffled and the chase momentarily stalled, the silence didn’t feel restful.
She hated that.
Wednesday sat up in her bed, notebook in hand. The word ‘student’ underlined and circled like a curse. Her fingers were stiff around the pen, movements automatic. The weight behind her eyes hadn’t lifted since the vision. Or maybe since the fencing hall. Or maybe longer. It was hard to track.
The bathroom door opened out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t look up.
Enid’s scent hit her a moment later; eucalyptus, citrus, warmth. The familiar comfort of it cut oddly against the cold coil in her chest.
Footsteps, light and uncertain, moved around the room. She caught a flicker of motion in the corner of her eye. Enid standing just past her shoulder, cardigan sleeves pushed up, mouth opening hesitantly.
Wednesday glanced over, just for a second. Enough to register Enid’s brows slightly drawn, her lips pressed together like she was holding something fragile between her teeth.
She was talking.
Or trying to.
Wednesday watched her, lost in the movement of her lips, the slight tremble of her fingers, the way her gaze flickered from Wednesday’s face to the floor and back again. She looked… reluctant. Unsure. Maybe even scared.
Wednesday’s chest pulled tight.
Then her own eyes dropped, too long. Just a breath too long.
When she looked back, Enid’s expression had shifted, waiting now, expectant. Searching.
Wednesday hadn’t heard a word. She was too tired to have followed her lips.
She hesitated, then nodded. A small, practiced motion meant to fill space she didn’t know how to navigate.
Enid’s shoulders stiffened. Her mouth pressed tighter.
And Wednesday felt it: the way the temperature of the room changed. Not cold, exactly. Just… absent.
Enid stared at her for one more beat, then turned sharply and crossed the room, muttering something low and fast — the cadence sharp enough to cut. She didn’t meet Wednesday’s eyes again. Just grabbed her cardigan, yanked open the door, and left.
The slam was not loud. But it was final.
Wednesday remained still in her chair.
She hadn't meant to upset her.
She just hadn’t… caught it. Whatever it was. Whatever she’d missed, whatever Enid had needed, had slipped right through the spaces where sound should have been.
She stared down at the page. Her pen moved again, circling word ‘student’ like a tether. It grounded her. A problem she could solve.
Whatever Enid had said…
It was something she could deal with later.
Notes:
I had some time on my hands today so I got another one for you! I'm legit just going with posting when I post. No schedule.
I will say this; Agnes is not the stalker. I had a lot of this planned and/or written since before season 2. I am contemplating adding in elements from season 2 but I have to pick and choose my moments.
The next couple chapters? Oh you guys have no idea...
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday had gone to bed without Enid returning.
She woke to the same absence.
It wasn’t unusual for Enid to crash in Yoko’s room after a bad day or a late movie. But this time, something was different. The other side of the room hadn’t been touched. The bed still made. No new clutter. Not even a stray sock.
Too neat. Too quiet.
She told herself it didn’t matter.
She’d said the same thing the first time Enid had left; after the Gates mansion, after Wednesday had driven her away with indifference. That night, the silence had been louder than anything she could remember. She'd pretended it didn’t affect her.
This time, she wasn’t pretending as well.
By breakfast, Yoko was gone too. Strange.
In classes, Wednesday watched for that familiar flash of blonde. She saw Enid, in fragments; rounding a corner, ducking into the quad. But every time she tried to approach, Enid vanished before she could catch up.
She texted her in between periods.
[Wednesday]: Are you avoiding me?
No reply.
By lunch, her hearing aids were buzzing from the cafeteria noise. Too much clatter. Too many voices. She took her tray back to the dorm under the excuse of needing a sensory break; which, for once, wasn’t a lie.
Still no Enid.
The absence sat wrong. The shape of the room was off without her. The balance was disrupted. Everything too still.
Then the door creaked open; sharp, rapid clicks, and slammed shut. Thing hurled himself inside like a shot accusation, scuttling up her bed with purpose and rage.
Before she could ask, he started signing.
HOW COULD YOU! SHE WAS CRYING. WOULD YOU SAy HER MOTHER WAS RIGHT?!
Wednesday stared, blinking once. “What?”
Thing pointed again, aggressive.
You nodded. She asked if her mother was right. You nodded .
“I didn’t hear her,” Wednesday said, her voice suddenly quiet. “I had just come out of multiple visions. I was tired. I wasn’t looking at her. She looked like she expected a response, so I nodded.”
Thing paused mid-gesture.
“It usually works,” she added, more to herself than to him.
A beat of silence.
Then Thing slowly, emphatically signed: Not this time.
Wednesday looked down. “I didn’t mean it.”
Thing's fingers curled, less angry now. Just disappointed.
“I wouldn’t have said that to her,” Wednesday said. “Not after… everything.”
She didn’t say after the mansion . She didn’t say after she left the first time, and the silence nearly cracked me open . But it was there. She knew it. Thing likely did too.
He signed again, slower now: Then fix it.
Wednesday didn’t argue, breaking her composure for a moment and resting her head in her hands.
Wednesday waited outside the greenhouse, arms crossed, boots planted in the gravel like roots. Enid filed out with the others, her eyes catching Wednesday and immediately veering away.
“Enid,” Wednesday said, stepping into her path.
“No,” Enid snapped, before Wednesday could say anything more. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Thing signed rapidly from his perch on Wednesday’s shoulder, trying to speak for her.
“Don’t,” Enid growled, pointing at him. “You can both just piss off.”
The swearing startled them both. Enid rarely swore. It sounded wrong in her mouth, bitten and raw. And worse…real.
Wednesday ran her hand through her bangs and held it there, tense. Her fingers curled into her scalp.
“Mierda,” she whispered under her breath, low and vicious. Not at Enid. At herself.
She would try again.
She approached her in the dining hall, tray in hand. Enid didn’t look up. Didn't flinch.
Wednesday stood beside her. Waited.
Nothing.
Even Yoko, usually passive, looked up from her boba and fixed Wednesday with a glare behind her red-tinted glasses. One that said you did this.
Wednesday retreated upstairs without finishing her food.
It was late when the door slammed open. Enid stormed in, eyes rimmed red, anger stiff in her shoulders. She yanked her red duffel from under her bed and began shoving clothes into it.
Wednesday stood. “Enid, please—”
“No,” Enid snapped, not even looking at her. “Whatever you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I didn’t know what you asked,” Wednesday said, voice steady but soft. “I didn’t hear you! I can’t—”
“Stop,” Enid said. “Just stop.”
She threw a jacket in, not folded.
“We were friends,” she said, louder now. “I thought you actually cared. And you just… you threw it in my face like it meant nothing.”
“Enid, I can’t—”
“Was it all crap?” Enid’s voice cracked. “Was this just another manipulation game for you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
She slung the bag over her shoulder and shoved past her, nearly knocking Thing off the desk in the process.
“I don’t want to hear your bullshit, Wednesady.” The door slammed hard behind her.
The sound rang in Wednesday’s ears, far too loud through her hearing aids; but the words hurt worse.
They echoed long after the door had closed.
Thing was already perched on the bed when Wednesday sat down beside him. They didn’t speak.
She reached up and removed her hearing aids slowly, as though the weight of them had doubled since morning. She set them down on her bedside table with unusual care.
Then her fingers moved to her boots. Laces undone, leather scuffed, toes dulled by fencing practice and long, heavy walks across campus. She pulled them off, one by one, with deliberate quiet.
Thing hesitated. Then, tentatively, reached out with a small comforting tap against her sleeve.
Wednesday’s eyes flicked to him in an instant, sharp and hollow.
Don’t .
He retracted.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, he signed.
It’s a big misunderstanding. Not your fault.
Wednesday looked away, jaw tense, lips thin. “I tried to tell her.”
The weight of everything; the constant deciphering, the half-heard words, the fencing suspension, Enid’s storming out… it all pressed down on her chest like an anvil.
School had always been easy. Language had always made sense. Now it felt like she was wading waist-deep through an ocean of flesh and fog, trying to read the world’s lips while everything blurred.
She turned back and signed with stiff hands.
It is my fault.
Her face remained neutral, but her eyes burned. She blinked slowly, once, then again, banishing the sting.
She refused to cry. Tears were useless.
I should’ve just told her sooner. As soon as we returned to Nevermore.
She thought of the moment earlier, when Enid had been grabbing her bag. She had opened her mouth. Tried. But nothing came out.
Thing paused, fingers flexing midair before asking carefully:
Why didn’t you?
Wednesday’s face twitched.
Her mask had started slipping with Enid.
Around her, she didn't feel the need to constantly defend her strange silences or dark remarks. Enid simply accepted her, even when she didn’t understand her. Like her family did. Maybe more.
And that terrified Wednesday.
She signed slowly.
She made me feel comfortable. Like myself.
She swallowed, shoulders rising in a quiet breath.
I didn’t want her to treat me differently. I didn't want her to see me as broken. Weak.
There was a long pause.
Then Wednesday dropped her hands from her face, resting them on her lap. Her eyes, darker than night, finally met Thing’s again.
Her expression didn’t crack. But her voice did.
“Spending time with Enid... talking to her…” she said, just above a whisper, “was the most human I’ve felt since I realized I was lost my hearing.”
Enid sat on the edge of Yoko’s bed, wrapped in one of her fuzzy sweaters like a shield. Her duffle bag lay tossed open on the floor. She hadn’t really meant to pack anything, not with any real intention. She just… couldn’t be in that room. Not after that.
Yoko watched her from the doorway, silent, sipping from a can of something with a blood-orange label. After a moment, she said, “Did Wednesday say something?”
Enid didn’t answer at first. Just blinked hard and curled further in on herself.
“I thought you two were, like…” Yoko squinted, tone unreadable. “Something.”
Enid let out a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh, or a sob. “I thought so too.”
Yoko’s brow knit slightly. “She seemed like she cared.”
Enid stared at her hands in her lap. “Yeah. So did I.”
Yoko set her drink down and moved to sit beside her. Still quiet. Waiting.
“I got a call,” Enid said after a while. “From my mom.”
Yoko’s expression darkened a little, lips pressing together. She didn’t like the Sinclairs. Very few people did.
Enid swallowed. “She said I wasn’t a real werewolf. That I’m weak. That shifting late means I’m broken or... defective or something. Not to mention my scars. She still thinks I lied about the hyde.” Her voice cracked. “She said I make the family look bad.”
Yoko muttered something under her breath that sounded distinctly unholy.
“I was upset. So I asked Wednesday if she thought my mom was right. If my scars were were ugly. If I was a disappointment.” Enid finally looked up, eyes rimmed red, like she hadn’t slept. “And she just… nodded.”
Yoko blinked. “She what ?”
Enid nodded herself this time, small and bitter. “Didn’t even hesitate. Just looked at me and nodded like—like it didn’t even matter.”
Yoko frowned, confused. “That doesn’t sound like her. She’s blunt, yeah, but… she’s not cruel.”
“She didn’t even ask what I meant!” Enid burst out, anger rising under the hurt. “I wasn’t even being dramatic for once, and she still just… agreed with the things my mom has been saying.”
Yoko’s expression changed. Her confusion drained out, replaced by something sharper. Protective. Furious.
“She knew you were upset?”
“I don’t know. I thought she was paying attention, but…” Enid deflated. “Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she never does.”
Yoko stood up abruptly and began to pace. “I swear to god, if she just brushed you off-”
Enid flinched a little. “It’s not like she meant to-”
“Doesn’t matter,” Yoko snapped, fangs showing faintly. “You don’t hurt someone who cares about you and just walk away like it’s nothing. Not when it’s you. You’re not supposed to be disposable.”
Enid stared at her, startled by the rare intensity.
Yoko paused, breathing hard, then softened a little. “You don’t deserve that, Enid.”
Enid didn’t respond right away. Her voice was small when it came. “I just wanted her to say no. That I wasn’t broken. That I wasn’t like them. ”
Yoko sank back onto the bed beside her and, after a second, nudged her shoulder. “You’re not like them.”
Another beat passed, and then Enid leaned her head against her friend’s shoulder. Quiet. Wrecked.
They stayed like that for a while.
Three days after Enid stormed out, the full moon rose.
Wednesday hadn’t heard a single word from her.
They passed each other in the halls like strangers now. Not even a brush of eye contact. Enid barely spared her a glance, only ever seen laughing at something Yoko said or leaning on Divina’s shoulder with her hood up and her duffle bag in tow. She had made good on her declaration. Wednesday had lost her.
Wednesday wanted to throw herself into fencing, desperate for the focus, for something to anchor her fraying thoughts. But she was still suspended. Coach Vlad intercepted her before she even stepped into the hall, blandly telling her to go to the library and ‘reflect.’ His tone left no room for argument.
So she did. But all she reflected on was whether she had made a mistake by keeping quiet about her hearing.
The stalker didn’t let up.
That morning, she’d woken up to a photo of Enid, red duffle slung over her shoulder, leaving the dorm. The text that followed read:
[Unknown]: Finally tired of you. Can’t say I blame her.
More came later. A few of her, bent over a textbook at her desk. Another, zoomed-in on Enid from across the quad, talking with Yoko. Wednesday hated the randomness of them, the unpredictability. It was a game to this person. A cruel, petty one.
She wanted to tell Enid. Desperately. But Enid had made it clear: she didn’t want to hear anything from her.
Bianca still talked to her, if a bit stiffly. Xavier acted almost too casual. Eugene was kind but didn’t push. She found some peace among the bees, letting their drone drown out her thoughts.
Still, the silence followed her back to the dorm every night like a second shadow.
Then came the assembly.
Wednesday only caught about half of it. The sound system grated against her hearing aids; too sharp, too distorted. Even when she tried to focus, she was too far from the podium to clearly read anyone’s lips. She stared forward, expression blank, posture still, but it was all visual static.
Thing tapped against her thigh under her desk.
Afterward, he crawled up onto her shoulder and signed, Spring fair. Next week. Mandatory attendance.
Wednesday’s brow twitched. Another trap for socialization and noise. Just what she needed.
Before she could dwell too long, her eyes were drawn to Principal Weems. The tall woman’s stare was fixed directly on her through the crowd; piercing, unreadable.
That night, the howling started.
Enid and the other werewolves headed to the Lupin Cages, a monthly ritual Wednesday had come to silently track since last term. She wanted to follow, badly. She imagined herself at the edge of the tree line, watching over Enid in silence.
But she couldn’t risk it.
Her hearing aids couldn’t keep up with a dozen shifting bodies, not with the wind, the growling, the blur of movement in the woods. It would be stupid. Dangerous.
So she retreated to the balcony, cello case in hand.
She heard them before she saw the moon; one howl first, then another, then a chorus that sent a strange shiver down her spine.
She sat and played.
The notes were low and hollow, soaked in a quiet ache. She wasn’t crying. Her face didn’t change. But the music knew what her body refused to accept.
The next morning, she woke up to another photo.
Enid, slipping into the cages. Her head down. Another message came in seconds later—her wolf form behind the bars, a clipboard-holding staff member standing far too close.
[Unknown]: Seems unfair, doesn’t it? Caged. Alone.
Wednesday gripped her phone so tightly she nearly cracked the case.
Anger simmered deep in her chest. Not just at the stalker but at whoever thought they had the right to observe Enid like she was some feral thing. She was vulnerable. She should not have been watched, not like that.
Her pacing started before she even realized it; tight circles in their dorm, her thoughts spinning faster than her feet. She needed to do something.
Eventually, she descended to the quad, trying to collect herself.
And there she was.
Enid, still in her hoodie, surrounded by her usual friends. She was laughing, shoveling something horrifyingly sugar-drenched into her mouth, her tray piled high. Clearly still riding the post-shift appetite wave.
Wednesday stopped in her tracks.
She didn’t approach.
She just watched for a few heartbeats too long; trying to decide if she felt better knowing Enid seemed okay… or worse, knowing she was fine without her.
The day before the fair arrived it was overcast and heavy.
Nearly two weeks had passed since Enid left, since she’d yelled and slammed the door and taken every ounce of warmth with her. And in that time, Wednesday had methodically worked her way down the list of fencing students.
Ajax had been easy to clear; there was a grainy photo from a week prior, him standing beside Enid at a vending machine. Same jacket, same backpack. The timestamp alone ruled him out, not to mention the fact that he'd looked at her with such innocent confusion when she offhandedly asked whether he ever left his phone in his locker. Poor boy probably thought it was some kind of trick question.
Xavier had taken longer. Not because there was any evidence against him;but because Wednesday had wanted there to be. Wanted to be right. Wanted someone to blame. But his phone records were unremarkable, and he’d even shown her the original packaging of the phone he’d given her, the receipt timestamp long before the first text had come in.
He still had a crush on her; she could feel it like a second skin whenever he looked at her but he wasn’t her stalker.
The realization had irritated her more than it should have.
What made it worse was the stalker’s shifting focus.
It was subtle at first; messages phrased around Enid being ‘too good’ for her. Then photos. More than Wednesday got, lately. Blurry snaps of her eating, tying her shoes, slipping out a side door with her hood up. Every new message left a sour taste in Wednesday’s mouth.
It wasn’t about her anymore. Not entirely.
The stalker had grown… interested in Enid. Obsessive, even.
Wednesday hated the feeling that clawed its way into her chest every time a new image came in. Not because she was jealous, jealousy was predictable, human, beneath her. This was something else.
It was a warning bell.
It was a pit in her stomach.
And it was unwelcome.
Still, the one small thing she clung to was this: Enid hadn’t actually moved out.
Wednesday knew that because her side of the room, though eerily untouched, remained exactly as it was. No dorm parent had approached her about transferring her roommate. No duffle bag stuffed with sweaters and neon jeans had left with her for good. The closet still had hangers inside. The shelves still smelled faintly of her perfume.
Enid was avoiding her, yes. Refusing to sleep there when Wednesday was in the room. But she hadn’t left .
And for reasons Wednesday hadn’t entirely parsed yet… that mattered.
It gave her a sliver of hope. Not for forgiveness, necessarily. But for… space to make things right.
She’d been holding something in for days now; something uncomfortable. Something that twisted her stomach whenever she tried to explain it to herself.
She missed Enid.
But worse than that… she regretted.
Not just that she had nodded at the wrong moment. Not just that she’d let Enid walk out.
No.
She regretted not telling her the truth. From the beginning.
About her hearing. About the stalker. About how vulnerable she felt since losing control of the one thing she had always trusted; her perception.
She’d told herself she didn’t care what Enid thought. That if she found out, and saw her as broken or weak, then so be it.
But that was a lie. One she could no longer tolerate.
Because Wednesday Addams was a great many things, but weak had never been one of them.
She could face down monsters, murders, secrets, and trauma. But this? This void between her and the one person who made the world feel less sharp, less unbearable? It was worse than any blade to the gut.
And for the first time in her life… she didn’t care if Enid knew how much she meant to her.
She just wanted her back.
The day after the full moon always felt like waking up after a fight Enid couldn’t remember. Her bones ached. Her joints popped. Her hair was a disaster, and her skin still held the scent of dirt and pine and sweat no matter how many showers she took.
But this morning, there was something different in the air. The fair was tomorrow.
She’d always loved spring fairs; bright colors, warm food, music and stalls, temporary tattoos, face paint, that one ride that probably shouldn’t be structurally sound but no one ever shut down. Enid had spent a good chunk of breakfast listing off all the food she planned to eat. A churro. Maybe three. Giant curly fries with too much salt. Honey candy. Popcorn. Some kind of aggressively flavored lemonade.
Her voice was animated, hands flying with enthusiasm, the tips of her claws still visible even after the change.
It wasn’t until she glanced across the quad that she stopped mid-sentence.
Wednesday was there. Moving slowly. Her hands were at her sides, posture rigid but deliberate, as if she were forcing herself not to pace. Same black uniform, same severe braids. But something about her was… off.
She wasn’t scanning the crowd the way she usually did. There was no dagger-sharp glare, no telltale narrowing of her eyes, like she was cataloging everything she saw for a future autopsy report.
Enid stopped chewing her straw and just… stared.
There was a tension in Wednesday’s posture. Not unusual on its own. But today it read differently; tight shoulders, measured steps, as if her brain was running faster than her body could keep up with. Her eyes flicked toward Enid’s group. They locked, just for a moment.
And in that second, Enid noticed it; a flicker of something. Wednesday’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly, like she’d exhaled without meaning to. It was subtle. Barely a change. But for Wednesday, whose spine normally looked forged from steel rods and spite, it was almost startling.
No sneer. No scowl. No venom.
Just a blank, almost uncertain expression.
Then the moment was over.
Wednesday turned away and kept walking.
Yoko leaned back, one leg draped lazily over the bench. “Don’t do that thing where you feel bad,” she said flatly, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. “She messed up. You don’t owe her anything.”
Bianca looked up from her phone on the far side of Davina, brows raised. “Maybe it was a misunderstanding,” she offered, not quite defensive, just curious. “She’s been off since we came back. Something’s definitely up.”
Enid sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Yeah, she’s been… weird. Weird in a new way. Not her usual murder-stare weird. Like, avoidant and distracted and not listening.”
Davina nodded. “I mean, you did say she just nodded when you asked that question.”
“I was really vulnerable,” Enid muttered, picking at a tear in the corner of her napkin. “I just wanted someone to say it wasn’t true. That I wasn’t what my mom said. I don’t even know why I asked her.”
“Because you trusted her,” Bianca said softly. “And you were right to be upset when it didn’t go the way you needed it to.”
Enid nodded again, this time smaller. “I’ll probably talk to her eventually. When it… hurts less.”
There was a pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Yoko broke it with a casual grin. “So you’re telling me I have to sneak churros out of the fair for you tomorrow?”
Enid blinked. “Who said I wasn’t going to the fair?”
“You were moping like a wolf whose mate got away five seconds ago.”
“I am going to the fair,” Enid insisted, straightening up. “I’m going for the food.”
“Of course you are,” Yoko said with a snort. “It’s, like, the one time you don’t get weird looks for eating your body weight in sugar and deep-fried grease.”
Enid narrowed her eyes. “You’re just jealous I metabolize better.”
“I’m a vampire. I don’t metabolize at all.”
Bianca and Davina both cracked up at that, and Enid let herself laugh, too, just for a moment.
Even if her heart still ached.
Wednesday sat cross-legged on her bed, journal balanced against one knee, her pen unmoving.
Her hearing aids rested in their charging case on the nightstand. Without them, the room was silent in the truest sense of the word; not quiet, not hushed, but absent. A vacuum where the world dulled and pulled inward. No hum from the light overhead. No old pipe groans. Not even the faintest scrape of Thing shifting below the bed.
Just the press of stillness, unbroken.
The silence should have brought clarity. But tonight, it only magnified the pressure in her chest.
Her eyes remained fixed on her phone. She hadn’t touched it in ten minutes, and yet a strange anticipation twisted in her gut. The feeling of being watched without knowing how or from where.
When the screen lit up with a vibration she couldn’t hear, she felt it instead; a soft buzz through the mattress, barely perceptible but enough to pull her attention sharply back.
She picked it up.
[Unknown Number]:
1 Image
A photo of the fairgrounds. Taken just after sunset. The booths stood half-built and skeletal, caught in the dim blue of evening. Tents still unfinished, ropes coiled, signage missing. One corner of the frame blurred, as though the photographer had been in motion; leaving as quickly as they came.
Then a message followed:
[Unknown]: Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
Wednesday stared at it. Not with fear. But with a heaviness that coiled through her ribs.
She turned the phone face down.
They were already here. Watching. Lurking in half-finished corners of something meant to be joyful.
And Enid would be there.
Her eyes flicked toward the closed bathroom door; toward Enid’s side of the room, still technically hers. Still untouched. Still hers, despite everything.
She reached to the nightstand and opened her leather case of lockpicks. Her knife was already under her pillow. As always.
For a moment, her hand hovered near her hearing aids.
But she didn’t put them back in.
Instead, she lay back into the hush, into the cocoon of silence, cold and clean and let the weight of tomorrow settle over her like a second blanket.
Morning crept in slow and gray, the dorm cloaked in early light and faint shadow. Wednesday opened her eyes in the stillness, her breath quiet beneath the heavy quilt.
The room was utterly silent.
Not the kind of quiet one notices. The kind that presses in. That reveals how much she used to hear; the way the radiator clicked when it was cold, the low murmur of pipes beneath the floors, the early risers whispering or thudding past the door. None of it was there now.
She let the silence settle for a beat. Then she reached for the charger case on her nightstand.
No uniform today, it was the weekend. No fencing. Just the spring fair. And a crowd of loud, chaotic peers. She’d already decided before falling asleep how to manage that.
From the case, she selected one RIC hearing aid and placed it in her left ear — her stronger side for speech clarity. Then, with a brief hesitation, she took out a small ITC aid for her right. Less conspicuous. Less likely to trigger overstimulation. It gave her a balance she could tolerate without flooding her mind with input. Sure the right will still be really dull but just for today, a place she wasn’t planning on interacting much, it was perfect.
The half-silence that followed was deliberate. Controlled. Her own design.
She pulled on her clothes with practiced ease: worn black jeans, soft enough not to restrict movement. A high-collared, long-sleeved black shirt tucked into them. Her black jean jacket. Her boots laced tight; practical, scuffed, and made for more than walking.
She packed light; a hidden blade, her lockpicks, a compact flashlight, her notebook tucked into her coat’s inner pocket. Her left boot concealed another small knife, just in case.
Before she left, her eyes lingered for a moment on the other half of the room.
Enid’s pillow was still there. So were a few of her things. Her stuffed wolf. Her pastel shampoo bottles in the corner of the dresser.
But her red duffel hadn’t returned.
Wednesday hadn't seen her at night since the fallout. Enid didn’t speak to her. Barely looked at her. But no dorm parent had arrived with reassignment papers.
The absence was loud in its own way.
Still, the fact that her side of the room hadn’t been cleared out entirely… it was something. A thread of hope, however thin.
A part of Wednesday hoped there was still time to fix this. That the silence between them wasn’t permanent.
She didn’t care if Enid saw her vulnerability anymore. If she figured it all out. The hearing loss. The struggle. The failure.
She just didn’t want her gone.
With a deep breath, Wednesday opened the door and slipped out into the corridor. Into the noise, the crowd, the risk.
The fair was coming. And she needed to be ready.
Weems stood at the front of the courtyard, her posture immaculate as always, commanding attention with a single sharp clap of her hands. The student body quieted. "You will all be departing for the fairgrounds at one o’clock sharp," she announced. "Dress for the weather, behave with some semblance of dignity, and return with all limbs attached."
A few students chuckled. Wednesday did not.
Without waiting for the rest of the instructions, she turned on her heel and strode away. She had no desire to be part of the pre-departure buzz or the excited chatter about funnel cakes and music stalls. The library’s quiet was more tolerable, the smell of old pages and faint mildew a comfort she could sink into. She slid into a back corner, opened the spine of a local history book, and began reading; though her eyes lingered too long on each line, her thoughts slipped sideways.
Across campus, sunlight filtered through the windows of Yoko’s dorm, where Enid sat cross-legged on Yoko’s bed, a towel draped under her hands as she carefully painted pale yellow polish over her nails. Tiny white daisies bloomed at the center of each one—painstakingly dotted with a toothpick. Yoko lay beside her, one hand lazily flopped on the comforter, the other swiping through a playlist on her phone.
“You’re really going all out for this fair,” Yoko said with a teasing grin. “You trying to impress someone, or just excited about deep-fried sugar?”
Enid rolled her eyes, biting her lip as she concentrated on her next petal. “Both. And don’t pretend you’re not psyched about the vampire-safe lemonade stand.”
Yoko gave a noncommittal hum, tilting her sunglasses up onto her forehead. “You’ve been kind of… better lately.”
Enid glanced over at her, drying hand splayed in front of her. “Better how?”
“I don’t know.” Yoko shrugged. “You’ve been smiling more. Eating like a wolf again. Sleeping without growling in your sleep. All signs point to emotional recovery.”
Enid made a face. “That’s a pretty low bar.”
Yoko flipped her hand. “Fair.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment as Yoko switched hands and Enid blew gently on her nails. Eventually, Yoko’s voice softened.
“Can I ask you something?”
Enid gave her a wary look. “That tone means you’re gonna ask anyway.”
Yoko smiled wryly. “How do you actually feel about Wednesday?”
Enid’s shoulders tensed for a split second, but she didn’t look away. “I don’t know. I mean… I do. It’s just… hard.”
Yoko didn’t push, just nodded.
Enid sighed. “I trusted her. Like, really trusted her. And maybe she didn’t mean it the way it came off but… it hurt. She didn’t even try to talk to me after.”
“She did,” Yoko admitted quietly, brushing invisible lint off her shirt. “Kind of miserably, actually. You weren’t around.”
Enid looked away, chewing the inside of her cheek.
“She’s not great with people,” Yoko added. “But you know that. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think she meant to hurt you.”
Enid folded her hands in her lap, careful not to smudge her nails. “Yeah. I know. I’m just… not ready. It still stings.”
Yoko bumped her shoulder lightly. “You’ll know when you are.”
They moved to gather their things; Enid carefully packing her lip gloss, sunscreen, a hair tie, and her favorite glitter highlighter into a small pink backpack. Yoko threw on a long, black breezy cardigan and her wide-brimmed sunhat. As they headed for the bus circle, Enid cast one more glance up at Ophelia Hall. The curtains in her old dorm window were drawn tight.
Wednesday sat curled into one of the alcove chairs, her booted foot tucked beneath her as her eyes scanned the fine print of a battered volume on dreamwalkers. She barely moved except to turn the page with precise control. The quiet here was absolute; soft and absorbing, like cotton stuffed in the ears. Not even the ancient floorboards creaked in this corner of the library.
It wasn’t until a shadow blocked her light that she registered someone was there.
“Miss Addams,” Weems said sharply, though she kept her voice low. “You weren’t at the busses.”
Wednesday looked up, irritated. “Why are you the one who found me?”
Weems raised a brow, folding her arms. “Because you missed the announcement. The speakers are mounted near the front of the library, and they tend to lose clarity this deep in the stacks. I doubt even someone with perfect hearing would have caught the full message back here.”
Wednesday’s lip twitched in annoyance. “So much for escaping the school-mandated carnival.”
Weems softened a fraction, kneeling slightly to keep her voice near Wednesday’s ear. “We’re leaving at one o’clock sharp. You still have time to grab your things.”
“I’m already dressed for survival,” Wednesday deadpanned, sliding a ribbon into the book to mark her place before shutting it crisply.
Weems didn’t move. “How are you adjusting?”
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. “Fine.”
It was clipped. Too fast. Not fine.
Weems nodded slowly. “And the fencing suspension?”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “I’ll deal with it.”
Her eyes stayed glued to the back cover of the book, deliberately avoiding Weems’ gaze. Her whole posture was bristling; shoulders squared, fingers white-knuckled around the edges of the book. The only movement came from the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Weems studied her in silence. Wednesday didn’t see the way her expression shifted; the frown tugging at her lips, the regret behind her usually impassive eyes.
Weems straightened, brushing invisible lint off her blazer. “Then I’ll see you at the busses.”
She turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Wednesday didn’t look up.
The busses pulled away one by one, rumbling down the winding forest road and out of Nevermore’s gates. It was a short ride, barely ten minutes, but it felt longer to Wednesday. Longer because the sky was too bright, the students too loud, and the tension in her temples never eased, even with one aid left out.
She recognized the fairgrounds as soon as the bus crested the hill. The same cracked parking lot. The same crooked wooden signs painted in garish spring colors. The same patch of field where pumpkins had rotted in autumn, now cleared and dressed in pastel tents and cheap string lights.
It was the place of the harvest festival.
A bitter irony twisted in her gut.
If I had just walked out after that therapy session… she thought, as her boots hit the gravel. If I had gone left instead of going to the Weathervein… none of this would be like this.
The air was thick with sugar and pollen and something sticky she didn’t want to investigate. Students poured from the busses around her. Enid was somewhere. She didn’t look.
“Wednesday!”
Eugene’s voice broke her reverie, and then he was bounding toward her, his curls bouncing and grin wide.
“I can eat everything now,” he announced proudly. “Got my braces off last week.”
Wednesday’s brow twitched faintly upward. “Your dentist has my condolences.”
He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and didn’t give her time to brood. “Wanna hang out? You know, like old times?”
She considered saying no. She always considered saying no. But something about the way he was already halfway turned toward the fair’s entrance; hopeful and entirely too trusting, made her sigh instead.
“Just for a while,” she said.
He lit up. “Yes! Okay, okay, we have to try the entomology tent. And the fried pickles. And the ring toss even though I suck at it-”
They wandered deeper into the fair, Eugene practically vibrating with glee. Wednesday felt her phone buzz once. Then again. She ignored it. A third buzz. A fourth. Different rhythms, not all the same sender.
She had foregone her bag; it restricted movement, and she had no real need for it. Her phone and wallet were tucked in the inside pocket of her coat, snug against her ribs. The phone kept buzzing. She didn’t check it.
If it’s important, Thing will find me, she thought.
And besides, she was… busy .
Eugene had big plans for the Hummers’ shed; new frames, better airflow, possibly a butterfly terrarium if he could convince his moms. They talked about the early spring bugs they were hoping to spot, and Eugene showed her a picture of an iridescent beetle he’d found near the apiary.
They played the games, Eugene failing hilariously at every one, but never losing his enthusiasm. Wednesday, by contrast, hit every target dead-on, throwing rings, darts, and even a baseball with bored precision. She let Eugene pick all the prizes.
He chose the ugliest plush worm she’d ever seen.
“It’s neon,” he said proudly. “Like, really neon. I’m gonna put it next to my microscope.”
Wednesday could barely hear half of what he said in the din of the fair, but she managed. It helped that Eugene, bless him, had a habit of turning to face her every time he spoke. He gestured, exaggerated, made wide-eyed expressions. It was overstimulating and impossible to miss.
She didn’t mind.
They were seated on a hay bale, sharing a funnel cake (mostly his), when Eugene gave her a sidelong glance.
“You miss her, huh?”
Wednesday didn’t look up. “It’s… a misunderstanding.”
Eugene chewed, then nodded slowly, sugar clinging to his upper lip. “She looked really sad.”
Wednesday’s hand curled slightly around the edge of her coat.
He didn’t push it.
They sat quietly for a moment, Eugene munching, Wednesday staring across the field at the spinning Ferris wheel.
Her phone buzzed again.
She still didn’t look.
Notes:
Oh these are long. Lol. I'm so STOKED for the next one. But it definitely not be out today. I STRUGGLED to finish this one. I hope you all have a good evening!
Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The fair had been tolerable, at first.
Wednesday didn’t exactly enjoy herself, but Eugene had a way of making her forget to count the seconds. He’d practically bounced through the fairgrounds with the kind of excitement only a thirteen-year-old boy recently freed from braces could muster. At one of the stands, he proudly bit into a caramel apple with the theatrical delight of someone who hadn’t been allowed to eat anything sticky in two years. She didn’t smile, but her expression did soften as he offered her a bite. She declined.
They played a few games; ones Eugene picked. She let him. Her aim was predictably flawless, knowing how rigged the games are, though she handed over every won prize to him without a word. Eugene beamed. She found his giddiness tolerable. Comforting, even.
He talked about the new hives he wanted to build, the possibility of growing their honey production, and the spring bugs he was hoping to collect this year. Wednesday listened, nodding occasionally when he paused, always turning to face her when he spoke. She appreciated that. She hadn’t asked him to. He just… did it.
She could only catch half of what he said when he didn’t, and her patience for lipreading in a crowd was starting to fray.
Still, she'd lasted longer than she thought she would.
After about an hour or two, the fairgrounds had grown significantly more crowded. Children shrieked, teenagers yelled to friends across walkways, and speakers blasted overly cheerful music from one of the central stages. The buzz in her ears from the RIC was starting to turn sharp, and the dullness from the ITC aid felt suffocating under the mounting sensory pressure.
Eugene had just finished winning a small stuffed beetle when he turned to her with hopeful eyes.
“You wanna hit the rides?”
Wednesday hesitated. She didn’t flinch at the question, she rarely flinched, but the idea of screams slicing through her hearing aids made her stomach knot. Worse, she didn’t want to take them out. Not here. Not after the text she’d gotten the night before. A photo of the fairgrounds in the dark, paired with the message: See you tomorrow.
She had no interest in removing her only line of defense.
“I’ll pass,” she said, voice even. “Go without me.”
Eugene didn’t pout or beg. He smiled, genuinely. “Okay! I’ll come find you later. Don’t disappear.”
She inclined her head slightly, and he jogged off toward the rides, the stuffed beetle already forgotten under one arm.
Wednesday exhaled slowly through her nose and turned toward the edge of the crowd. The fairgrounds had become a cacophony of noise and color, pressing in on all sides. Her ears throbbed with too much input; not loud enough to be painful, but constant enough to exhaust. It felt like standing under water while someone shouted from above, every noise distorted and warped in her skull.
Finally, she backed on to a bench, glaring at a normie hard enough that they decided that sitting next to her wasn’t a good idea. She opened her phone to see several text messages. Some from her stalker and a couple for people she didn’t even know possessed her number. However, none from Enid.
She opened the non-stalker texts first; I it seemed that Enid’s vampire friend had somehow gotten her number.
[Tanaka]: Hey Addams, I think you and Enid gotta talk.
[Tanaka]: I don’t know what a nod means for you but do you actually think Enid’s mom had a point?
[Tanaka]: You got a better sense of justice than that.
Wednesday scowled and her fingers typed before she could think too much.
[Wednesday]: Of course I do not think she was right! Esther Sinclair deserves to be declawed with a silver blade.
She then moved on to the next: Xavier. All he asked was if she wanted to go on the ferris wheel or something called an ‘octopus’. Surely Jericho wasn’t interesting enough, or wealthy enough, to have a real live octopus. Either way, she wasn’t interested.
The third turned out to be Bianca. Who keeps giving these cretins her phone number?
[Bianca]: Hey Wednesday, we know your room mate is avoiding you.
[Bianca]: I wouldn’t normally do this but we are going to leave Enid with our stuff when she’s eating later.
[Bianca]: She won’t leave our things.
[Bianca]: Trust me.
[Bianca]: I’ll text you when.
Now that was a tempting offer. Though she doesn’t know if she’d be able to truly talk to her, understand her, in such a chaotic place. Her mind was already reeling.
The last set was, of course, her stalker. There were at least a dozen pictures of her and Eugene around the fair. Some messages were compliment on her marksmanship others were teasing her about being a baby sitter.
Worse though, is that there were pictures of Enid with some of the nightshades with the usual comments on her worthiness of Enid. There were other complimenting the wolf that made her feel sick.
The last and most recent image though, was her and Eugene talking, a single arm reaching out towards them.
[Unknown]: You better not be ignoring me.
Wednesday got up to look around cautiously. She didn’t like this. Her grip on her phone tightened before a group of normie students bumped into her. She needed out.
Her heart was fine. Her mind was focused. But her senses; they were tired. Raw.
She threaded through the crowd, slipping past couples, booths, and awkwardly lingering chaperones. With each step, the press of bodies lessened. Somewhere to her right, someone was selling roasted corn and fresh donuts. To her left, the scent of fried onions nearly turned her stomach.
She didn’t stop until she reached the far edge of the grounds; a thinner stretch of lawn leading toward the treeline. Teenagers loitered around the wooden footbridge ahead, trading smokes or scrolling their phones. Wednesday stopped short of the last booth, just close enough to hear the rustle of leaves and taste the cleaner air coming off the forest.
Her fingers flexed at her sides.
It was quieter here.
Not silent, but less.
She let herself breathe.
And still, even with the relief of space and distance, her shoulders remained tight. The texts, the photos, Enid’s absence… everything simmered beneath her skin.
She didn’t relax, but she stilled.
She would regroup. She would watch.
And when the stalker revealed himself, and he would, she’d be ready.
She pushed deeper into the crowd, each step a calculated decision to get away from the worst of the noise. Her hand twitched near her pocket, fingers brushing the hard edge of her phone, the too-frequent buzzing ignored. The scent of smoke thickened the farther she walked; not the kind from concession grills, but the kind that clung to fingers and hoodies, sharp and cloying.
At the edge of the clearing, the crowd thinned. There was a narrow foot bridge ahead where teenagers lounged against the railing, laughing or vaping, some of them passing lighters between them with practiced indifference. Adults loitered near the clearing entrance, chatting idly, eyes elsewhere.
Wednesday didn’t stop.
Then, suddenly-
A hand seized her from behind.
One clamped over her mouth, the other forcing her head to the side.
She hadn’t heard them coming.
Her limbs went still on instinct, momentary shock freezing her muscles as breath caught in her throat. Her heart thudded once, hard.
She didn’t hear the voice, not properly. It wasn’t a voice at all — it was a ripple of sound, almost synthetic, almost hollow. Words spilled into her ear like distorted static.
“Hold my hand, walk into the woods as if nothing is different and don’t stop until I tell you.”
The command pierced her, not her ears, but her mind. Her thoughts blurred at the edges, a strange heat settling just behind her eyes. Her hearing aid buzzed sharply, painfully, the sound skewing and cutting out in one ear. Her muscles slackened.
As the grip eased her body swayed forward-
-and then her mind snapped back.
No.
Her elbow shot back hard, catching soft ribs with enough force to make whoever it was grunt and stumble.
She spun. The figure was already retreating, hooded, fast, weaving through startled teens and startled smokers, not looking back.
He took off into the crowd, back into the fair and Wednesday followed, not taking her eyes off the hooded figure as they darted between clusters of people.
She heard nothing but the blood rushing in her ears, her RIC feeding her a garbled wall of sound: shouts, laughter, the screech of distant rides, all blurring at the edges. But her focus was absolute.
The figure ducked around a booth and sprinted through the side gate toward the parking lot. He nearly barreled over an elderly couple crossing the asphalt, stumbling just long enough for Wednesday to lunge.
Her hand clamped down on his wrist.
She dug her fingers in, yanking him backward; just as he started to twist toward her.
And then-
Fire.
The world vanished in an instant.
Her vision tore away from reality and plunged into something vast and wrong. Smoke filled her lungs, thick and choking. Trees bent and cracked under invisible pressure. The sky bled at the edges, stained with flickering red light.
Ash fell like snow.
Something moved in the haze; a shadow, crawling across the blackened forest floor, its eyes molten and mouth twisted wide in silent command.
Then she heard it:
Not with her ears; with her bones.
“You’ll burn with the rest.”
A scream echoed in her mind, not her own. A girl’s scream. High and familiar.
The ground split beneath her feet.
Then nothing.
Wednesday gasped and blinked, air burning in her throat.
The vision broke.
She was flat on her back, surrounded by damp soil and dead leaves. Her ears were ringing, but not from sound, exactly, it was a pressure, a void.
She blinked rapidly. Her vision refused to sharpen for several seconds, the afternoon light above her fragmented through gaps in the trees.
She wasn’t at the parking lot anymore.
She’d been moved.
Dumped.
The asphalt was gone, replaced by a patch of woods just past the edge of the fairgrounds; far enough no one would see unless they wandered well off the path. She could be in a ditch for all she knew
Her body ached. Her head throbbed like it had been split open. And her right side; She winced, reaching instinctively.
Her hand came away slick and red.
Blood soaked the fabric of her shirt beneath her coat. Her coat was torn, like it had caught on something rough. Her side screamed when she tried to shift, and when she pushed her palm against the wound, it bloomed fresh pain all the way down her leg. She was starting to think people had something against her right side.
Then she notice
No sound.
Not a thing.
No wind in the leaves. No distant carnival music. No shouts from games or laughter from rides.
She reached up.
Her hearing aids were gone.
Her hands scrabbled against the ground, panic biting through her chest. No lights. No tiny glints of reflection.
Nothing.
The silence closed in around her like a vacuum.
She tried to sit up, barely got to her elbows before her stomach twisted and she collapsed back against the dirt. Her head was spinning Her eyes darted to the tree trunks nearby, but it was so dark she couldn’t see anything.
How far had they dragged her? Did anyone notice? Which direction?
She was alone.
She pressed her coat against her side again, not bothering to unzip it, just bunching the fabric and shoving it against the bleeding that was evidently on her side. Her jaw clenched. She didn’t scream. But she wanted to.
She reached into her pocket with shaking fingers and pulled out her phone. The screen flared to life. No bars. But it lit the space just enough to show her how much blood had soaked through her layers.
She cursed under her breath.
Then, something brushed her knee. It made her jump, moving to grip the stray…
Thing.
He clambered onto her lap with sudden urgency, nearly slipping on the coat.
His fingers tapped rapidly against her arm, then the ground, Wednesday angled the light of her phone to see him.
SORRY. SAW YOU RUN. LOST YOU. TOO CROWDED.
She stared at him. She wanted to say it’s fine , but her throat was raw and her head pounded and her side was still bleeding.
Thing signed again, more slowly this time, spelling it out in the phone’s light.
HELP?
Wednesday shook her head, tried again to sit up, managed it for half a second before the world tilted. Her palm caught the dirt. She gritted her teeth and pushed through the pain.
Thing tapped again; this time against her leg in Morse.
H-E-L-P.
She didn’t argue this time.
She nodded, just once.
And Thing darted off, disappearing through the trees.
Wednesday leaned back against the trunk behind her, blood-soaked jacket pressed tight to her ribs, ears still ringing with the aftershock of a vision that didn’t feel like a warning; it felt like a threat.
She wanted Thing to stay, but now she couldn’t see anything past the phone light. She tried to flashlight feature but it seemed as though the device could not assist. Battery percentage low. Perfect. She noted that she should charge her phone nightly.
She sat in the silence, tasting copper, waiting.
Waiting to see if help would come fast enough.
She wouldn’t ven notice anyone creeping up on her until it was much too late. She tried deep, slow breaths as the now familiar anxiety swells in her chest. She could do this. She was fine. Thing was getting help.
But what if they got Thing? She shook her head at the mere thought of it. It would do her no good. Thing would get help. She’d even settle for Weems right now.
Enid laughed as Ajax made a face at the powdered sugar coating his nose. Yoko swatted at him with a paper fan someone had handed her near the food stalls, and Divina shook her head with a long-suffering sigh, though she was smiling too.
It was good.
It felt good, at least for a while. That soft, humming kind of good that didn’t ask for anything but sunshine and the smell of too many food trucks pressed too close together. The fair had a way of pulling you into the chaos, letting it spin around you like candy-colored wind.
The sun had started its descent, the fair shifting into something slower, softer, gold light catching on the string lanterns overhead and casting long shadows between booths. The crowds had only grown thicker, louder, more chaotic.
Enid was sitting at one of the picnic tables near the quieter side of the fair, guarding everyone’s stuff while Yoko, Divina, Bianca and Ajax hit the bathroom. Her nails shimmered with their spring daisies as she idly turned her hand in the light. A faint breeze picked up, carrying the smell of funnel cakes and something vaguely metallic.
It was warm. But a little… off.
She couldn’t say why. The table felt too quiet all of a sudden. She scanned the crowd. Caught Eugene’s blur of curls as he darted around near the games, looking freshly victorious with some tiny plush hanging from his elbow.
But… no Wednesday.
She hadn’t been glued to Eugene’s side, sure, but she’d been around. Now, Enid didn’t see her anywhere. A strange tug pulled at her ribs. Not quite dread. Not quite guilt.
Just something… wrong .
She barely had time to name the feeling before something dropped straight out of the string lights and landed with a sharp thud on the tabletop in front of her.
“AH—!”
She jumped back, heart in her throat, ready to lash out, only to find Thing perched there, trembling and flailing in a flurry of rapid signs.
“Whoa, whoa , slow down!” Enid said, her pulse skittering as she steadied herself. “I barely passed Hand-Speak 101, you gotta chill-”
Thing didn’t. He clenched into a trembling fist, then formed a very clear, panicked ‘W’ .
Enid froze. Her stomach dropped.
“I’m not- I’m not doing this right now,” she said, voice smaller than she meant. “She-she’s the one who pushed me away, Thing.”
SMACK.
Thing’s fingers slammed flat against the table, rattling a cup and knocking someone’s leftover fries into the grass. Then he jabbed upward, spelled out again, slow and deliberate:
H. E. L. P.
Enid’s heart went cold.
She didn’t wait. Didn’t ask. Didn’t think.
She abandoned the table, scooping up Thing and spinning in the direction he pointed. Her sneakers hit pavement, then grass, then a narrow dirt path she hadn’t realized was there. It cut behind the games booths toward the edge of the field. The fair noises dulled the farther she ran; swallowed by thickening trees and the sound of her breath in her ears.
Then she saw her.
Wednesday was slumped at the base of a tree, one hand gripping her coat pressed tightly to her side, face drawn in tight pain. Her head lolled slightly as if she was fighting to stay upright. Enid broke into a jog.
“Wednesday?” she called, slowing just before she reached her. “Hey-Wednesday, can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Enid blinked, confused, then knelt slowly. “Wednesday, it’s me. Enid. Can you-”
She reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
Wednesday jolted hard, eyes snapping to Enid with a wild, confused look. For a beat, she didn’t speak-just stared. Then her gaze flicked over Enid’s hair, her bright spring sweater, the concern etched on her face. It was so dark the raven barely processed she was in front of her at all
“…Enid?” she said it like a question, barely audible, hoarse.
Enid nodded quickly, relief blooming on her face. “Yeah, yeah, it’s me. What the hell happened to you-?”
The words came out fast, but Wednesday flinched, eyes tightening. She turned her face slightly away, shaking her head.
“Stop talking,” she said, voice low, strained. “I can’t… I can’t read your lips. It’s too dark.”
Enid froze.
Enid’s brow furrowed. She blinked at her. “Read my…? Wait-why would you need to lip read?”
Wednesday didn’t meet her eyes. Her expression didn’t shift. She just said, tightly, “I’ll explain later. I promise.”
Enid opened her mouth again, then closed it. She crouched lower beside her, her face shifting from confusion to worry.
Wednesday spoke again before Enid could ask anything else.
“I had a vision. While chasing someone. Woke up here.” She grimaced, trying to adjust her position.
Enid leaned in, brow furrowed. “Okay, but why didn’t you call someone? Or scream or-”
Wednesday cut her off sharply, twisting her face toward Enid.
“Speak clearly,” she snapped. “Into my left ear. It’s the good one.”
Enid’s mouth shut. Her eyes widened as the pieces clicked; lip reading, the specific ear, the fact Wednesday hadn’t responded until touched.
“You… You can’t hear anything ?” she said softly, voice shaking as she leaned closer to her left side.
Wednesday grimaced. “Not well. My hearing aids are gone. I don’t know if they were taken or lost when I hit the ground. Everything’s muffled if I can hear anything at all.”
Enid’s throat tightened, but she nodded, focusing.
Wednesday went on. “There’s a wound. My side. I don’t think it’s deep enough to kill me, but I can’t stay upright. Might have a concussion.”
Enid turned on her phone’s flashlight and looked her over, finally catching the dark stain on her coat. Her stomach dropped.
“Do you want me to get Weems?” she asked quietly into Wednesday’s left ear.
“No.” Wednesday shook her head. “Just… stay. I don’t want to be alone. I can’t see or hear anything.”
Enid glanced toward Thing, who signed furiously in the light of Enids phone. She barely registered it.
“She’ll be fine,” she whispered, mostly to convince herself.
Wednesday, unaware of the exchange, added, “I can stitch it up myself.”
“What? No! That’s a terrible idea.”
When Wednesday looked up at her, the expression on her face brought Enid to a halt. No sarcasm. No cold detachment. Just a raw, unguarded kind of desperation.
“Please,” she whispered, “I’ve done it before.”
Enid swallowed hard.
“…Okay,” she said, voice shaking. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
“I’m going to lift you now,” Enid said softly into Wednesday’s left ear. “Okay?”
Wednesday nodded, wordless. Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her coat, still clamped over the wound. She didn’t have a better option.
Enid crouched beside her, hesitated a second, then slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, shifting with care. Wednesday grit her teeth but didn’t protest as she was pulled into the werewolf’s arms.
Enid stood slowly, adjusting her grip. Wednesday weighed less than she expected but felt heavier in the way she leaned against her; like her body had hit its limit and was only staying upright on borrowed will. Enid grimaced at the warmth she felt seeping into her sweater.
“Gross,” she muttered to herself, then, “Sorry,” toward Wednesday.
“Spare me the sentiment. Just walk,” Wednesday murmured.
Thing scurried ahead, sticking to the shadows as Enid began the slow trek back through the trees. They didn’t speak. The only sounds were their footsteps on the pine needles and Wednesday’s slightly labored breath. By the time they reached the parking lot, the fair was still lively behind them, music and chatter echoing from the field, so cheerful it felt jarring.
“Wait,” Wednesday said, shifting slightly in Enid’s arms. “Stop.”
Enid blinked and slowed, startled by how deliberate her voice sounded for someone barely conscious.
“I need my phone.”
Enid hesitated, but then lowered her enough for Wednesday to reach into the inner pocket of her coat. She drew out her phone with slightly shaking fingers, swiped to unlock it, and opened an app. She hoped it had enough charge for this.
“What are you doing?” Enid asked, her voice closer now, face bent near Wednesday’s left side again.
Wednesday held up the screen. “Tracking my hearing aids. I can’t leave without them.”
Enid blinked at the display. There was a simple map, a static dot near the edge of the woods.
“It’s not live. Just their last known location,” Wednesday added, watching the confusion flicker across Enid’s face. “They might still be there.”
“We should get you back,” Enid said, glancing between her and the building in the distance. “Forget the stupid hearing things-”
“No.”
Enid stopped short, startled by the sharpness in her tone. Wednesday’s eyes were glassy, but the resolve in them was unchanged.
“I need them,” she said, quieter now. “Please.”
Enid sighed but adjusted her grip. “Fine. But this is ridiculous.”
Wednesday scowled, “What’s ridiculous is that I need the cursed things to hear anything in class.”
Enid pressed her lips into a thin line; not saying anything else.
They headed toward the spot, Thing already darting ahead, weaving through patchy grass and between a few scattered trees. Enid followed the faint map path, muttering under her breath. Her boots sank into damp soil as they reached the edge of the woods again.
She set Wednesday down slowly, leaning her against the back of an empty car as gently as she could. Wednesday winced but said nothing, tapping and zooming on her phone’s screen.
“There,” she said, voice strained. “Somewhere around here.”
Enid huffed and dropped to her knees, eyes sweeping the ground. A few fallen leaves, a scuffed sneaker print, and broken twigs. She scanned for glints of plastic or metal. “They’re way too small. How do you even find these if you drop them normally?”
She doesn’t, Thing signs as he scurries a couple cars away.
Wednesday muttered to herself, clutching her phone like it anchored her.
Then, mercifully, Thing returned, crawling up the car bumper and holding something small and fleshtoned curled in his pinky, something black hanging off of the same finger.
Wednesday let out a slow breath. “Thank you.”
Enid blinked. It was the first time she’d ever heard her say those words so sincerely.
She stepped over and handed the hearing aids to Wednesday, who immediately opened the tracking app again and tapped for a status update. Nothing. The signal from both aids had gone dark
She frowned. “They’re not responding.”
“Are they broken?” Enid asked, watching her closely as she stood over her left shoulder
Wednesday hesitated. Then the realization hit her. She drew in a breath and exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing as her phone began powering down.
“No,” she said flatly. “They’re dead.”
“What?”
“The batteries. I must have forgotten to charge the cases.”
Enid’s brows knit, her eyes flicking to the small devices in Wednesday’s hand.
And just like that, pieces began to fall into place.
The distant look in Wednesday’s eyes. Her clipped responses. The way she'd missed conversations entirely or stared at Enid’s mouth with furrowed brows. The tension that never seemed to leave her shoulders lately. The way she’d flinched at the fair, her gaze darting everywhere like she couldn’t pin things down.
It all made sense now.
The kind of sense that made Enid’s heart hurt.
Wednesday closed her fingers around the aids tightly, jaw locked. “It’s fine. I’ll manage.”
Enid didn’t argue. She just stepped beside her and leaned in close, her voice low and steady by Wednesday’s left ear. “Okay. Let’s get you home.”
Thing perched on Enid’s shoulder now, silent and alert, as she helped Wednesday up one more time.
Wednesday didn’t protest.
Enid got Wednesday to the bus, practically carrying her up the small hill from the parking lot to where the vehicle idled with its doors open. She had to put her down at the steps, one arm looped under the girl’s as she pressed herself to Wednesday’s back to stop her from falling. The bus driver looked alarmed, rightly so.
Wednesday shot him a warning glare, but it faltered when she felt something strange behind her. A low vibration, deep and raw, reverberating through her spine. She turned her head just enough to glimpse Enid over her shoulder.
Eyes bright. Fangs just visible as her lips pulled back. Locked onto the driver like a predator sizing up a threat.
He shrank back into his seat without a word.
The glare vanished from Wednesday’s face, replaced with reluctant understanding. Enid had been growling.
They didn’t even get a chance to sit properly before the bus lurched forward, no announcements, no roll call. Just movement. Clearly, the driver was not in the mood to argue with the werewolf.
Wednesday all but collapsed into the nearest seat, her knees giving out. Enid slid in beside her, silent but hovering protectively. It was unclear if the driver was even supposed to make trips without all students accounted for, but there was no protest. No delay. Just the winding road back to Nevermore.
Once they arrived, Enid didn’t give Wednesday the chance to object again. She scooped her up carefully but with finality, as if daring her to argue.
“I can walk,” Wednesday muttered, the protest weak, but still there.
Enid gave her a look; pointed, unwavering. Another low rumble started in her chest the smaller girl was sure she didn’t realize she was making. Wednesday felt it more than heard it, and finally relented with a breath through her nose. The wolf could have her way, just this once.
Enid carried her up all the flights of Ophelia Hall without complaint, only setting her down once they reached the door to their ensuite bathroom. Wednesday leaned heavily on the sink, her reflection nearly as pale as the marble countertop.
Enid hovered for only a second before stepping in to help her peel off the jacket. Blood had soaked through part of it—mostly from the side wound—and her hands moved carefully, mindful of where it hurt.
Wednesday began to unbutton her shirt, and Enid turned away without needing to be asked.
“Thank you,” came a small voice from behind her.
Enid stilled. It wasn’t sarcasm. Wasn’t forced. Just… soft. And real.
She didn’t know what to do with it. Her heart was still pounding from earlier. She was furious, scared, relieved, confused…Wednesday had been hurt, again, and apparently had been hiding so much. It made her want to scream. But not right now. Not while Wednesday was still bleeding and visibly shaking.
She exhaled and called over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back!”
Thing skittered into the room, and Enid looked down at him. “Watch her.”
He gave a sharp, emphatic thumbs up.
Enid took off, bolting downstairs and across the hall. She burst into Yoko’s dorm, grabbed her overnight bag, and ran back to the upper floor. She could feel the adrenaline starting to wear off, and she didn’t want to lose momentum.
Back in their room, she threw her bag in her closet, kicked off her shoes, and stripped the ruined sweater and undershirt in one motion. The blood had dried in uncomfortable patches. It was beyond saving.
She dug out a bright green top, comfort clothing, and pulled it over her head, then swapped her pants for soft, well-worn sweats. She paused only once, hearing the sound of the shower through the bathroom door.
Movement. The soft clang of a bottle. Wednesday was still standing, still functioning.
Good.
Enid sat on the edge of her bed and dragged a hand through her hair, exhaling slowly.
She didn’t know what tonight was, but she knew one thing for certain.
She wasn’t leaving Wednesday alone.
The shower wasn’t warm enough.
It hadn’t been since the first week back. Something about the pipes, or the wind through the tower, or perhaps the fact that the room always felt colder now that she was in it alone.
The door, once a silent witness to toothpaste debates and ridiculous bedtime rituals, now stared back at her like a hollow chest cavity. Gutted. Still. Empty
She stared at it through the steam, shoulders hunched under the water, her right hand pressed tightly to the wall for balance. Her side was burning, sharp pain flaring every time she moved too quickly or breathed too deep. Her head throbbed with the dull, relentless pulse of a migraine threatening to bloom into something worse.
Her stomach twisted at the thought of the crowd, of the hand over her mouth, of the voice in her ear and the horrible slackness that had overtaken her muscles for just a second too long.
She shut off the water before she could spiral again.
It took longer than it should have to get out of the tub. Then another several minutes with her suturing kit. She was definitely stabbed. Then, she put gauze over top and secured it with the medical tape in the first aid kit.
The towel slipped from her shoulder twice as she leaned into the sink, catching her breath before she carefully pulled on the black hoodie Thing had brought in; no buttons, no zippers. Just fabric, simple and yielding. A pair of black sweatpants sat folded beside it. She slid them on, wincing as the waistband grazed her side.
She unlocked the bathroom door and opened it with slow fingers.
She didn’t register Enid right away, didn’t see her, didn’t hear her. She was only distantly aware of a blur of movement and the warmth of someone’s arm sliding around her waist, fingers pressing carefully but firmly against the uninjured side of her torso.
It was Enid.
The wolf said nothing. Just guided her gently, wordlessly, back to her bed.
Wednesday sat down on the edge of the mattress, her breath uneven. She blinked up at Enid with furrowed brows.
“You didn’t leave.”
It wasn’t a question. Not really. But it sounded like one.
Enid rolled her eyes and started to say something. Wednesday tried to follow her lips, but her vision was still blurry, her concentration shot to pieces. She only caught fragments.
“What?” she asked, too tired to sharpen her voice.
Enid frowned, then leaned closer to her left side, the one that still functioned, and said slowly and clearly, “I wasn’t going to leave you alone like this.”
Wednesday stared for a second, taking in the shape of her mouth, the care in her voice. Then she looked away and sighed. “You deserve a long-overdue conversation. But I can’t… have a two-sided discussion right now.”
There was a knock, a tap really, and Thing climbed onto the bed, holding both her hearing aids in his small hand. The sight of them in his grasp twisted something strange and guilty in her chest.
She reached toward the drawer beside her bed. Pulled it open. Inside were two small charging cases, identical except for the labels: RIC and ITC . She took both out and then reached for the tangled cables behind her nightstand.
Enid silently watched as Wednesday plugged them in and gently placed the hearing aids in their respective chargers. A soft red light began to pulse on each case.
Dead. Both of them. She hadn’t charged the cases.
She shut the drawer and slumped back against the pillow, exhaustion finally dragging her down.
Enid gave her a small smile. Just a nod. No commentary. No pressure.
Wednesday didn’t even remember closing her eyes.
Enid stood there for a long moment, Wednesday falling asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. The blonde crossed the room and switched off the lamp on Wednesday’s desk. The seer asleep, curled loosely on her side. It was odd to not see her in her corpse pose on her back. Thing had chosen her stomach as his resting place, his fingers curled protectively over the edge of her hoodie.
Enid sat on the edge of her own bed, ignoring the buzzing of her phone. Text after text from her friends; Yoko, Divina, Eugene.
She had no answers for them.
So she didn’t reply.
She just watched Wednesday breathe.
Watched the rise and fall of her chest, the slight twitch of her brow even in sleep. Like her body refused to let go of vigilance, even in unconsciousness.
Enid stayed that way for an hour. Maybe more. Eventually, her muscles gave in. She lay down, turned her face toward the girl across the room, and let sleep find her too.
Notes:
And now she knows! Lmk if the flow made sense! Your comments honestly keep me going! I hope your day has been fantastic!
Chapter 13
Notes:
Thank BookWorm2107 for this chapter! (Explanation at the end)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid woke up with her heart already racing.
She sat up slowly, blinking blearily at the light slipping through the tall dorm window. It was soft, early. The world outside was still muted in that post-dawn haze; but her attention snapped to the bed across the room the moment she remembered.
Wednesday.
Still asleep.
Enid didn’t move for a moment. She just watched. Her eyes tracked the slow, subtle rise and fall of Wednesday’s chest. Counted it.
Okay. Still breathing.
But she didn’t look right. Even asleep, there was a tension to her brow, a tightness in her jaw that hadn’t eased overnight. Her hands twitched slightly when she exhaled. Her hearing aids were still in their charging cases on the bedside table instead of in the drawer where Enid guessed she usually stored them. She still was on her side. More so than when she had gone to sleep the night before.
Enid sat back against her own pillows with a small, shaky sigh. She had so many questions. And beneath them, a twist of something colder; regret.
Why didn’t she tell me?
It curled in her gut like old disappointment. She tried not to spiral, but her mother’s voice slithered out of memory without being asked:
“You’re too much. You scare people off. You never know when to stop talking. That’s why they hide things.” It sounded like her mother’s voice.
Enid shook her head, rubbing her face with both hands. No. That wasn’t fair. This wasn’t about her.
It was just… Wednesday being Wednesday. Stubborn. Closed off. Refusing to share something until it was unavoidable and bleeding.
Still, the ache in her chest didn’t go away.
She got up quietly, dug out a scrap of paper from her desk, and scribbled a note in her messy cursive:
Text me when you wake up. Went to breakfast. You better eat something or I’ll bring you weird vegan toast. - E
She left it on Wednesday’s nightstand next to the charging cases, then slipped out of the dorm.
Breakfast was louder than she wanted it to be. Yoko, Divina, and Ajax had already claimed a table near the windows, waving her over when she entered.
Enid forced a tired smile and slid into the empty seat beside Yoko.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” Yoko returned, studying her. “Everything okay?”
Enid hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “There was an… incident. With Wednesday. Last night.”
That was all she said.
And, oddly, none of them asked for more.
In fact, the table relaxed. The strange tension that had been knotting between them for the past two weeks started to finally loosen. Ajax just offered her a sympathetic look. Yoko tossed a napkin at her and told her to eat something green. Divina handed her a cup of tea.
No one needed details. They understood Wednesday was a private person. Too private in Enid’s opinion.
For the first time in days, Enid felt like she could breathe.
When she returned to the dorm a while later, the note she’d left was untouched.
Wednesday was still asleep.
Enid frowned but said nothing. She closed the door gently and turned around to find Thing sitting cross-fingered near Wednesday’s feet , flipping lazily through one of her magazines; one she definitely remembered hiding on her bookshelf under a pile of backup journals.
“Hey,” she whispered.
Thing signed a greeting, casual but tired. He set the magazine down and stretched his fingers.
Enid tiptoed across the room, cringing as her phone slipped from her hoodie pocket and clattered to the floor.
She froze, then looked over at Wednesday, but she hadn’t stirred.
Thing twisted to face her and signed deliberately: You don’t have to be that quiet. It won’t wake her.
Enid gave him a skeptical look. “Is she actually deaf?” she whispered.
Thing tilted his hand side to side. Sort of. Better let her explain.
That wasn’t exactly reassuring.
Enid picked up her phone again and sat on the edge of her bed, eyes flicking back to Wednesday’s sleeping form. She looked so small like that. Fragile, even. A version of her Enid wasn’t used to seeing. Didn’t want to see. To her, Wednesday was almost unshakeable. Ready to stab and slice at a moment's notice.
She couldn’t shake the ache in her chest, but for now, she let it be.
There would be time. For answers. For the ensuing confrontation. For figuring out what exactly was going on.
But right now, she just wanted to make sure Wednesday kept breathing.
Wednesday woke up to silence and a soft light.
Not the crisp, grey haze of morning light. This was warm and too low in the wrong part of the sky, she’d slept through the day. Her entire body ached. Her head was pulsing dully behind her eyes. Her side throbbed with every breath.
She blinked the sleep from her vision, turning her head slowly toward the other bed. Enid was awake, curled up under her bright green blanket, scrolling on her phone. She looked tired. Her thumb moved slowly.
Wednesday sat up stiffly, holding her injured side and blinking at the offending glow of the lights turned on on both sides of the room. She reached toward her nightstand with practiced, automatic movements, so practiced she almost forgot Enid might be watching.
Until she was halfway through inserting the first hearing aid.
RIC in the right.
A beat. Then the ITC in the left.
She inhaled sharply as she straightened, the pain in her side cutting like glass under her ribs. She pushed through it, hissing between her teeth, and placed one hand on the mattress to stand.
She wobbled slightly but caught herself. Thing rushing over to her side from where he was apparently sitting on the foot of her bed.
“Are you alright?” Enid’s voice came from the other side of the room, tentative but the cadence was odd.
Wednesday nodded once without looking at her, steadied herself, and walked stiffly to the bathroom, holding her side.
She emerged a few minutes later, still towel-drying her hands. Her movements were slow and careful, and she leaned against the wall a little longer than necessary before stepping back into the dorm.
Enid wasn’t on her bed anymore. She was crouched by the minifridge on the colorful side of the room, rummaging for something.
Wednesday sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, exhaling as she adjusted to the weight of her own body again as she opted to lean against the headboard. The sound of footsteps neared, soft but deliberate.
She looked up just in time to see Enid cross the invisible middle line of the room, the one they had both spent months respecting like a silent agreement.
Enid didn’t say anything at first. She just unwrapped a sandwich and set it, along with a cold bottle of water, on the bed beside Wednesday.
“You missed lunch and dinner,” she said quietly.
Wednesday nodded once. “Thank you.”
She picked up the sandwich and began to eat, tracking Enid with her eyes as the werewolf began pacing again. Her sock feet moved in a rhythm that didn’t quite match the silence. Back and forth. One hand running through her hair. The other gripping the hem of her shirt.
Wednesday understood the nervous movement. Of course she did.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t irritating.
“Enid,” she said calmly, “Sit down.”
She gestured to the rainbow-and-carnation half of the room with a vague flick of her hand, but Enid glanced at her own bed, then back at Wednesday’s and hesitated.
Her indecision sparked something small and sharp behind Wednesday’s eyes.
So she acted on instinct. She reached out, grabbed Enid’s shirt sleeve, and tugged.
Enid let out a startled squeak but didn’t resist.
She sat down carefully in front of her on the foot of the bed, eyes wide, her hip brushing the foot board.
Wednesday didn’t look at her right away. She finished the sandwich in two more bites, then dusted her fingers on the napkin.
It wasn’t quite comfortable. But it wasn’t uncomfortable either.
It was something else entirely.
They sat in silence for a moment, a thick, awkward kind of quiet—not strained, exactly, but coiled. Unspoken things pressed into the air between them. Neither quite looked at the other.
Enid fidgeted with the hem of her bright green shirt. Wednesday ran her thumb along the edge of the sandwich wrapper, now empty and crumpled.
Finally, Enid broke the silence.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. Enid’s voice had been soft, careful, but not unsure. It wasn’t angry, either. Just hurt.
“Did you not trust me?” Enid asked, quieter now. Her fingers stilled.
That made Wednesday look up.
“That’s not-” She inhaled sharply. “I do trust you. That’s not the problem.”
Enid turned to face her more fully. “Then why?”
Wednesday looked away again, eyes fixed somewhere near the foot of her bed.
“I have a hard time… feeling weak,” she said at last. deciding that if she wanted Enid to stay, she’d have to be transparent,. “Over the summer, our messages were the most normal I’d felt since we left Nevermore. You talked to me like-like I was still me. Not fragile. Not broken. Not someone who needed fixing. I needed that.”
Enid’s throat tightened.
Wednesday swallowed and continued, voice a little flatter now, like she was forcing herself not to stop.
“I got home, and everything felt different. Noisy. Muffled. Off. I thought coming back to school would help me adjust, that being around the familiar would ground me again. But it’s not. This… has been the most exhausting, overstimulating thing I’ve ever done.”
She paused and finally met Enid’s eyes. “Nothing sounds right anymore. Not even my own voice.”
Enid’s face fell, the lines of worry around her brow deepening.
“I’ve had to admit,” Wednesday went on, “that there are just things I can’t do alone anymore. Or that I need help doing. I hate that.”
Enid stayed quiet, but her eyes were wide, shimmering with the effort of holding herself together.
“I knew if I asked, you’d help. You’d keep it quiet if I asked. You wouldn’t judge me. It was subconscious but I knew. That wasn’t the issue.”
“Then what was?” Enid asked gently.
“I thought if I could just fake it long enough,” Wednesday continued, “I’d adapt. But… it’s harder than I expected. The hearing aids help, but it’s not a perfect system. It takes time to get used to. Sometimes it’s just… exhausting to process everything I’m hearing. I miss things. I make mistakes.”
There was a beat.
“I did…fine, at home. I adapted and it made it more bearable.” She shifted slightly, adjusting the angle of her torso as if her side still pulled with pain. “But coming back here…” Her lips pressed tight. “It’s been harder than I expected. Nothing is normal. Not my voice. Not the way I exist in the world. Everything is too loud and too flat all at once. I thought maybe it would pass. But it didn’t.” Wednesday finally glanced at her. “I need… help for things now. Things I had always been good at. And I didn’t want to burden you. Or worse, have you pity me.”
There was a long silence as Enid absorbed the information.
Enid finally asked, “How long?”
Wednesday hesitated, then said, “It started the day we left school. Subtle at first. I thought it was stress. My ears never really recovered from… everything.”
She didn’t specify, but Enid understood. The fight. The blood. The head trauma. The screaming.
“They… settled,” Wednesday said softly, “into this new normal about a month later.”
Enid looked at her, brows still knit with worry and something else, something thoughtful.
“What happened?” she asked.
Wednesday let out a slow breath, lowering her gaze again. “Permanent nerve damage. The audiologist called it a delayed threshold shift, essentially, the hair cells in my inner ear died off over time instead of all at once. Possibly from the trauma. Possibly a combination of things.”
Enid sat with that for a moment, her gaze soft and heavy. Then she said, almost in a whisper, “I just thought you were autistic.”
Wednesday stiffened. Just slightly.
Enid blinked and then laughed, soft and a little breathless. “I mean, it was kind of obvious. Even without the meltdown.”
Wednesday hung her head in mild, visible embarrassment, her cheeks faintly flushed.
Enid scooted an inch closer, their shoulders just brushing. “Hey. I wasn’t judging. I just… it made sense. The routines, the quiet, the way you always need an exit plan when you go anywhere.”
Wednesday glanced sideways at her. “I’ve had to start relearning most of my coping mechanisms. With the hearing loss, everything changed. Sounds are different. Too loud or too quiet. My safe spaces don’t feel the same. And I didn’t-”
She caught herself.
“I didn’t expect it to be this hard.”
Enid nodded, slow and understanding. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
A small, disbelieving laugh escaped Wednesday. “Fencing used to be predictable. Clean. I could shut the world out. Now? Every one of Coach Vlad’s whistle cues either clashes with my aids or gets lost in the chaos. With the mask, I miss pretty much all the vocal cues. I get too focused trying to hear or respond to the signal, and I am not paying attention to the match. If I’m paying attention to the match, I miss everything else.”
Enid looked at her, surprised by the sheer honesty in her voice.
Wednesday continued, “The shutdown a couple weeks ago, when I didn’t come to class, it wasn’t just stress. It was… everything. The noise. The pressure. The expectations. I just short-circuited.”
She swallowed, then finally met Enid’s eyes. “And the night you got upset, when you tried to talk to me? I didn’t know what I’d done. I’d taken out my aids after having a few visions back to back in the fencing hall. I snuck in while suspended. I was chasing a thread. I triggered so many that I collapsed afterward.”
Enid’s eyes widened.
“I didn’t assume anything when I saw you upset. I just… couldn’t hear you. I nodded because I didn’t understand what you were saying. It’s a habit now. If someone’s facing the wrong direction or if I miss something… I nod. Or I pretend.”
She dropped her head, her voice softer now. “Thing told me the next afternoon what happened. I was confused. I hadn’t meant to ignore you.”
A long beat passed before she looked up again, sharper now.
“And for the record,” Wednesday added, gaze unwavering, “I do not think your mother was right. About any of it. Esther Sinclair deserves a punishment so poetic, it could be framed and displayed in a gallery of psychological torment.”
Enid blinked, startled.
“I have a few ideas,” Wednesday muttered darkly.
That finally made Enid smile, a tiny crack in her otherwise stormy expression.
Enid sat quiet for a long moment, her fingers curling into the hem of her shirt again.
Then, quietly, she asked, “So… why didn’t you tell me about not hearing me that day? With my mom?”
Wednesday blinked, like the question caught her off guard. “I tried…I did,” she said, brow furrowing slightly. “The night you packed to stay with Yoko. I told you I couldn’t hear what you said, but I think you just thought it was an excuse.”
Enid’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to her lap as realization hit. “You… you did.” Her voice cracked a little. “I didn’t want to listen.”
Her expression crumpled, guilt folding across her features.
“I just thought you were ignoring me, or trying to shut me out, give me a lame excuse, and I—I didn’t want to hear whatever excuse you were about to make.” She looked at Wednesday. “I thought you didn’t care.”
Wednesday shifted, her shoulder brushing Enid’s.
“It’s okay to have felt like that,” she said, awkward but certain. “I hardly blame you.”
Enid blinked at her.
“Besides,” Wednesday added, her tone dry but not unkind, “if I’d told you about the hearing loss in the first place, none of that would have happened. You wouldn’t have had to guess.”
Enid gave a watery, humorless laugh. “No… but I might’ve hovered like a mother hen and made it worse.”
“Possibly.” Wednesday’s gaze softened. “But you wouldn’t have looked at me like I was less. And that… was what I feared most.”
Enid’s chest ached at that, at the sheer weight of what Wednesday had been holding in silence.
“I should have told you,” Wednesday said suddenly, the words stiff and a little unnatural in her mouth. “Back then. Before everything spiraled. As soon as we got back.”
Enid looked over. She was honestly in awe. She had never heard, never dreamed that Wednesday would be so open with her. The blonde looked to the goth’s fidgeting hands and evading eyes, realizing just how hard this was for her. To be this open and honest about the entire situation.
“I didn’t mean to keep it from you. Not out of mistrust.” She paused. “I do trust you.”
She glanced at Enid, eyes sharp but unguarded.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sigh, no emotional preamble. Just the truth, laid bare like everything else she’d said that morning. And it settled between them like the first quiet snowfall—unexpected, but soft.
“Oh my god,” Enid whispered. “It all makes sense now. Everything since we got back.”
Wednesday just gave a slight tilt of her head, neither confirmation nor denial, just quiet resignation.
“I thought you were just being extra weird,” Enid said, still reeling. “But you were… trying. Just differently.”
Wednesday shrugged one shoulder. “Trying is subjective.”
Enid laughed softly through her nose. “Okay. You were struggling. And pretending you weren’t.”
Wednesday glowered, “I’m adapting.”
Enid snorted.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner.”
Enid didn’t answer right away. She just reached out and lightly bumped Wednesday’s knee with her own.
“I forgive you,” she said. “Thanks for saying it.”
Enid nudged her socked foot against Wednesday’s. “Okay. One more thing.”
Wednesday braced herself.
“What the heck happened at the fair?”
Wednesday stiffened, not in alarm, but in calculation. “Which part?”
Enid gave her a flat look. “The part where you ended up bleeding in the woods and Thing had to summon backup in Morse code.”
“…Ah.”
“Wednesday.”
She didn’t sigh, she didn’t do that (sarcasm at it’s best) but there was the faintest tilt of her head, a shift in posture that suggested resignation.
“I’ve been getting messages,” she said simply. “From someone anonymous. They've been… observing me.”
Enid’s brow furrowed. “Like a stalker?”
“Unfortunately.”
Enid blinked, shoulders tensing slightly. “How long?”
“Since I got back.”
There was a pause.
“And you didn’t think to mention it?”
“I was waiting until I had more information,” Wednesday said, carefully neutral.
Enid’s expression flickered with something close to exasperation, but she kept her voice level. “Seriously?”
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. In her head, she reminded herself: You said you’d tell her when you knew more. That was the plan. It just so happened that when she had more—real, useful information—Enid wasn’t speaking to her. And if she was being honest with herself, that silence hadn’t been entirely undeserved.
Still, that detail didn’t feel fair to point out. Not now. Not when Wednesday knew her own pride was the thing that had kept her quiet in the first place. Not her logic. Not her plan. Just her stubborn refusal to look weak.
So instead, she said, “I didn’t want to worry you until I had something concrete. The fair provided… clarity.”
“Is that when they-?” Enid gestured toward her side, the wound now hidden beneath Wednesday’s hoodie.
“I don’t remember getting stabbed,” Wednesday admitted. “I was mid-vision. It must have happened then.”
Enid’s eyes widened in alarm.
“I was grabbed, someone tried to manipulate me, possibly with some sort of siren-like ability, but it didn’t hold. I fought back.” She paused. “Then I had a vision. One of the stronger ones. When I came to, he was gone. So were my hearing aids. And it was so dark I couldn’t see much.”
Enid paled. “And you didn’t remember anything?”
“Only fragments.” Wednesday’s fingers curled against her knee. “The vision took more out of me than I expected. I think that’s the only reason he got away.”
“You’re lucky Thing found you.”
“I know.”
There was silence for a long beat.
Then, softer, Enid asked, “You really weren’t going to tell me until you had proof?”
“I promised I’d share when I had more,” Wednesday said again, meeting her eyes. “And I will. Now that I do.”
Enid didn’t answer right away. But her shoulders eased, and she nodded.
“Okay. Then I want to help.”
Wednesday blinked, surprised despite herself.
“I mean it,” Enid said. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Wednesday hesitated, fingers curling slightly against the edge of her bedspread.
“If… being alone in the woods,” she began slowly, like the words had to be pried loose, “injured… disoriented… essentially blind and deaf…”
Her voice thinned at the end, but she forced herself to meet Enid’s eyes.
“If that taught me anything, it’s that I can’t do this alone. Not entirely.”
Enid’s face softened again, the frustration in her expression giving way to something far warmer and heavier.
“I would’ve come, you know,” she said quietly. “Even if we weren’t talking. If I’d known.”
“I know that now.” Wednesday paused. “I don’t want to need people.”
Her voice dropped just slightly.
“I need you.”
Enid blinked hard, clearly overwhelmed, but a smile pulled at her mouth anyway, shaky but real.
“Good,” she whispered, nudging Wednesday’s knee with hers. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Enid shifted a little, glancing down at Wednesday’s side.
“Have you… changed the bandage today?” she asked, gentle but pointed.
Wednesday sighed. “No. I was going to. Eventually.”
Enid gave her a flat look.
Wednesday rolled her eyes and muttered, “Fine. If you insist.”
Enid stood, crossing the room to grab the small first-aid kit from her desk drawer. “Lie back,” she said as she returned, her tone halfway between firm and worried.
Wednesday eyed her warily but did as she was told, settling stiffly onto the bed with a wince. She reached for the hem of her shirt, then paused.
“I can do it,” Enid offered, softer now.
After a second’s hesitation, Wednesday let her.
Enid peeled the fabric up carefully, her hands gentler than Wednesday expected. She pulled the old bandage away, biting the inside of her cheek when she saw the jagged, angry wound. It was shallow, as Wednesday had said, she’d only put two stitches in it, but still far too much red for comfort.
She finished wrapping the bandage and sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on a tissue. “What can I do to help?” she asked. “Like, really help. To make things easier. For you.”
Wednesday looked at her over her shoulder, really looked. For a long moment she didn’t speak.
Then, quietly, “Just… don’t change.”
Enid blinked.
“I’m still figuring out how to exist like this,” Wednesday said. “What’s tolerable. What isn’t. But you… are something I can count on. You’re loud, and bright, and reckless, and incredibly inconvenient-”
Enid raised an eyebrow.
“-but you’re consistent. And I need that right now.”
Enid frowns, “That seems kind of like a cop out.”
They stare at each other. Enid could see some gears turning in the Raven’s head.
“Seriously Wednesday.” Enid said, “I want to help make this easier for you. Even if it’s just in the dorm. This is supposed to be your safe space, remember?”
“It’s not a cop out.” Wednesday says, “You’re listening. You’re not pretending it’s not real, or making a big deal out of it. That matters more than I thought it would.”
Enid gave a soft, crooked smile. “Still feels like I should do more.”
Wednesday hesitated, looking over at Thing next to her on her bed again,. “ASL helps. A lot. When things are too loud, or when I take the aids out. Thing and I can teach you the basics. If… you want. You already understand Thing, so that’s half the battle.” She pauses for a moment, “Talking can be more tedious without my aids, It’s hard to make sure I’m clear or manage my volume. I still prefer to talk often just because it’s efficient.”
“I want,” Enid said immediately.
Wednesday’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something close. “Then we’ll start simple. That way I can insult you silently during breakfast.”
Enid snorted. “You already do that.”
“Now you’ll know exactly what I’m saying.”
Enid laughed, quietly, but freely and Wednesday suppressed a smirk. The weight between them eased, just slightly.
“So… who else knows?”
Wednesday let her shirt fall. “About the stalker? Just Thing. Xavier knows I’m investigating someone, he saw me question a suspect. Eugene knows I’m looking into something, but not what. As for the hearing loss… only Weems and our dorm mother know. For medical reasons. My family, obviously. But no one else.”
Enid huffed a quiet laugh, then sobered. “Well… thanks for telling me. I mean it.”
“I should’ve told you sooner,” Wednesday said, glancing over at her. “I’m still adjusting to the aids. I got them just before I left New Jersey. The audiologist said it could take months to really get used to them. We’re still figuring out the settings.”
Enid nodded slowly, then leaned her shoulder against Wednesday’s. “Then we’ll figure it out. I’m here if you need help. Just ask.”
Wednesday didn’t answer. But she didn’t move away either.
Soon after Enid was done, Wednesday climbed back into the covers. She’d slept all day but was still utterly exhausted. Enid just kept an eye on her in case she collapsed or something until the dark haired girl settled and took out her hearing aids; putting them back in charge.
When Enid was sure Wednesday was situated she went through her own routine and crawled onto bed after shutting off the lights on both sides of the room.
Wednesday was already asleep but Enid tuned her own hearing, falling asleep while assuring herself that Wednesday was still drawing breath
The next day unfolded in soft stillness. Enid went to breakfast when Wednesday was sleeping but the smaller girl had woken shortly after her return.
Enid, after firmly announcing that Wednesday was “on mandatory bed rest,” threatened to get Nurse Harlow involved if Wednesday so much as looked like she was trying to stand without permission. Wednesday had raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the dramatics, but didn’t fight her. Not when her side still pulled tight with every breath.
Enid brought her snacks from her personal stash, a bottle of iced tea from the minifridge, and later disappeared down to the dining hall to scavenge early dinner, returning triumphantly with grilled cheese sandwiches, soup, and smug satisfaction.
Wednesday, too tired to argue, accepted the attention with reluctant grace.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting warm light across the room and softening the edges of the long day, Enid looked up from her phone.
“Hey… wanna watch a movie?”
Wednesday glanced over, unimpressed. “You want me to watch a movie with you.”
Enid grinned. “Obviously. It’s not like you’re getting out of this bean bag unassisted.”
Wednesday didn’t bother arguing. Her side still pulled every time she shifted.
“Fine,” she said. “But nothing that demands emotional investment.”
“Perfect,” Enid said, already pulling out her laptop. “We’ll start easy. Tangled .”
Wednesday gave her a slow, withering look. “I hope you realize that if there’s singing, I’m deducting points.”
“That’s literally the point of a musical.”
Still, she didn’t stop her.
Enid set everything up with practiced ease. Laptop on a stack of textbooks, lights dimmed, subtitles on without a second thought. She handed Wednesday a pillow for her side and draped a charcoal grey and red blanket over them both without asking.
Halfway through the movie, just as Rapunzel and Flynn were floating beneath the lanterns, Enid tilted her head slightly toward Wednesday.
“You know,” she said quietly, “I always watch stuff with subtitles. Helps me concentrate.”
Wednesday glanced at her. Enid’s face was lit in soft hues from the screen, thoughtful but not self-conscious.
“I didn’t even think about it until just now,” Enid continued. “But I guess… that probably helped you, too this month when you watched some with me.”
Wednesday was silent for a beat, then murmured, “I noticed you did things that helped naturally. Within the first week.”
Enid blinked. “You did?”
“You always put subtitles on. You wave to get my attention instead of calling my name. You don't talk to me from another room, or when I’m not facing you. When I had that… bad week, you didn’t press. You just got your friends to collect the notes I couldn’t take and pretended it was no big deal.”
Enid's expression softened, caught somewhere between surprise and guilt, “Technically Bianca told me you seemed to struggle and offered her notes from your classes with her first.”
“You adjusted without even realizing you were doing it,” Wednesday went on. “The way you leave the lights dim in the morning. The way you move around my routines without disrupting them. You never change who you are; your colors, your energy, but somehow, you make space for mine.”
Enid’s lips parted slightly, like she didn’t know what to say.
“You’re loud,” Wednesday added, matter-of-fact. “But not where it hurts. You’re… attuned. And I didn’t see it right away, but when I did, when I realized how easily you’d made me feel more capable than I thought I was…”
Enid’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, visibly trying to hold back the emotion behind her eyes. “I didn’t know I was doing all that.”
“I know,” Wednesday said, gaze steady. “That’s what makes you… Enid.”
For a moment, neither said anything. The only sound was the gentle hum of the movie continuing in the background, the flicker of lanterns casting warm shadows across the room.
Then, softer, Enid whispered, “I’m really glad you came back.”
Wednesday didn’t answer with words. She simply nodded, just once, and allowed their arms to brush again under the shared blanket.
“If you tell anyone about anything we discussed today, I will make sure to use all nine of your lives.” Wednesday dead panned.
Enid giggled, “I’m a wolf, not a cat.”
“Perfect.” Wednesday said, “I’ll only have to skin you once.”
Notes:
BookWorm2107 pointed out to me that, apparently, none of my scene breaks transferred over! So I went back and added them and figured I should let you know there were now indicated breaks. Which led to me going f**k it, I guess I'm editing this chapter today.
Seriously, I have no idea how you guys have stuck with me with how aweful that must have been to read. But thank you all!
Now, chapter 14 is the only other chapter I have to edit rn. The others are not written...yet. So you may get chapter 14 this week or I might go on a writing sprint. There is also a lot I want to fix and add to chapter 14 too so it's in the air.
You all are awesome, I am proud of what I accomplished here so far and we are FAR from over.
(P.S. I am open to any and all suggestions. I know WHAT the villian is but not who. I know what wednesday saw in her vision when she got stabbed but not why. oh, and I am open to cute wenclair scene suggestions.
Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Over the next week and a half, something shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic, not at first. But Wednesday noticed.
She had been healing well but it was still stiff. She’d taken the Friday following the fair off of fencing again so as to not rip open her wound. Wednesday, of course, refused to go to the nurse. The only thing that stopped Enid from dragging her there, kicking and screaming, was the raven’s promise to take it easy.
Enid had always been considerate in her own chaotic way, but now, there was intention behind it. When Thing was deep in conversation with another Nightshade and Wednesday’s attention was divided, Enid would quietly tap her knee if someone was trying to speak to her. She never made a big deal of it, just a gentle signal, a quiet awareness.
Mid-week, Wednesday found herself sitting in a Nightshade meeting, surrounded by overlapping voices as everyone debated a potential Spring Break operation. Bianca had insisted as had Enid. She wasn’t sure why saving the school resulted in compulsory membership, if anything it would have guaranteed her decision remained. Still, Wednesday was trying to keep up, but the threads unraveled faster than she could reassemble them. The voices layered; sharp, fast, and indecipherable.
Then Enid spoke up, clear and bright over the din.
“Hey, sorry,” she’d said, pressing a hand to her temple for good measure. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. Can we not talk over each other for a sec?”
The effect was immediate. Conversation slowed, people took turns. No one questioned it.
Wednesday glanced sideways at Enid, whose eyes flicked over and met hers. There was no smugness in her expression. Just quiet understanding.
It helped.
Over lunches and late nights, Wednesday gradually filled her in on the stalker situation, everything from the texts to the whisper at the fair to the vision she had while bleeding into the forest floor. Enid had listened, jaw tight, fists clenched. She hadn’t said much, but her promise to stay close had been implied with every lingering glance and instinctive touch.
By the next Thursday evening, the energy was different.
They were heading down the hall toward fencing when Enid tugged Wednesday’s sleeve, halting her.
“Wait.”
Wednesday stopped, brows narrowing at the nervous tension in Enid’s stance.
“I was thinking…” Enid began, then hesitated. “What if we told Coach Vlad? About the hearing stuff, I mean.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not.”
Enid winced at the immediate glare but pushed forward anyway. “Weds, come on. You love fencing. But if you keep missing cues, he’s going to pull you from the team, or worse.”
Wednesday stiffened. “I’ll manage.”
“Will you?” Enid’s voice was quiet but firm.
Wednesday didn’t answer. Her jaw was tight, but the idea… lingered. She gave Enid a long look but decided against saying anything.
They entered the gym together, and when it came time to partner up, Wednesday made a silent beeline for Enid. They began to spar, but it was clear from the start, Wednesday missed another cue. Enid paused to help her recalibrate, but Vlad’s voice snapped across the room before either could recover.
“Addams!” he barked. “Clearly, your suspension taught you nothing. This is not a game of theatrics, it’s a discipline. You’re disrespecting the sport.”
Wednesday froze mid-stance. Enid looked just as stricken. Wednesday had grown up fencing with her parents. It was appalling that anyone would claim she, of all people, disrespected the sport.
Vlad continued, “Your suspension is reinstated. Indefinitely.”
Wednesday’s grip on her foil tightened. Her throat burned with frustration and stormed off to the locker room, angrily tossing her mask and foil to the ground.
“Wednesday!”
The raven turned around to see Enid had followed her, “What, Enid? I don’t need another lecture.”
Enid huffed, “Clearly you do! You’re too stubborn for your own good. You need to let someone in on it.”
“You’re in on it.” Wednesday insists.
“I’m one person, Wednesday.” Enid said, an annoyed tilt to her voice, “I can help you with a lot but it’s not like I can be glued to you every second. There are tools in place for people like you who need them.” Wednesday was about to protest when Enid continued, “You’re not weak and you’ve always been different and a little odd, just not in this way. Your uniform is even greyscale!
Wednesday frowned, she couldn’t argue that.
“You’re going to miss out on a lot of things because you’re too freaking stubborn to let the people who need to know, know.” Enid sighed, “Please, Wednesday. Just start with Coach Vlad. You need a stabby outlet and I don’t think I want to be on the receiving end of it being repressed.
Wednesday sighed heavily and rubbed the sides of her face.
Enid was right. She wasn’t about to lose a sport she genuinely enjoyed because of a misunderstanding, though out of her control, she could easily clear up.
So, she left the locker room without speaking and headed straight for the coach, “Coach Vlad, may I speak with you?”
He stopped, eyebrows raised. “Now?”
“Alone.”
Vlad looked skeptical, “Addams…”
“It is important.”
Vlad sighed and motioned toward the office door. “Fine.”
Wednesday gave Enid the briefest nods of thanks before following him inside. He shut the door behind them.
“I’m not sure what you think you can say to change my mind,” he began.
“I’m deaf,” Wednesday said bluntly, her heart rate picking up as the anxiety of telling him surfaced.
He stared at her. “If this is some ploy-”
“Why would I lie about being deaf?” she snapped. “That’s not exactly something I can fake long-term.”
He didn’t answer. Wednesday reached up, pulled out both hearing aids, and held them up for him to see.
His expression shifted. He frowned, eyes flicking to the small, intricate devices in her palm.
“I’ve had head trauma,” she said. “Permanent damage. I did not want to talk about it. But the mask muffles my aids. I can’t hear your cues. Your gestures don’t help unless I’m looking directly at you, which I often can’t be, because I’m trying not to get hit. If you don’t believe me, just talk to Weems.”
He exhaled through his nose, folding his arms. “Why not bring this up earlier?”
Wednesday resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Because I lost my hearing over break. I’ve only had these aids for a month. I’m still adjusting. After last semester, I’m sure you can understand why I perceive people knowing about my affliction as a need to know. I do not wish for my enemies to target me.”
At that, something flickered in Vlad’s eyes; recognition, maybe. He nodded once, slowly.
“You’ve never been the most… diplomatic,” he said. “But you care about the sport. I can see that.”
She straightened. “I don’t want to stop fencing. It’s the only reason I haven’t painted the halls red.”
He nodded again. “Some deaf fencers use light cues. It’s not ideal in every setting, but we can try something.”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked up, guarded but hopeful. “Thank you.”
“For now, get back on the floor,” he said with a sigh “Spar with Sinclair. No masks.”
She turned and left, finding Enid already waiting for her on the bench, both their swords next to her. She sat up when she saw Wednesday’s face.
“Well?”
“He agreed,” Wednesday said quietly. “For now.”
Enid grinned and handed her foil back.
“Can we go without masks?” Wednesday asked.
“As long as we don’t go for headshots,” Enid agreed, twirling her foil.
They reentered the practice space and took their stances.
Vlad emerged a few minutes later and leaned on the far wall, arms crossed, watching.
When the round ended, Wednesday heard him this time, easily, mask-free.
“Sinclair, better form with the lunge,” he called. Then, ont Wednesday, just a nod.
It wasn’t approval. But it wasn’t condemnation either.
And that was more than enough for her.
Wednesday had just finished her post-fencing shower and changed back into her uniform when a student aide intercepted her outside the dorms.
“Principal Weems would like to see you in her office,” they said.
Wednesday refrained from rolling her eyes. “Of course she does.”
By the time she made it across campus and into the tall, echoing space of Weems’ office, she was already building up walls of indifference.
“Miss Addams,” Weems greeted, setting down a folder and gesturing for her to sit.
Wednesday didn’t.
“I just spoke with Coach Vlad,” Weems said, tone conversational. “He told me about your conversation. I’m glad you chose to tell him.”
“I was about to be banned from fencing,” Wednesday replied dryly. “It was either disclose or resort to recreational homicide.”
Weems smiled gently. “I'm glad you chose to disclose, then.”
Wednesday gave a slight, humorless shrug.
Weems continued, “You’ve made remarkable progress since returning. I imagine the adjustment hasn’t been easy.”
“I’m… adjusting better,” Wednesday allowed.
Weems gave her a kind look and added, “I want to remind you that if you ever need anything, note takers, extra time on assignments, transcripts for lectures, those accommodations are available.”
Wednesday didn’t respond immediately, but her shoulders dipped slightly, a subtle acknowledgment. She gave a single nod.
Weems studied her for a beat longer, then said, “The driver who brought you and Enid back last weekend mentioned that you didn’t look well. Pale, unsteady. Said you collapsed in the seat and barely responded.”
“I fell,” Wednesday replied evenly. “Enid helped me back.”
Weems considered her a moment longer but let it go. “Very well. My door is always open, Wednesday. No need to knock.”
Wednesday’s eyebrow lifted slightly, but she said nothing.
“One more thing,” Weems added, reaching for a small note on her desk. “Your audiology follow-up in Burlington is this upcoming Monday. I’ll be driving you.”
Wednesday scowled instantly. “I would rather walk.”
Weems raised an amused brow. “It’s two hours by car.”
“Exactly.”
“You’ll survive the ride. I don’t bite.” Weems smiled, but Wednesday still looked vaguely horrified at the idea of being confined in a vehicle with someone she’d once considered a failed adult.
Weems frowned, “If you are uncomfortable, you may bring a…friend?”
Wednesday paused, maybe she could utilize their presence to buffer. If so Wednesday was going to take every advantage she could, “I would like to bring Enid.”
Something flickered across her face, surprise, Wednesday thought, though whether it was because she didn’t deny she had a friend or because she wanted someone there at all, she wasn’t sure. Still if she knew anything about the woman in front of her, thinking that Wednesday was becoming ‘well rounded’, would earn her some leeway. This way, she wouldn’t be in a vehicle alone with Weems.
“Your roommate?” Weems asked, tilting her head.
Wednesday gave a curt nod.
Weems held her gaze for a moment, contemplative.
Then she said, “Very well. If Enid is available, I’ll approve it.”
Wednesday didn’t smile, but something in her jaw relaxed just slightly. She dipped her head once in acknowledgment and turned to leave.
“Oh, and Wednesday?” Weems called after her.
She stopped just inside the threshold.
“I meant it,” Weems said. “You don’t have to knock.”
Wednesday nodded again, then slipped through the door without another word.
By the time lunch ended Monday afternoon, the sun was high, and the cobbled path outside Nevermore’s main steps was quiet. Most students were in class. The front entrance, usually busy, felt almost eerily still.
Wednesday stood beside Enid with her arms folded tightly across her chest, the sharp wind tugging at the edges of her coat. She was not pleased.
Enid bounced lightly on her toes, clearly trying not to seem too eager.
“Thanks for letting me come,” she said eventually.
Wednesday didn’t look at her. “I didn’t want to be alone with Weems.”
Enid’s grin was instant. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I didn’t mean it nicely.”
“That doesn’t make it less true.”
Wednesday gave her a sidelong glance. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet, you wanted to spend the day with me.” Enid said sweetly.
Before Wednesday could respond, a sleek black sedan pulled around the corner and rolled to a stop in front of the steps. It wasn’t one of the school cars. Weems stepped out, impeccably put together as always.
“Ladies,” she greeted. “I hope you had something light for lunch. Burlington isn’t far, but let’s not tempt fate with an upset stomach.”
“I’m not an infant,” Wednesday said flatly, stepping past her to climb into the back seat.
Enid gave Weems a quick smile and slipped in beside her.
Once they were on the road, the car was quiet aside from Enid quietly humming to herself and Wednesday silently glaring out the window like the trees had personally offended her.
After a few minutes, Enid leaned a little closer. “You really okay?”
“I’m fine,” Wednesday said curtly. “I simply object to being trapped in a car with a woman I have absolutely no desire to make polite small talk with.”
Enid stifled a laugh. “Got it. You’d rather be trapped in a car with me.”
“I didn’t say that either,” Wednesday muttered. But she didn’t pull away.
The farther they got from Nevermore, the more Weems began to settle into the drive, one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally fidgeting with the gear shift. The silence lasted only a few more minutes before Enid filled it with her usual, enthusiastic warmth.
“So, um, Principal Weems?” Enid started, twisting in her seat just enough to be polite without ignoring Wednesday.
“Yes?” Weems glanced at her in the mirror.
“Do you ever get used to it?”
“Used to what, Miss Sinclair?”
“Nevermore. The… unpredictability. The crises. The werewolves and sirens. The psychics, sparks, faceless, all the outcasts all the time.”
Weems actually let out a soft laugh. “Eventually, yes. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to lock my office door and pretend I wasn’t there, on occasion.”
Enid grinned. “Relatable.”
They kept chatting, light and easy, about campus renovations, how long Weems had been working in education, the time a gorgon boy accidently turned the vending machine to stone during finals week while showing off when she was first starting out. Apparently it was a pretty rare ability for a gorgon. Enid asked questions easily, and Weems answered most of them with good humor.
In the back seat, Wednesday was quiet, arms still crossed but slightly more relaxed now. She watched trees go by, the faint buzz of the hearing aids behind her ears reminding her of their presence, but not bothering her.
For once, someone else was soaking up all the conversation.
And she didn’t have to say a single thing.
She could just… exist.
Unnoticed.
Unbothered.
It was strangely peaceful.
By the time they pulled into the lot, Enid had Weems laughing softly at a story about Yoko’s failed attempt to brew supernatural sleep tea during midterms.
Wednesday followed them silently out of the car, the corners of her mouth almost, almost hinted at the faintest curve of satisfaction.
Let them talk. Let them fill the space.
She had other things to focus on.
Like not murdering the doctor she was about to be forced to make small talk with.
The waiting room reeked of antiseptic and overuse. Wednesday remained standing.
A side door opened, revealing a man in his late thirties wearing a slim-cut sweater and rectangular glasses. His hair was neat, dark, and parted sharply to the side. The tablet in his hand didn’t slow him down.
“Wednesday Addams?”
She nodded once.
He offered a short, professional smile. “I’m Dr. Kearney. You’re here for follow-up and recalibration, yes?”
Another nod.
His eyes flicked to the tall woman behind her, then to the blonde girl at her side, but he didn’t address them directly. Instead, he looked back at Wednesday.
“Would you like to come in alone, or would you prefer someone join you?”
Wednesday’s gaze flicked between him, then Weems who stood with her arms folded and an unreadable expression, then Enid.
Enid, who had spent the past three days asking questions with all the awkward enthusiasm of someone who wanted desperately not to get it wrong:
“How do audiologists even test stuff?”
“Do you have to get like… ear goo molds again?”
“Wait, do they recalibrate like… tuning an instrument?”
Enid, who had asked because she wanted to understand.
Wednesday gave a tiny sigh, already anticipating the chaos of doing this solo and then having to explain it later.
“She can come,” she said, tilting her head toward Enid, “If she’s still curious.”
Kearney stepped aside. “Alright. Just you and her, then.”
Enid perked up, “Really?” Wednesday nodded as she waked before Enid followed quickly as Wednesday moved past him into the room.
It was sterile, but not unfriendly, more functional than cold. A cushioned chair sat in front of a large dual-monitor setup, wires coiled neatly nearby. Another chair, likely for guests, waited along the wall.
Kearney didn’t waste time. “We received the records from Dr. Iqbal in New Jersey. Today we’re going to confirm that audiogram, retest your hearing with and without amplification, and check the current programming on both sets of devices.”
He glanced at her, direct but not impatient. “Before we begin, any issues you want addressed?”
“The volume balance is inconsistent,” Wednesday said flatly. “Especially in classrooms. Background noise cuts in and out. Sometimes I can’t tell where sound is coming from. Incessant buzzing.”
“Okay,” he said, already making notes. “What’s your current usage like?”
“I alternate. Left ITC when I don’t need full focus. The RICs together are better for classes, but they’re overstimulating if I wear them too long. Usually I wear one RIC and one ITC.”
“That’s pretty common,” Kearney replied. “Some of the problems you’re having may be due to processing delays or gain differences between the models. Maybe some loose wiring. I’ll see what we can do in calibration, we might streamline the dynamic range, or adjust the environmental switching so the transitions are smoother.”
Wednesday gave a slight nod. That was exactly what she needed, not sympathy. Competence.
Kearney gestured to the primary chair. “Let’s start with unaided testing.”
She complied.
Tones. Clicks. Hisses and softly spoken words. Wednesday responded precisely. Enid sat perfectly still, hands in her lap, watching the silent rhythm of the test unfold. He used ASL when he spoke without the aids in, which was endlessly helpful.
Kearney repeated everything with the ITC in her left ear, then both RICs.
Finally, he moved to the table beside the monitor setup, where rows of tools, microfiber cloths, drying capsules, and a compact tuning station were laid out. He began working quickly; opening the casings of both sets of aids, adjusting tubing, and calibrating input profiles on a small screen.
Wednesday felt the slight vibration through the tile floor before she registered the soft scrape of Enid’s chair moving.
A moment later, Enid was seated beside her, well within her personal space; close enough that their arms might brush if either of them shifted. Close enough that Wednesday could feel the warmth radiating off her even without contact.
Normally, this would’ve made her skin crawl. People that close meant danger, disruption, the inevitable itch of overstimulation or someone trying to connect in ways she neither invited nor wanted.
But with Enid, it was different.
She still felt the tension, the alertness, but not revulsion. Not dread. Just… awareness.
Enid didn’t try to fill the quiet. She didn’t babble. She sat there, glancing occasionally toward the audiologist at the workstation, then back at Wednesday.
After a few moments, she leaned in; voice quiet but audible, pitched just right into Wednesday’s left ear. “It looks really cool. All the little tools and tech and stuff. Like spy gear.”
Wednesday blinked, then gave the tiniest nod of agreement. “It is efficient.”
Enid gave her a soft smile. “You okay?”
Wednesday hesitated, not because she didn’t have an answer, but because it was strange how easily it came.
“Yes,” she said simply. “This one didn’t attempt small talk or forced smiles. It’s a vast improvement.”
Enid’s smile grew, but she didn’t laugh. Just leaned back again, clearly content with that.
Across the room, Dr. Kearney adjusted something with a small screwdriver and clicked a new window open on his computer screen.
Wednesday allowed herself a moment to settle into the stillness. Compared to the New Jersey office; where the air had reeked of anxious energy, where the audiologist had kept offering her tissues and explaining every step like she was five. This was almost… tolerable.
Not pleasant, not exactly. But manageable. Quiet. Clear.
She glanced sideways at Enid again, still sitting beside her without squirming or talking or trying to pull some emotional thread loose. Honestly she looked odd and uncomfortable so still but Wednesday couldn’t help but appreciate it.
For the first time in weeks, Wednesday felt a strange sort of gratitude settle into her chest. Heavy, but not suffocating.
She looked forward again and waited.
Dr. Kearney returned quietly, holding both pairs of hearing aids in one hand and a small adjustment tool in the other. He didn’t say anything at first; just moved with quiet efficiency, setting the aids down in front of Wednesday before gesturing for her to go ahead and put them on.
Enid shifted away just slightly, rolling her chair back so she was out of the way but still nearby. Wednesday appreciated it more than she let on.
She picked up the first pair, the right RIC and left ITC, and slipped them in with practiced ease. They were still strange, still foreign in her ears, but this time… the pressure didn’t seem as sharp. The slight background whine and buzz from before was almost entirely gone gone.
“Let’s run the tests again,” Dr. Kearney said.
She nodded and followed his instructions, first the tones, then the soft beeps, then a low voice reading nonsense words through a speaker at the far end of the room.
It sounded different.
Clearer in some ways, muddier in others. Some sounds no longer hit like static in her brain, but there were new ones now, small mechanical whirs and clipped echoes where there hadn’t been any before. It was like someone had scrubbed the glass she’d been looking through, but also replaced the entire window.
When they finished, Dr. Kearney sat back and made a few notes in her file. “These should be closer to what you need, but they’ll still take time to settle. There were some loose wires in your right RIC that was probably causing most of that buzzing. But your brain’s adjusting, and these calibrations will give it a better foundation to do that.”
He tapped one of the empty cases she’d left on the table. “Try them both, rotate them like you’ve been doing, see what works. Keep notes if you can. We’ll reassess in three weeks.”
Wednesday gave a short nod. “Fine.”
She swapped out the full pairs again, returning to her familiar combination, the RIC in her right ear, the ITC in her left, and quickly shoved the newly adjusted full sets into their respective cases, then buried them in her bag.
The room felt louder now, but not in a bad way. More like she was hearing in widescreen. She wasn’t sure she liked it, but it was better than the warped filter from before.
They stepped out of the exam room and headed toward the front desk. Enid walked beside her, calm and quiet, while Weems rose from a nearby chair near the reception area. Her expression was unreadable but patient.
“You’re all set?” Weems asked lightly.
Wednesday gave a tight nod, already approaching the receptionist. “Same time. Three weeks from now.”
The receptionist clicked a few things, confirmed the date, and handed her an appointment card she promptly didn’t look at before tucking it into her coat pocket.
Weems simply nodded, tapping on her phone, likely adding the appointment to the calendar. “I’ll make sure you're excused again. Come find me if the schedule changes.”
Wednesday didn’t answer.
As they stepped outside into the afternoon light, the noise of the parking lot struck her in strange, crisp fragments; tires over gravel, birds overhead, a breeze catching a nearby flag.
All sharper. Still not quite right, but at least now she knew she wasn’t going mad.
And more importantly, she didn’t have to navigate it alone.
By the time they left the clinic, it was just after three. Weems didn’t immediately steer them toward the highway. Instead, she turned into a nearby parking lot, glanced at them in the rearview mirror, and said, “I have a few errands to run in the city.”
Wednesday tilted her head. There was something in Weems’ tone. A look passed over the principal’s face; mild, unreadable, but clearly meant to suggest something. Wednesday didn’t understand it.
Enid, however, grinned. “Are you saying we get a couple hours of freedom?”
Weems smiled.
Notes:
Doing this, I really don't understand update schedules. Like, I get that sometimes you need an extended break for a few months, but why not just, post what you got with an explanation.
OH! And you will all be overjoyed to know that I ended up splitting this chapter. It just...IDK it seemed like this was a good place to split it. Hope you guys are having a good day!
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“I’ll meet you both at E.B. Strong’s for supper at five o’clock,” Weems replied, then looked straight at Wednesday. “Stay together. Don’t get arrested. Don’t disappear.”
Wednesday blinked. “I only make a habit of one of those things.”
Weems didn’t clarify which she preferred. She simply smiled, faintly, and the moment she pulled up alongside the pedestrian section of Church Street, Enid was practically vibrating with energy.
The second they stepped out onto the brick path, Wednesday scanned their surroundings with a low level of guarded calculation. Church Street was by no means crowded, but it was still the loudest place she’d been all day. A smattering of students with backpacks loitered near the smoothie shop across the way, and someone was playing guitar just outside a store with aggressively cheerful signage.
It wasn’t overwhelming, yet.
“Just say the word and we’ll find a quiet corner or a bookstore or something, ‘kay?” Enid said gently as she bumped their shoulders together.
Wednesday gave a slight nod, the sound of the guitar seeming brighter than it had before calibration, the clink of glassware through open café doors sharper. The world around her didn’t feel as loud exactly, but the contours were different. Like the edges of sound had been sanded to something crisp. She could hear a little more… deliberately. It would take getting used to.
She’d left Thing at the school so she took her phone out and opening the hearing aid app, squinting at the screen in the sun. Enid, curious, came up to her left side and peered past her shoulder, unintentionally blocking the sun. She opened her profile for being in public and fiddled with the settings, finding the new balance with the alterations.
Wednesday chewed the inside of her lip for a moment before speaking, “Enid.”
“Yeah?” the blond spoke softly in her left ear.
“I require you to stand in front of me and speak for a moment.”
Enid cocked her head to one side in mild confusion but did as she asked, standing almost two feet in front of her and started to talk about some student dating another. Wednesday didn’t particularly care but she adjusted her settings so she could hear Enid and the world around her.
“Good?” Enid asked as she saw Wednesday pocket her phone.
The seer nodded before letting Enid lead the way.
They wandered for a while. Enid darted in and out of a few shops, holding items up to her chest and asking Wednesday’s opinion. Most of the time Wednesday lingered near the entrances, eyeing loud music systems like they were personal insults. But in one boutique, her fingers brushed over the sleeve of a slate gray sweater, soft enough to make her pause. She ended up buying it, along with two long-sleeved shirts that didn’t set her nerves on edge just from touch. Enid looked genuinely pleased by this, as if Wednesday had just unlocked a life achievement.
An hour in, they passed a storefront with wide bay windows and a display of first editions and classics. Wednesday’s attention locked on immediately.
Enid didn’t miss the minuscule pause and looked at what had caught her eye. “Oh, absolutely yes.”
They slipped inside the bookstore; cool, quiet, and blessedly dim. The hum of the HVAC system was a low whisper in her aids. Enid peeled off to browse a graphic novel rack while Wednesday moved through the shelves, her fingers ghosting across the spines. She found a translation of La Vita Nuova she hadn’t seen before, and a small section tucked in the back labeled Speculative History of Nonhumans . She added both to her growing pile.
The bookstore’s layout gave her ample space to move slowly, focus in. She caught snippets of a conversation between two employees a couple aisles over; talking about what to reorder for the college summer rush. The register beeped when someone swiped a card. All of it came through in clearer layers, more discernible than before. There was still some static-like fuzz when too many textures collided, but it was more manageable now. She didn’t feel as much like sound was something she had to defend herself against.
By the time they left, even Enid had two new books in hand; something with a bright pastel cover and wolves on the spine, the other bright blue and a hand making a ‘peace’ sign on the spine. She couldn’t see the cover. She swung the bag lightly from her wrist and leaned in close to Wednesday’s left side as they stepped out onto the street again.
“How’s it going?” she asked, voice softer now.
Wednesday considered it. “Different,” she admitted. “Everything sounds more separated. Like someone turned down the fog.”
Enid grinned. “That’s good, right?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
She didn’t say it out loud, but she’d been grateful for the hour of relative quiet. Not just because of the books or the break from the crowd, but because it let her test her recalibrated hearing in real time. So far, they didn’t scream or buzz or crackle without warning. She could still feel the pressure of the one behind her right ear, still caught herself bracing for distortion. But it hadn’t come.
Enid didn’t push her to elaborate. Instead, she just kept walking at her side, matching her pace exactly.
“You want to get coffee?” Enid asked,
“I would.” Wednesday said.
The blonde grinned, she lead the way to a dimly lit coffee shop she spotted earlier. She led Wednesday to a booth in a corner away from people.
“A quad over ice, right?” Enid asked, setting her bags in the seat across from Wednesday.
The raven pressed her mouth into a firm line before nodding.
Enid bounced over to the counter to order her sugary monstrosity, one she smiled at, knowing Wednesday would would cringe just looking at it.
Wednesday relaxed in her seat as much as she could allow and pulled her phone out of her coat. There was still no message from her stalker. Not since the night at the fair over a week ago.
Enid returned as Wednesday was staring at her stalker messages, brow furrowed in thought.
“Whatcha thinkin’” Enid asked.
Wednesday looked up at Enid’s face, contemplating whether or not to discuss her train of thought. Enid caught on though. Too quickly for Wednesday's comfort.
“Hey, is it about your stalker?” Enid asked with a frown that tugged at something inside her for a moment.
“Yes.” Wednesday said, “They have not contacted me since the fair. They are either bidding their time, recalibrating, or are surprised I am, in fact, fine.”
“Or they gave up?” Enid suggested
Wednesday shook her head and put her phone away, “Unlikely since they failed in whatever they were doing. They have been too focused on me since we returned that it would honestly be disgraceful to the art of stalking if they did decide to give up.”
Enid hummed with a frown, “Do you want any help finding them? I have an in with most of the students. My blog and all.”
Wednesday frowned, “I don’t want you to draw their attention more than necessary. Besides, it just leaves us open for the stalker to spread false information.”
Enid hummed, taking a sip of…whatever that was.
“It’s giving me cavities just looking at it.” Wednesday mumbled.
Enid snorted then started laughing.
The Raven wasn’t entirely sure what was so funny but the sound of her friend’s laughter brought a small smirk to her lips, hidden but her cup as she pretended to take a drink.
Around fifteen minutes before they were meant to meet Weems, Enid glanced down at her phone. “We should probably head to the steakhouse,” she said cheerily.
Wednesday gave a stiff nod, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I’m contemplating walking back to Nevermore.”
Enid snorted. “You know that’s, like, a whole journey, right? You’d get there after midnight.”
Wednesday muttered, “Solitude is preferable to making small talk with a headmistress who failed at her job.”
Enid looked over at her, a bit thrown. “You really don’t trust her. Not that you ever did, but… this year, it’s more… aggressive.”
Wednesday’s steps slowed.
Enid pressed gently, “What happened? She almost died trying to help you last semester. I know she messed some stuff up, but-”
Wednesday stopped walking. Her expression was unreadable at first; blank, flat, but then she turned, slowly, and Enid was stunned to find raw, bitter fury staring back at her. It burned behind her dark eyes, cold and contained but undeniable.
“She’s one of the reasons I’m partly deaf.”
Enid blinked, startled. “Wait, what-?”
“She covered up Rowan’s murder,” Wednesday said, voice tight and precise. “She let everyone think I was making it up. She stood by while the sheriff dismissed me. She was Rowan, remember? She made it look like I was trying to get attention.”
Enid’s mouth parted, but she didn’t speak.
“She didn’t listen when I told her something was wrong. She didn’t care. Every time I brought her evidence, she belittled me. Called it reckless. I was trying to stop a murderer, Enid.” Her voice broke slightly. “And when I finally needed help, when I figured I couldn’t do it alone… I didn’t even consider going to her. She cared more about her and Nevermore’s precious reputation.”
Enid’s breath caught. “The Gates mansion…”
“I just assumed they wouldn’t help me if I told the truth,” Wednesday snapped. “It didn’t even occur to me to go to Weems or the sheriff. Not when they’d done nothing but dismiss me from the start. So I did it on my own. I tried to get the sheriff to listen to me. And it probably wouldn’t have been such a shit show-”
Enid’s eyes widened. She had never heard Wednesday curse before.
“-if Weems or Galpin gave a damn…. but they didn’t. The only person who helped was Eugene. And even that, even that , came at the last possible minute.” Her voice wavered. “He shouldn’t have had to risk himself like that just to be taken seriously.”
Enid reached out, unsure if she was trying to ground her or herself. “You didn’t make him do that.”
Wednesday’s eyes were stormy now. “And then the one person I thought would help, the one person who listened, who pretended to understand. turned out to be the hyde. I should have asked you for help instead of tricking you but even then, I didn’t know if you would.”
She was trembling slightly now, barely perceptible except in her shoulders and her fingers, clenched at her sides. “Everything was built on lies. All of it. I didn’t go to Burlington with Weems that day. I asked to say goodbye to Eugene. Euene’s information came right before we left. We changed plans, went back to Nevermore instead. And I walked straight into Thornhill’s trap.”
She looked away, jaw tight.
“Now I have a permanent… issue. A consequence for trying to do the right thing. And she, Weems, wants to act like she’s earned my trust again? She should have died but she ended up perfectly well.”
Her bag slid off her shoulder. She let it fall, hands too tense to hold anything anymore. She turned to storm off.
Enid quickly scooped up her bags and jogged after her. “Wait! Wednesday, please! Weems said to stay together.”
Wednesday didn’t look back, snapping, “I don’t care what Weems wants!”
Unbeknownst to them both, Weems had already arrived several minutes earlier. She stood just outside the restaurant, visible in the corner of Wednesday’s eye, her white-blonde hair stark in the late-afternoon light. But Wednesday didn’t pause. She brushed past he entrance and strode down the block, veering sharply toward a small, tucked-away park between buildings.
Before turning fully away, she cast a look over her shoulder, directly at Enid.
“Don’t follow me.”
It wasn’t angry. Just firm. Final.
Enid slowed to a stop, holding Wednesday’s bags in one hand and her own purchases in the other. She watched her roommate disappear into the trees lining the small park.
She stood there for a moment before Weems stepped closer, brow furrowed.
Enid didn’t speak right away. She just handed over her bags to Weems when offered, keeping hold of Wednesday’s and said quietly, “She needs a minute.”
Weems’s gaze lingered in the direction Wednesday had gone, but she didn’t follow. Instead, she turned to Enid with a soft, measured expression and held out her hand.
“Come, Let’s put your things in the car while she cools off.”
Enid nodded silently, her arms tight around the two bags. They walked side by side toward the parking garage, the silence settling between them like fog.
As they reached the car, Enid finally spoke. “How much did you hear?”
Weems met her eyes evenly. “Enough. Not everything, but...enough.”
Enid nodded slightly, placing the bags carefully in the back seat. “She doesn’t get that angry often,” she murmured. “She’s usually so... internal.”
Weems nodded thoughtfully, shutting the door. “It’s not misplaced. Some of what she said was fair.” There was no defensiveness in her voice, only quiet acknowledgment.“And she’s right that we didn’t act quickly enough. I thought I was doing what was best for the school”
There was a beat of silence before she added, her voice lower, more tired than usual, “That doesn’t mean the decisions I made were right. I see that now.” Her gaze followed the line of Enid’s worry, down the street where Wednesday had vanished. “By failing Wednesday, I failed the entire student body. I knew I had power, authority, but I misused it trying to keep things contained instead of making them right.”
Enid blinked, startled by the honesty. Weems gave a faint, almost weary smile.
“All I can do now is try to go up from there.”
Enid studied Weems for a moment. It was rare—almost unheard of—for an adult to admit fault so plainly. And rarer still for anyone to do so about Wednesday.
She crossed her arms, hugging herself against the wind. “It really hurt her, a lot of us” she said quietly. “Everything that happened. She doesn’t always show it, but I think, she’s losing faith in anyone but herself.” She looked to the taller woman, a small scowl on her face, “And honestly, principal Weems, I don’t completely trust you. Wednesday hasn’t told me anything before now and I know why she’s angry. I’m kinda angry for her now. You are the main reason she’s like this now. And Galpin. It should never have been up to her.”
Weems’s expression softened. “I know.”
Enid looked down, then back up with a small frown. “But she still tries. She still does everything she can to protect people, even when no one listens, even when it hurts her. That’s kind of what makes her... her.”
Weems nodded slowly, solemnly.
Enid’s arms fell back to her sides. “I don’t think she’s ready to want to forgive you. Or at least want to try. But that kind of trust, once it’s broken, it doesn’t just come back.” She hesitated. “Still… I think it means a lot that she told me. That she let me hear all of that.”
Weems glanced down the path again. “Then maybe it’s not too late.”
Enid didn’t respond right away. She just watched the quiet park with a crease between her brows and a hope she wouldn’t dare speak aloud.
The small park was quiet. Just the hiss of wind through budding trees and the occasional passing car in the distance. A swing creaked somewhere beyond her line of sight, pushed gently by the breeze.
Wednesday sat alone on the bench, arms folded tightly across her chest, spine ramrod straight despite the dull ache threading through her side. Her jaw was clenched, a muscle twitching beneath her ear.
She hated outbursts.
She hated the way her voice had risen, hated how raw the words felt once they were out in the open.
But she meant them.
All of them.
She exhaled slowly, unblinking, as a gust of wind teased strands of her hair across her face. She didn’t brush them away.
Everyone else had gotten to speak last semester. Everyone else had gotten to make decisions, about what was real, what was appropriate,about what she needed. No one had listened. Not really. They had heard her words and waved them away. Laughed. Scoffed. Dismissed her warnings until people were dead and monsters had walked free.
And now?
Now the irony sat sharp and bitter in her throat.
She had lost her hearing in a world full of people who refused to listen.
It would almost be funny if it didn’t make her sick.
She adjusted her right hearing aid with slow, careful fingers. Better. Clearer. A faint buzz of city noise layered beneath the wind. Nothing jarring. Nothing overwhelming. The new calibrations were an improvement, but everything still sounded wrong in a way she couldn’t quite name.
Her bag was gone. Still with Enid, no doubt. Dropped during her outburst and forgotten in the heat of everything else. She didn’t care. There wasn’t even a book to fidget with now, no pages to ground her. Just the quiet hush of her own breathing and the soft hum in her ears.
For now, it was good enough.
She would go back.
Eventually.
Just not yet.
She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there; minutes, maybe longer, but the pressure in her chest had settled into something less volatile. Not peace. Not quite. But stillness.
Birdsong cut through the hum of city noise, a pair of sharp chirps from somewhere in the branches above. She tilted her head just enough to catch it with her left ear. The sound was crisp in a way it hadn’t been before, the new calibration highlighting edges she hadn’t realized were missing.
She closed her eyes.
It wasn’t silence.
But it was solitude.
And it felt better than pretending she was fine in a restaurant full of noise and people she couldn’t trust.
The bench beneath her was cold even through her clothes. Her muscles ached from the tension she hadn’t let go of yet. Her fists were still clenched at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms. She hadn’t even realized.
Wednesday slowly uncurled her fingers and let them rest on her knees. The wind picked up again, brushing along the back of her neck like a phantom touch. She didn’t flinch.
It wasn’t vulnerability to admit she was tired.
It wasn’t weakness to be angry about the truth.
Everyone had failed her. Everyone who should’ve stood up for her. Her voice had been discarded as a nuisance. Her instincts mocked. Her evidence ignored.
And now… her hearing was the collateral.
Because no one listened.
And all she’d done was scream into the void until it turned around and made her deaf.
She huffed once, half a breath, half a laugh, but it didn’t carry humor. Just bitterness.
No one deserved her forgiveness.
Least of all Weems.
Wednesday didn’t hear Enid approach.
But she felt the shift in the air, that subtle pressure change, like the world bracing for something warm to arrive. She turned her head just slightly, just enough to catch the familiar scent of citrus shampoo and overly sweet perfume. Enid.
The bench shifted beside her. Enid didn’t say anything at first. She just sat there, quiet, with Wednesday’s bag in her lap, holding it like it was something fragile. She set it down between them gently.
“I didn’t follow you,” Enid said after a while, voice soft. “Just… found you.”
Wednesday didn’t respond. She didn’t look at her either.
“I put your stuff in the car. Then I asked if I could check on you.”
Still nothing. Enid didn’t sound offended. She didn’t sound pitiful, either. Just… there.
“I can go if you want,” she offered.
A pause. Then Wednesday spoke, voice low.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
Silence again. Then, Wednesday shifted. Just a little. Just enough to let Enid know she could stay.
Enid relaxed beside her. “It’s kinda nice here.”
Wednesday hummed noncommittally. “It’s quiet.”
“Yeah,” Enid agreed. “You’d think it’d be louder this close to the street.”
“Not complaining.”
Enid nudged her knee gently. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They sat there like that for a long while, shoulders close but not touching. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.
After a few minutes, Enid turned her head toward her. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I think they should’ve listened to you too. I’m sorry they didn’t.”
Wednesday looked straight ahead.
“Me too,” she whispered.
And this time, she didn’t flinch when Enid’s pinkie brushed lightly against hers on the bench between them.
Enid let the quiet settle again before speaking. “I’m sorry for my part in it, too. For not believing you at first. For thinking you were just… being you.”
Wednesday turned her head slightly, just enough to see the regret in Enid’s expression.
“You did believe me,” Wednesday said. Her voice wasn’t sharp; just matter-of-fact. “Maybe not always about the details. But you always showed up.”
Enid blinked. “I didn’t-”
“You helped me cover for the hive so I could look into Rowan, even when you thought I was being obsessive,” Wednesday interrupted. “You switched volunteer assignments at Pilgrim World when I asked. No questions as to why. Ajax was just the bonus..”
Enid looked down at her hands.
“You came to the Gates mansion with me. With Tyler. Even after I tricked you into it. You still went in.”
Enid’s eyes snapped up. “But I didn’t know-”
“I did,” Wednesday said flatly. “I knew the plan was flawed. I knew Tyler was suspicious, and I didn’t say anything. I thought I had it under control. But I didn’t. And that wasn’t your failure. That was mine.”
Enid opened her mouth, but Wednesday kept going. Her voice had turned quieter. Rougher.
“You didn’t hesitate. Not when it mattered. Not when I needed you.” Her eyes flicked away toward the trees. “You ran into the woods to help me with a Hyde on the loose, before you even knew you were going to shift.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re the reason I’m still here at all.”
Enid exhaled, the sound shaky. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted. “Wednesday…”
Wednesday shook her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Not about that.”
Enid leaned forward a little, like she was grounding herself in the space between them. “But I could’ve done more.”
Wednesday finally looked at her directly. “You did enough. More than enough.”
They stared at each other for a beat; longer than either of them probably meant to before Wednesday glanced away again, fingers twitching faintly against the bench.
“You’re the only one who never really needed convincing.”
Enid swallowed hard and smiled. It was a little teary, but bright all the same. “You’re really bad at letting people say sorry.”
Wednesday gave a soft snort. “You’re really bad at realizing you’re not the one in the wrong.”
They didn’t move yet. Not quite ready to leave.
But they weren’t drifting anymore either.
They were settled.
Together.
They made their way back toward the restaurant slowly, the tension between them settled but still tender at the edges. Neither said much. They didn’t need to.
By the time they reached the corner where Weems had last been waiting, the tall woman was already standing outside the steakhouse, arms crossed loosely as she looked out over the sidewalk.
She spotted them approaching and gave a nod. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming back.”
Wednesday gave her a flat look. “I wasn’t.”
Enid bumped her shoulder lightly, a wordless reminder not to poke the bear when they were already bruised. Wednesday let out a faint sigh, but said nothing more.
Weems studied them both; Wednesday’s expression unreadable, Enid’s still tinged with something emotional, protective, raw.
“Thank you for giving her space,” Enid said quietly.
Weems nodded. “I owed her that. Probably more.”
Wednesday just raised an eyebrow but followed her silently into the restaurant.
No more words passed between them until they were seated. The silence was a strange sort of truce, strained but stable. Weems didn’t push. Enid stayed close. And Wednesday… allowed it.
They’d make it through dinner.
Even if no one had much appetite.
Wednesday didn’t speak for the rest of the day.
Not out of anger. Just exhaustion; mental, emotional, physical. Her thoughts moved like sludge, too heavy to say aloud, too tangled to unravel. So she stayed silent.
In the car, with Weems at the wheel and Enid beside her, Wednesday reached up and removed both hearing aids without hesitation. She didn’t bother with explanations. There was no need, both women already knew. She tucked them away carefully, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes, letting the muted hush settle around her like a familiar weight.
They didn’t ask questions.
Back at Nevermore, the sky softening into twilight, she and Enid made their way through the quiet halls of Ophelia Hall and into their dorm. Thing waited there, perched on her desk like a sentinel. He perked up at their entrance, tapping a curious rhythm in greeting.
Wednesday didn’t answer aloud. She only lifted her hands and signed: Home.
Thing skittered to her side, chirping silently in his unique way.
Then Enid turned toward her with a soft smile, stepping close, close enough that Wednesday could read the movements of her hands without straining.
Writing time? she signed in careful, slow ASL, her fingers slow but deliberate.
Wednesday stared at her, throat tightening. It was such a small thing; gentle, obvious, kind. And somehow, it nearly broke her. The kind of break she didn’t know how to patch up with words.
Enid listened. Enid watched. Enid understood.
It wasn’t just accommodation. It was friendship, offered without pressure, accepted without fear. Enid had spoken to her even when she couldn’t speak back. That meant something. Something irrevocable.
Wednesday gave a short, wordless nod, then moved to her desk. She slid into the chair with familiar ease and rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter with shaking fingers.
Behind her, Enid climbed into her own bed, Thing curling up beside her. The werewolf murmured softly to the hand, her voice low and indistinct; but it didn’t matter what she said.
Wednesday began to type.
Notes:
How my kudos and veiws doubled in like 24 hours is WILD. How does that just happen?
A little date scene, and honestly I wanted her to get out her anger and dislike towards Weems now. In my head, Weems let Wednesday take another friend out of class with her for her appointment because she's trying to make it up. However, I also wanted Weems to hear Wednesday's side. Enid coming in with a little anger of her own.
Now, I seriously have blown through everything I had so far so I hope you're okay with waiting, possibly, a few weeks for an update.
I appreciate you all!
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