Chapter Text
The hushed grandeur of The Obsidian Heart Hotel was a familiar sort of suffocating. Wednesday Addams, now twenty-six and navigating the polite horrors of a book tour, swept through the opulent lobby, her sensible black boots making no sound on the polished marble. The air, thick with the scent of expensive disinfectant and carefully cultivated floral arrangements, did little to soothe her nerves. She preferred the smell of formaldehyde and freshly turned earth. This stop, Chicago, was particularly vexing. Not for the city itself, but for the information Thing had, with his usual subtle insistence, tapped out on her shoulder earlier: Sinclair. Bar.
Enid. Six years. Six years since the abrupt, inexplicable severing. Six years since the fragile, effervescent light that had somehow taken root in Wednesday’s meticulously cultivated darkness had blinked out, leaving behind only a stark, sterile void. Their graduation from Nevermore had been followed by a few weeks of unsettling, almost saccharine domesticity, and then, without warning, a terse, tearful goodbye. Enid, at eighteen, had said something about needing “normalcy,” about Wednesday being “too much,” words that had etched themselves into Wednesday's mind with the precision of a scalpel. Wednesday, in turn, had offered no protest, no argument. She had simply acknowledged the data, processed the rejection, and retreated into the comfortable, familiar embrace of her solitude.
Now, a best-selling author of macabre mysteries, Wednesday found herself confronted with the ghost of that past. She moved with an almost predatory grace, her gaze sweeping past the concierge desk, ignoring the clinking of crystal from the lounge. Her destination was clear. The hotel bar. A predictable locale for such an encounter. Enid, with her inherent, irritating gregariousness, would undoubtedly seek out such a public, brightly lit space.
The soft murmur of conversation and the faint clinking of ice drew Wednesday closer. She paused just outside the archway, her dark eyes narrowing, cataloging the scene with practiced efficiency. Plush velvet seating, polished mahogany, and an array of glittering bottles behind the bar. And there, perched on a stool at the far end, silhouetted against the ambient glow, was Enid Sinclair.
Twenty-five. A year had passed since their last glimpse of each other, a fleeting, accidental encounter at a literary festival where Wednesday had been signing books and Enid, apparently, had been reporting on floral trends. Enid's hair was still a riot of color, though perhaps slightly more muted than Wednesday remembered – streaks of periwinkle and soft rose mingling with her natural blonde. She was laughing, a bright, uninhibited sound that sliced through the mundane din of the bar, making Wednesday’s internal organs clench. A small, delicate hand, adorned with several colorful rings, was wrapped around a glass that appeared to contain something disgustingly vibrant and probably sugary. She was talking animatedly to the bartender, her head thrown back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. No bite marks now. No lingering claims.
Wednesday felt a familiar, unwelcome tightening in her chest. Not sorrow, certainly not regret. Perhaps a purely scientific curiosity regarding the persistence of certain… anomalies in her physiological responses. The urge to dissect, to analyze, was strong. To understand the precise mechanism of a broken connection.
She took a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of the artificial floral arrangements momentarily overridden by a phantom scent of pine and something wild. Enid’s wolf. Her wolf, which had once recognized Wednesday’s darkness as its own.
Enid tipped her head back, finishing her drink, and set the glass down with a soft thud. Her eyes, still the infuriatingly bright cerulean Wednesday remembered, swept across the room, casual and unburdened, until they landed, unblinking, on Wednesday.
The laughter died. The colors of the bar seemed to dim, the background noise fading into an irrelevant hum. For a long, silent moment, their gazes locked. Enid’s eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable – surprise, perhaps a hint of alarm – crossing her features. Her smile, previously so vibrant, faltered, then vanished. The confident tilt of her head straightened.
Wednesday remained still, a dark, unwavering silhouette in the archway, her face a carefully constructed mask of stoic indifference. The question, unspoken, hung in the air between them: What now, Sinclair?
Enid’s throat felt as arid as a desert, a stark contrast to the drink she had just downed, its warmth now a distant memory. The rich, dark eyes that had once regarded her with such tender adoration and profound love were now fathomless voids, filled with an emotion she had never before witnessed aimed in her direction. Not even in their initial months as reluctant roommates had Wednesday ever looked at her with such chilling intensity. A cold dread seeped into her veins, and the inner wolf, usually a vibrant force within her, whimpered, shrinking in fear. She could almost visualize the wolf, belly-down in full submission, beneath the raven-haired woman's piercing, analytical glare. A dry lump formed in her throat, and with a decisive push, she slid the bar stool back, rising to her feet. The time for evasion was over; she had to face this head-on. She began her slow, deliberate approach, each step a testament to her newfound resolve.
Wednesday felt an almost imperceptible eyebrow raise in genuine surprise as the blonde woman bravely met her challenge. She had been so certain the wolf would once again turn tail and flee, but instead, Enid was steadily making her way across the intimate bar area, soon standing directly before her. The familiar scent of pine and wildness, a fragrance uniquely Enid’s, became more prominent, enveloping Wednesday as the wolf stood her ground. An almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch the blonde woman, as she had done countless times once their entangled relationship became official, surged through her. But she remained unyielding, ruthlessly suppressing the impulse. Her hands slowly moved behind her back, her posture rigidly straight, her head held high, an impenetrable fortress. “Wednesday, I—” Enid’s voice, a mere croak, barely escaped her lips.
Wednesday imperiously held up a hand, a single, definitive gesture that silenced the wolf mid-sentence. She watched, a flicker of something she couldn't quite name in her dark eyes, as Enid’s throat bobbed, the visible swallow a clear sign that her words had been forcibly repressed. Her mind, usually a fortress of calm, was now a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts as she registered the fragile croak of Enid’s voice. It had caught her entirely off guard. How many nights had she lain in bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, dreaming of the mere sound of that voice? How profound was her regret at not having recorded every fleeting moment, every melodic peal of Enid's laughter, just to be able to replay the sweet symphony that had once emanated from her vocal cords? Amidst this internal maelstrom, a stark realization dawned: she was not ready. Her anger, a potent, simmering force, lay just beneath the surface, threatening to erupt.
During their abrupt breakup, Wednesday had said little, a deliberate silence that had been more deafening than any scream. But the agonizing aftermath? That was a different story entirely. She had so much to say, so many regrets that she should have voiced, could have hurled at Enid. She had allowed Enid to speak first then, a courtesy she now regretted. Now, it was unequivocally her turn, and she was bracing herself for a brutal confrontation. Just as she was gathering her verbal weaponry, a hesitant voice broke through the charged silence. “Ms. Addams?” A waiter, a young boy, approached them warily, as if sensing the palpable tension that crackled between them. “Your usual table is ready.”
Wednesday barely registered the young boy’s presence, her mind still consumed with the words she intended to unleash, to wield as the precision weapons she had mastered over a lifetime. However, his words, mundane as they were, pierced through the fog of her thoughts. A fleeting, mental suspicion formed that Thing, her disembodied hand, might have orchestrated this impromptu dinner arrangement. “Do you have somewhere more private for myself and… my guest?” Wednesday inquired, her voice deceptively soft, a deadly caress. Her dark, penetrating gaze never once left Enid’s face, which registered a flicker of genuine surprise at the unexpected question.
“I can take you to the presidential room,” the young boy suggested cautiously, his eyes taking in the contrasting postures of the poised blonde woman and the rigidly composed dark-haired one. “It’s just this way.”
Wednesday made a challenging motion, a subtle flick of her head, indicating for the wolf to follow the boy. And to her silent satisfaction, Enid complied. The blonde slowly moved past Wednesday, her movements betraying a reluctance to completely turn her back on the dark raven, a smart, almost instinctive decision. Wednesday’s hands, still clasped behind her back, tingled with an almost painful itch to reach for her hidden knives. Even if she were to draw one, she wasn't entirely sure if she desired to stab the wolf or simply a nearby wall. Either way, a profound craving for violence, of any kind, gnawed at her.
The boy opened the door to a modestly sized room, intimate and understated, resembling a private family dining area. “Will here be alright?” he asked, a hint of trepidation in his voice.
“Acceptable.” Wednesday’s voice was devoid of all emotion, a flat declaration. “I will take my usual order, and you can bring a bottle of whiskey. My guest will have a medium-rare ribeye steak, with a side of mashed potatoes, and whatever mixed vegetable you have with a side of extra gravy. Also, a refill of whatever she was consuming at the bar.” She concluded, her gaze still fixed on Enid, “Put everything on my tab.”
“Wednesday, you don’t—” Enid began, only to be silenced once more, this time by a severe, unwavering look from Wednesday.
The boy, with remarkable good sense, quickly jotted down the order and departed, leaving them alone in the room. It was just the two of them now, isolated in a small dining room that felt private enough to offer no witnesses to a potential murder. Wednesday remained standing in the center of the room, maintaining a deliberate distance from the wolf, a stark contrast to their close proximity in the bar area. Enid, in turn, wisely chose not to close the gap between them. For a prolonged moment, neither spoke, allowing the oppressive tension and profound silence to settle heavily around them. The wolf shifted restlessly, her fingers absently toying with the ends of her sleeves as she felt Wednesday’s dissecting gaze bore into her. It was then that the raven finally made her move. She glided towards Enid’s side, her stride long and purposeful, yet still maintaining a careful, deliberate distance. Enid flinched almost imperceptibly at the sharp clicking of the goth’s boots, instinctively bracing herself for a stab. However, all she heard was the slight scraping of a chair being pulled out. “Sit,” came the order, crisp and firm, an undeniable command.
“Uh, sure, okay.” Enid hesitated for a beat, her cerulean eyes darting between Wednesday and the chair that had been meticulously pulled out for her. Slowly, cautiously, she lowered herself, allowing the raven to gently push her further into the seat. “Thank you,” she murmured, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.
Wednesday looked down at her, her dark, voided gaze unwavering, offering no solace or explanation. Enid felt her stomach clench into a tight knot, a visceral reaction to the profound unknown she found herself immersed in. The subtle micro expressions, the tells, everything she had once been fluent in, everything that had allowed her to gauge her raven’s moods and thoughts, were now completely lost to her. Perhaps they had been incinerated the very moment she had shattered their fragile bond.
Wednesday then turned and walked back around the table, taking a seat directly across from her wolf. Internally, she cursed herself. No, her wolf was dead. Dead and buried, interred in the deepest recesses of her heart. She was no longer just a best-selling author; she was the formidable CEO of her grandmother’s company, Frump Mortuaries. Once she had moved in with her grandmother, one of the very first funerals she had meticulously orchestrated was for her wolf—it was the only way she could truly process and deal with the devastating events that had transpired. It was the only path to reclaiming the person she had been before those damned, inescapable words had first assaulted her ears in that initial, excruciating introduction: “Howdy, Roomie!” A low snarl escaped her lips as the phantom words echoed relentlessly in her mind.
Enid was startled by the unexpected sound. Wednesday had closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as if warding off a headache. “Are you okay?” Enid asked, concern lacing her voice.
Wednesday scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound. “Spare me the theatrics. Do not pretend you care. You forfeited that right, the right to inquire about the state of my well-being, the very moment you walked out that door all those years ago.” She saw a fleeting flash of hurt cross Enid’s face, and an immediate, sharp insult ignited within her. How dare this woman look hurt at being dismissed? How dare she feign any semblance of care after tearing Wednesday’s heart out like some wild animal and shredding it to infinitesimal bits? How fucking— Her train of thought was abruptly severed as the dining room door reopened. Two waiters entered, one carrying a tray laden with their drinks, the other balancing their food. They worked with quiet efficiency, meticulously placing the items on the table before quickly retreating, leaving the charged atmosphere behind. Without a moment’s hesitation, Wednesday poured herself a generous measure of whiskey, tossed her head back, and drained the contents cleanly before immediately replacing it with a fresh pour.
Enid watched Wednesday with a profound sense of hesitation, her mind racing with unsaid words. A desperate urge to articulate her feelings warred with the certain knowledge that any such attempt would be met with scorn, perhaps even outright hostility. Instead, she chose the path of least resistance, attempting to lose herself in the array of food laid out before her. The aroma of the meal was intoxicating, a rich tapestry of scents that promised a culinary delight, and its presentation was equally appealing. Yet, despite the allure, her stomach remained a tight knot of apprehension, a physical manifestation of the guilt and unease that gnawed at her. She picked up her knife and fork, beginning to meticulously cut into her steak, the metallic scrape of the cutlery against the plate the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Just as she was about to lift a perfectly portioned bite to her lips, Wednesday's voice, sharp and laced with an icy disdain, finally cut through the tense silence, "What the hell are you doing here, Sinclair?"
"Now I can talk?" Enid couldn't resist the biting retort, a small act of defiance before she finally savored the piece of meat she had cut. The flavor, though exquisite, was lost to her, overshadowed by the palpable tension. Seeing that Wednesday had no intention of offering a response, Enid swallowed, taking a slow sip of her drink, the coolness a slight comfort against the dryness in her throat. She then met Wednesday's challenging gaze, her voice softer now, tinged with a raw vulnerability, "I did not find anything I was looking for, because everywhere I looked, all I saw was you."
Dark, piercing eyes met Enid's cerulean ones from across the elegantly set table. For a fleeting moment, Wednesday felt an unfamiliar stirring in her chest, a faint tremor of an emotion she had long believed to be eradicated. But with a ruthless efficiency, she once more quelled it, stabbing it down into the depths of her being. She shook her head, a gesture of impatience and frustration, and then, with deliberate force, impaled a piece of chicken with a broccoli floret on her fork. In her mind's eye, it was the wolf across from her she was impaling, a cathartic, albeit imaginary, act of aggression. "So, what you are saying is that your longing for 'normalcy' did not work out all that well?" She allowed the question to hang in the air between them, heavy with unspoken judgment, as she methodically continued to eat her food. Observing Enid wince, a small, involuntary flinch that spoke volumes, Wednesday shook her head again, her frustration evident. "Now why don't you try and tell me the truth this time, Sinclair. My patience is not as forgiving as it once was when it comes to you."
The blonde bit her lip, a nervous habit that had returned with a vengeance. A wave of profound nervousness washed over her, a prickling sensation that alerted her to the very real danger she seemed to be in. Wednesday was not merely acting; her words carried the undeniable weight of truth. Enid had always known, on some deeper, instinctual level, that the psychic possessed a dangerous edge, an inherent capacity for harm. However, those sharp points, those dangerous facets of Wednesday's personality, had hardly ever been aimed directly at her before. "I am not lying," Enid began, her voice a little shaky, and she watched, mesmerized, as Wednesday's hand, gripping the knife she was using to cut into her chicken, appeared to tighten, her knuckles blanching. "I really do mean that everywhere I looked, I saw you because I was stalking your career." She allowed herself a deliberate pause, letting the full weight of her confession settle over her raven, a silent plea for understanding. "I was too much of a coward to approach you after what happened."
"You mean after you broke the only thing I had worth giving?" Wednesday's voice was a low, dangerous growl, devoid of any warmth. With a decisive movement, she placed her fork and knife down, her appetite, if she ever truly had one, completely gone. Instead, she reached for the pitcher and poured herself another drink, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light. Then, with a practiced ease, she reached into the inside pocket of her jacket, pulling out a sleek lighter and a pack of cigarettes. She extracted one, raising it to her lips, and with a soft click, lit it, taking a long, deliberate drag, the smoke curling around her head like a dark halo.
Enid scrunched her nose, a futile attempt to block out the pungent smell of nicotine and tobacco that now permeated the air. She, too, placed her utensils down, her hunger completely vanished. "Since when do you smoke?" she asked, the question escaping her lips before she could censor it.
"Since when do you give a fuck about me?" Wednesday demanded back, her voice a whip-crack of anger. "Again, you lost that right when you walked out that night." Enid, driven by an instinctive desire to bridge the chasm between them, reached out, her fingers tentatively extending towards Wednesday's hand, which rested on her whiskey glass. The seer recoiled violently, pulling her hand back with such force that she nearly spilled her drink. "Do. Not. Touch. Me." Each word was clipped, delivered with a chilling intensity that left no room for misinterpretation.
"Alright," Enid said gently, pulling her hand back and raising both of them in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. No touching at all. I get it." She watched, her gaze following Wednesday as the other woman rose from the table and began to move about the room, a ghostly trail of smoke coiling behind her as she walked. Wednesday stopped by the fireplace, turning her back to the wolf and staring into the empty hearth, as if imagining a roaring fire flickering within. "I'm sorry, Wens. I am so sorry."
"Do not call me that either," Wednesday murmured, her voice barely a whisper, yet infused with a fierce, almost desperate hatred. She despised the way so many emotions, emotions she had meticulously buried, seemed to claw their way back to the surface. "You lost that right as well."
Enid, spurred by a desperate hope, got up from the table, her movements hesitant. "Look, I really do want to try and make things right. You asked what I was doing here, well, the truth is, I have nothing. No pack, no place to live. I am currently living out of a rundown car that is basically on its last leg of life."
"Oh, what a pity," Wednesday bit out, her voice dripping with sarcasm, not daring to look at her. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Give me a chance." Enid's voice was small, but resolute.
"Excuse me?" Wednesday's voice was a low demand, and she finally turned towards the wolf, the lit cigarette still clutched between her fingers, a thin plume of smoke rising into the air.
Enid looked away, her face flushing with shame. "I know I have no right—"
"You dare ask me—" Wednesday's words were cut off by Enid's desperate plea.
"But please. You saw me, and I saw you, and there is no going back for me. Please, Wednesday, give me another chance. Allow me to show you that I am sorry." Her voice was a fragile whisper, a desperate plea for redemption.
Wednesday shook her head, a gesture of profound weariness, and moved away from the fireplace. She took one last, long drag of her nicotine stick before deliberately snuffing it out in Enid's mashed potatoes, the acrid smell of extinguished tobacco mingling with the scent of comfort food. "Go to hell and stay there," Wednesday stated firmly, her voice devoid of emotion, as she turned to storm out of the room.
Enid was quick, her hand shooting out without conscious thought to stop Wednesday's movement. "Wait, please, Wednesday—" Before Wednesday had a chance to pull her hand out of reach, the wolf's fingers grazed hers, a fleeting contact that sent an unexpected jolt through them both. Immediately, Wednesday's head snapped back, her eyes rolling back in her head. "Fuck!" Enid cursed, her voice laced with panic, as she instinctively caught the raven just as she was going down, cradling her.
The wolf was internally panicking, her heart hammering against her ribs, as she found herself on her knees, Wednesday's head resting in her lap. As the seer was consumed by her vision, Enid took the opportunity to allow her eyes to roam over the goth's face, meticulously taking in every detail. She noted the scattering of freckles she used to count in the quiet moments of the morning, before the chaos of school erupted. Those, at least, did not appear to have changed. However, the deep, bruised circles under Wednesday's eyes were starkly prominent against her pale complexion, making the guilt within Enid feel like a lead ball growing in size, heavy and suffocating. How many sleepless nights had Wednesday endured? Why was she not taking better care of herself? What had Enid done to the one person who had always, unflinchingly, been by her side?
It felt like an eternity before Wednesday's eyes finally fluttered open. Immediately, she sprang to her feet, and Enid sensed a new, potent wave of anger radiating off the normally stoic woman. "You..." Wednesday growled out, her voice low and menacing, like a predator on the hunt, causing Enid to instinctively crawl a little further away from her.
Wednesday’s eyes, still reeling from the sudden, violent vision, darted across the hotel room. The chaotic images replayed in her mind, sending a jolt of raw agony through her, a sensation far removed from the pleasurable torture she typically sought. She gripped her head, attempting to quell the onslaught of disturbing foresight, but the effort was futile. Her breath hitched, her lungs refusing to draw in air, and a growl rumbled in her throat. The carefully constructed order of her world had shattered, leaving her adrift in a sea of disarray. Her phone felt cold in her hand as she pulled it out, her fingers already navigating to a specific contact.
Enid, observing the abrupt shift in Wednesday's demeanor, started to speak, a question forming on her lips. But before she could utter a sound, a flash of steel gleamed in the dim light. Wednesday’s knife, quick as a viper, was at Enid's throat, the cold blade a stark reminder of the younger Addams’s volatile nature. "Do not talk unless I tell you to, otherwise I will cut out your tongue. Do we have an understanding? A nod or a shake will do just fine," Wednesday’s voice was a low, dangerous whisper, devoid of any warmth. Enid, her breath catching in her throat, gave a careful, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and burgeoning understanding.
Wednesday withdrew the knife as quickly as she had produced it, her attention immediately returning to her phone. She located the name she sought and brought the device to her ear. "Tanaka? Do you and Barclay still need a new assistant?" she intoned, her voice regaining a semblance of its usual monotone. A sarcastic, yet familiar, voice responded, causing Enid's ears to perk up at the sound of her favorite vampire. "Hey Wednesday, how is the tour going? Good I hope," Tanaka’s voice crackled through the speaker. "And yes, you scared off the last one we had. Bianca and I are kind of drowning and not in your fun and entertaining way."
A cruel curl touched Wednesday’s lips as she met Enid’s gaze, her dark eyes piercing. "Good. I found a stray dog I am bringing home. I expect you to train it and teach it everything it needs to know." The implications of Wednesday’s words hung heavy in the air, the dark gaze and the mocking tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. Tanaka’s hesitant "Uh…ok then. Uhm…when can we-?" was swiftly cut off. "We are flying out first thing tomorrow. Cancel the rest of the book tour. Something came up." Wednesday hung up, cutting off Tanaka’s bewildered protest. "You are to go to your car. Get whatever belongings you carry on your person and come back to this hotel," she commanded, her voice firm, allowing no room for debate.
Enid’s initial bewilderment quickly morphed into understanding. "Wait, you mean-?" The words died on her tongue as she remembered Wednesday's earlier threat. Wednesday, sensing Enid’s unspoken question, elaborated, her words clipped and precise. "You asked for a job and I am giving it to you. You need shelter, and I am…against my better judgement, giving it to you. This changes nothing." As Wednesday threw open the door, her gaze narrowed, catching Thing in the act of trying to surreptitiously eavesdrop. "Thing will accompany you to make sure you find your way back to the hotel. My suite has two rooms, which you will take the other."
A frantic flutter began in Enid’s chest. "Wait," she managed, her voice small and uncertain, drawing Wednesday’s attention. "What did you see?"
Wednesday paused, her back to Enid, before finally speaking, her voice almost a whisper. "Your tombstone." She continued, her voice softening further, almost imperceptibly, "And it was not one I created for you." Only Thing, ever attuned to Wednesday’s subtle shifts, registered the deeper meaning in her final words. He tapped out a response, but Wednesday ignored them both, her trust in their obedience absolute. There was far more she had witnessed in her terrifying vision, but for now, she needed time to process the chilling implications of her sight.