Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Wednesday lets in Thornhill, she wasn’t expecting to get a knife in the back.

In hindsight, she should’ve known something was strange about her — maybe the way Thornhill looked at her when she thought she wasn’t looking, the shift in her face when the wide, innocent eyed look on her dorm mother fell and there was sticky, dark, hateful rage burning from her pupils. 

That prospect had interested Wednesday, certainly, but the notion of a shape shifting monster on the loose that was hunting her and her colleagues down one by one was much more outdoing. She didn’t have time to pry Thornhill apart to see why she came to hate her job of a Nevermore teacher — pretty basic and boring, Wednesday had thought, even she would be enraged the longer she had to deal with moronic teenagers every day.

She never thought it would be more sinister than the usual teacher-growing-to-hate-her-job-because-of-hormonal-heathens-twenty-four-seven. She never even considered the notion, until she’s now laid out on the floor, blood seeping too quickly from her body to be immediately recoverable, cheek pressed against the floorboards as she watches her teacher ransack her shared dorm room. 

“You won’t get away with this,” Wednesday says idly, gritting her teeth as she moves her head enough to watch Thornhill draw another one of her desk drawers to the floor, scattering papers — it mildly annoys her since now everything that had been neatly organized is destroyed. 

Thornhill laughs, a mocking sound. “I believe I already have,” she says, kicking the drawer across the floor, making it screech. “You know,” she continues calmly, “I wasn’t expecting you to be here, Wednesday. You were supposed to be out with Tyler right now.”

“I canceled the date,” Wednesday answers. “I had other priorities at hand.” Thornhill scoffs at her while Wednesday narrows her eyes at her. “The question is how did you know about Tyler’s absurd little date plan?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart?” Thornhill taunts, turning around and walking slowly towards her. “I sent Tyler to keep you away, but apparently he’s incapable of even doing that.”

“Tyler is your little henchman?” Wednesday drawls. She coughs a little, spittle and blood dribbling down her chin, yet she remains unfazed. “I would applaud you but you had the indecency to stab me.”

Thornhill snatches her by the jaw, squeezing enough that her nails dig roughly into her skin, making Wednesday glare at her, murderous. “You have a lot of bark for someone currently bleeding out on the floor,” she says and she tightens her hold. Blood runs down Wednesday’s cheek, smearing her pale skin. “You Addams have always been such a pain to my family, even back years ago.”

“So, you are Laurel Gates?” Wednesday confirms. “And Tyler is the monster running around. You’re the one controlling him, aren’t you?”

“You Outcasts are a disease,” Thornhill spits out, eyes wild and enraged. “You are the things wrong with this world and I will purge it clean of you.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, calming herself down. “I guess I do have to thank you though, Wednesday. You’ve made my job much easier.”

“What are you talking about?” Wednesday snaps and then gasps as Thornhill lets go of her jaw, letting her head thunk against the ground. 

She takes out a jar and presses her knee into Wednesday’s sternum, making her choke on a groan as agony flares up across her body, blood gushing from the knife wound. Thornhill takes out a rag and soaks up her blood before squeezing it into the jar.

“When the blood moon rises tomorrow night, I’ll resurrect Crackstone to rid all Outcasts from the world,” Thornhill murmurs, watching as the blood runs into the jar before twisting the top back on, sealing it. She fixes her eyes back on Wednesday, who’s soaked in sweat and shaking slightly on the ground, covered in her own blood. “And it’ll be all because of you, Wednesday. You, Wednesday Addams, because of your blood that my ancestor will walk this earth again.”

Wednesday glares at her, eyes half lidded. “You just told me your entire plan. You’re…not going to get away with this,” she repeats herself, voice slurred.

“Oh, but, darling,” Thornhill— no, Laurel, coos viciously, “you won’t be alive to tell anybody.”

Laurel reels her foot back before her red boot crashes straight into Wednesday’s temple.

__

“Okay, okay, you’re just here to get your nail polish,” Enid mumbles to herself, trekking up the stairs towards her dorm room. “You are not here to see Wednesday, you’re not. You’re here for nail polish. Only nail polish.”

She pauses and buries her face in her hands, groaning. Not even she believes that.

So, what if she’s coming all the way back from Yoko’s dorm to see Wednesday? It wouldn’t matter to Wednesday anyways — she’s made it completely and certainly clear that Enid is nothing but replaceable, an invalid to her and her dumb little investigation. 

So, what if Enid couldn’t sit still in Yoko’s room because she was plagued with a sensation that demanded her to go see Wednesday, to check up on her. So, what if the feeling made her want to claw her own skin off because it felt like something was churning under it, screaming ‘Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Something’s wrong!’.

So—fucking—what.

It doesn’t matter, nothing about it matters because Wednesday has made it clear that she does not care and will never care. And Enid is fine with that—

(It is not fine.)

So, what she spent all that time trying to be this girl’s best friend? So, what if she thinks Wednesday’s, like, the prettiest girl she’s ever seen even if she does have murderous tendencies? None of it matters because nothing — not friendship, and especially not what Enid secretly yearns for — will be reciprocated because it’s, well, Wednesday, and Wednesday does not do feelings or anything remotely close to them.

And Enid is fine with this. Honestly.

(She is a liar.)

“Nail polish,” Enid mumbles to herself, starting back up the stairs. “Just nail polish. Grab it and go.”

But the closer she got, she slower she walks as something burns her nose from the other side of the door. It’s sharp and metallic and she smells a lot of iron in it. The stench makes her gag a little and she groans, knocking on the door. “Wednesday, you better not be torturing someone in there, or I will pass out again!”

She waits for a moment. No response.

“Seriously?” she mutters, scowling. And, then, louder, “Wednesday, I’m coming in!” She opens the door and steps inside and promptly almost slips on something red on her third step, wobbling and stabilizing herself, cursing under her breath. “Wednesday, what did I just say about torturing some—”

Her voice cuts off as she looks up, freezing in place. There is no torture scene that she thought she would walk into, there is no random person Wednesday has decided to take her ire upon. 

No, there is only Wednesday on the floor, bleeding out.

Enid makes a half shocked half horrified noise from the back of her throat and lunges forward, collapsing by her side. “Oh- oh my god,” she chokes out. “Holy shit, holy shit.” Her hands, shaking, hover over her frantically. “Wednesday? Hey, hey, Wends, open your eyes.”

She touches her cheek and Wednsesday’s head lols limply against her hold. There are nail indents along her cheeks, streaked in blood. Her face is paler than normal, making her almost ghostly white.

“Shit, shit,” Enid repeats, her breathing picking up. “What do I do? What do I do?” She checks her over, finding a pulse, and sees at least one stab wound on her, in her side, the flesh mangled and torn like whoever stabbed her had decided to twist the knife. “Oh god, okay.”

She presses her hand against the wound, trying not to think about Wednesday’s blood that seeps between her fingers, red and spilling over, splattering more on the floor. “Someone help!” she screams. “Help!”

Her voice echoes from the room and down the halls, probably waking up unsuspecting souls in the middle of the night. But she doesn’t stop because she doesn’t care, not about them, only about Wednesday, who could very well be close to dead.

“Someone, please, help!” Enid shouts as loud as she can and she hears footsteps running her way. “Please, someone help!”

Tears drip down her face, though she doesn’t realize it until they hit Wednesday’s face, tracing down her sharp cheekbones and hitting the ground. She forces herself to press harder against the stab wound, trying to stem some of the bleeding.

“Oh my god!” a voice gasps and Enid looks up, teary eyed to see Thornhill in the doorway, wide eyes locked onto the scene. “What happened?!”

“I— I don’t know,” Enid stammers. The blood is warm on her hands. “I just— I came back for nail polish and I— I saw her like this. I don’t— I don’t know.” Her voice is shrill, panicked, repeating the same words mindlessly. “Call the ambulance or something — fuck, I don’t know!”

Thornhill nods. “I’ll go get Weems, just hold on.”

She disappears.

Enid turns back towards Wednesday. “Please, wake up, okay? Just wake up,” she mumbles. She gasps, strangled and heaving. “You’re going to be okay. You— you have to be okay.”

It could be seconds, it could be hours, but Weems and Thornhill come back, the school’s nurses with them while they wait for the ambulance. Everybody is frantically talking, but Enid doesn’t look at them. She keeps her eyes on Wednesday, keeping pressure to her wound as she babbles at her, reassurances and pleads mixing together in slurred speech.

Eventually, someone tugs her away and she strikes out, screaming at them. She thinks she catches one of them with her claws because there’s a shout of pain before two more have to try and restrain her. 

It’s easy to toss them away because of her strength, snapping and snarling at them until Weems gets in front of her, grabbing her by her shoulders. “They have to help Wednesday now, okay?” she says and it’s oddly soft, but her eyes are stern. “You have to let them help her, or she could die.”

Enid blinks, trying to grasp back into her body. She doesn’t answer but she stops fighting, watching as more people — the doctors — flood into the room, picking Wednesday up, placing her on a cot, checking her vitals and calling out things Enid doesn’t understand.

But she does understand when they carry Wednesday out of the dorm room. She feels like she’s under water when she asks, “Where are they taking her?”

“To the closest hospital,” Weems says.

“I have to go with her,” Enid says, like it’s some holy epiphany. 

Weems grabs her by shoulder when she goes to follow them and she whirls on her, baring her teeth. She must look a mess — half feral like a rabid beast, fangs showing and blood on her hands. But Weems doesn’t say anything about that, instead, she says, “I’ll drive you.”

Enid relents, following after her.

She completely misses the darkly satsified look on Thornhill’s face.

__

She’s not allowed in the operating room even though she demands, shouts, rages, and then threatens them, before Weems pulls her away from the now scared lady at the desk, forcing her to sit in one of the plastic, uncomfortable chairs.

She zones in and out, floating like her body isn’t tethered to the ground. Enid thinks somewhere along the line Weems is talking to someone — they mention ‘in shock’ and Weems says ‘possible therapy’ — but she doesn’t pay them hardly any mind.

Her eyes stay locked onto her hands, stained red with Wednesday’s blood under her nails. Bits of the sleeves of her sweater is soaked with it, like it’s marked her clothes as a reminder of what’s happened. 

She suddenly lurches up from her chair and starts down the hallway towards the bathroom, passing the desk lady who cowers away from her. Weems lets her go, though her eyes burn the back of her head.

Enid reaches the bathroom, checks it, and then locks it. She turns on the facet, waiting for it to turn hot before she sticks her hands under it. The water is burning her skin raw, blood swirling down the drain, painting the sink pinkish. They’re shaking as she tries to get the blood from under her nails before she gives up and lets her hands sit under the water idly. She glances up and finds her reflection staring back.

She looks wild — blue eyes unfocused and skin pasty white like she’s seen a ghost. Her fangs are sharper than normal when she opens her mouth, scraping one roughly against her lower lip, watching as it rips a small opening along it.

‘Someone hurt Wednesday,’ her reflection says.

“I know,” Enid answers. Her voice is rough, unusual.

‘What are you going to do about it?’

Enid already knows and so does her reflection, who warps into a crooked smirk. Her blue eyes are ringed with bright amber, burning. 

‘Make them pay.’

Enid will.

__

Enid walks into Wednesday’s hospital room hours later. She sits down in a chair she drags close to her bedside, watching the dainty, frail movement of her chest as she breathes, telling herself that Wednesday is alive — she made it.

Her heart had stopped twice before they stabilized her properly. The doctors didn’t think she was going to make it since it was touch and go for a while. Some claimed that she shouldn’t have made it at all — that it was impossible, like something had soaked into Wednesday’s body and tried to heal her, giving them enough time to fix most of the damage done to her.

It had made Enid feel the familiar rage boil up her throat at the thought of how close someone had come to taking Wednesday away from her.

Enid reaches out and grabs her cold hand, running her thumb along the back of it. “I’m going to find who did this to you,” she murmurs lowly. “They’re going to regret it.”

I’m going to kill them.

She presses a kiss to Wednesday’s hand, sealing the promise.

__

They’re all taken into questioning. One by one they all go until it’s Enid turn and she finds herself in the police office, seated in a chair across the sheriff.

“Do you know of someone who would want to do this?” Sheriff Galpin asks, giving her a searching look.

Enid lets out a sob, shaking her head. “N— no, nobody,” she manages out. Tears run down her face, soaking her skin. “Wednesday is…different, but nobody would… how could someone do this?”

She hunches over with a cry, blubbering and sniffling.

“I…it’s going to be okay,” the sheriff says, awkward and hesitant. Enid knows he had never particularly cared for Wednesday or her family. Even if he is the head of the police force, she doesn’t completely mark him off the list of suspects she keeps track in her head. “We’ll find who did this and put them in jail.”

Enid blinks and contorts her face into a sad one, wiping at her tears. “Do— do you have any leads?” Her voice cracks pitifully.

Sheriff Galpin shakes his head. “No, not yet.”

She hides her disappointment, simply nodding. 

“We will fine them though,” he says strongly. “And justice will be served.”

Justice? Enid scoffs internally. No, whoever did this is past any mercy ‘justice’ can offer.

But she does not say any of this, simply crying.

After all, nobody would ever suspect the pathetic, sobbing case of a friend would commit a crime, especially sad, soft Enid Sinclair.

__

Enid goes back to her dorm room the next day after leaving Wednesday’s hospital room, slipping by everybody and under the bright yellow tape. Nobody is there and she looks around the destroyed room, Wednesday’s desk drawers on the floor, papers scattered still. The blood has dried on the floor and Enid walks around the stains to snoop everywhere, searching for something, anything.

She spends almost all of the time searching for a clue before she stops, gritting her teeth in anger. The stains catch her eye again and she turns towards them, frowning when she spots something that shouldn’t be there — footprints, like those of boots.

They’re too big for Wednesday’s size and Enid wasn’t wearing boots when she came across the scene yesterday. She slowly crouches down, not daring to touch the red prints along where Wednesday’s body had been sprawled out, squinting at them.

They’re a little bit of an odd pattern, some brand Enid isn’t familiar with, which is weird because she studies fashion religiously, and the back of them are clearly heeled, no scuff marks between, clearly at least an inch heeled sole.

So, if this footprint wasn’t Wednesday’s or Enid’s…

But, Enid thinks, more people came into this room. The doctors were close enough to step in the blood when helping Wednesday.

She makes an aggravated noise from the back of her throat, standing back up. “This is getting no where,” she grumbles.

“Enid, dear, what are you doing here?” a familiar voice asks and Enid startles, glancing up to see Thornhill standing in the doorway anxiously, staring at her with wide eyes. She looks around, swallowing nervously. “This is a crime scene, you shouldn’t be in here.”

“Sorry,” Enid says, making sure to keep her voice meek. “I didn’t…I just wanted to…it feels like a dream…”

Thornhill makes a face that seems sympathetic, nodding with her. “I know, it’s…crazy, huh?”  She laughs hollowly. It sounds odd. “Wednesday Addams, in the hospital…it’s insane, honestly.”

“Yeah,” Enid replies roughly. “Yeah, it’s been….” She trails off. She doesn’t really have the words she’s feeling. Horror? Terror? Shock? Anger? It all boils deep in her stomach, burning up her body like a sticky, sour substance that makes her itch at her skin, like something wants to burst out from under it. “…rough,” she settles on.

Thornhill nods again at her. “It’ll all be okay in the end, Enid,” she says, like she knows this is true. It still feels…off, though. Like the words aren’t really meant for her. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the hospital.”

Enid caves in, walking around the stains and ducking under the tape. They walk down the stairs and out into the hallway in silence. She expects the smell of blood to leave the further away from the dorm room they are, but it lingers. Enid frowns, looking at her sleeves, but, no, she’s changed shirts. She’s not wearing the sweater with the blood stained on it. 

She looks over herself, searching for anything, but it’s not coming from her.

It’s coming from Thornhill, who’s humming a melody under her voice, soft and quiet just for herself. Subconsciously, Enid’s eyes dip down to the ground where their feet are and she sees Thornhill’s wearing her usual bright red boots. Boots, that make her almost an inch taller than normal.

“Enid, are you okay, dear?”

Enid’s eyes snap back up, something ugly and dark festering in her chest. 

She smiles.

“I’m okay.”

They walk on.

__

It’s almost laughably easy to sneak into Thornhill’s office after night starts to approach, slow and creeping. She ducks in the shadows, dressed in one of Wednesday’s dark jackets she stole from the room when she went back once she made sure Thornhill wouldn’t catch her this time.

Enid almost hopes it’s not Thornhill, that her dorm mother didn’t just attempt to murder her roommate because she likes Thornhill, even if she is strange at times. Everybody likes Thornhill — she’s sweet, kind, and patient; the best teacher they’ve had in a long, long while at Nevermore. She is the perfect model citizen, meek but so, so nice.

And maybe that’s why it makes her the perfect suspect.

Because that’s what Enid’s doing, too, isn’t it? Enid Sinclair is bubbly and happy and sweet and a social butterfly that knows everybody’s names and greets everybody she can in the hallway between classes with a smile. 

She is the picture-perfect student.

And nobody would ever expect her to be at the end of the knife.

She searches the office up and down, tugging at floorboards and looking for any secret compartments. She eventually looks under the office seat, finds no wires or contraptions and props it back up, sitting in it. 

Enid digs through the desk drawers next, finding pencils, sticky notes, an empty journal, graded tests, homework, and even a stapler. She’s on the verge of giving up on the search, to go back to Square-One, before her fingertips run over something in the bottom right drawer. She frowns, brushing over it again before hooking her fingers into it, sliding it. 

There’s a small hidden space that was once covered up. There’s a knife, cleaned and polished, a jar of what looks like blood, and a stack of papers underneath it — documents and doctor’s reports of every strong Outcast in Nevermore. 

At that top is listed Tyler Galpin, but his is circled in red marker. Unpredictable, is written on the side as a note, but possibly manipulated. Can most likely be controlled if conditioned properly.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand and Enid scoffs a little. “You’re the monster, aren’t you?” she muses. “And Thornhill is your master. Of course.”

She flicks through the papers before she finds that stupid fucking book Wednesday had been pouring over for the past few days — the book with the picture of the fire, a vaguely Wednesday-shaped figure, and another strange person who looked weirdly like the statue of Joseph Crackstone that Wednesday — because, honestly, who else could it be? — burned down.

More and more she finds, papers and scribbles and rambling about resurrection. It speaks of magic using pieces of victims from the Hyde’s — Tyler’s — attacks on a Blood Moon, on how Thornhill was going to use Wednesday’s blood to bring back her ancestor from the dead to rid the world of all Outcasts, just like how he intended to do all those years ago.

Marilyn Thornhill is Laurel Gates and she had hurt Wednesday in the name of bringing back an ancestor to murder hundreds of innocent people.

She had stabbed Wednesday in the side and had fucking twisted the knife—

Enid slams the secret compartment closed after setting everything back in. She takes a deep breath to calm herself down, feeling the rage burning under her skin, boiling her blood. It makes her teeth grind together, fingers curling into her palms.

The honest thing would to go to the police, to confess what she found to Sheriff Galpin and have Laurel arrested for attempted murder, to have Tyler face justice that not even his father could save him from.

She really, really should.

It would be the sensible thing to do.

But Enid is past being sensible because Wednesday is in the fucking hospital because Laurel Gates could not let the dead stay dead.

And, maybe, if she’s so concerned about the dead, she should just fucking join them.

__

Enid ends back up at the Gates’ Manor. She travels back down to the basement using the stairs this time, putting a heavy lock on the only window in the room. She looks around the appendages jarred and ready to be put to use, feeling anticipation curl deep in her stomach.

The Blood Moon shifts high into the sky, overshadowing everything.

It shines through the window, painting the floor like blood. Everything else is completely dark. Not even the colorful, blood stained sweater Enid decided to wear can be visible without any light.

She sits down in a patchy chair in the corner, dust floating up from the sudden weight. Her eyes stay trained on the staircase of the basement — the only entrance and the only exit.

She waits.

Chapter Text

Laurel’s plan is coming to its conclusion. 

It had taken years for her to set every pon of the chessboard just right for her to rule over it without anybody knowing until it would be too late. She has Larissa fooled, her false identity here has earned her a safe spot to go about to touch up loose ends of her plan, and she even has her own personal monster in her back pocket for beck and call. 

She didn’t even have to hunt down an Addams for their blood to complete the ritual — Morticia and Gomez Addams had handed their daughter unknowingly right into her palms to use.

She knew how an Addams worked, she knew she had to keep Wednesday around long enough until the Blood Moon so she could have access to her blood when the time was right. It was almost too easy to keep her entertained — let Tyler hunt down a set of victims she needed to collect for the ritual anyways, and let Wednesday try and track down the mysterious shape-shifting monster. 

And it had all been going so well, too. 

Laurel had thought she would be facing the severed hand that seemed to follow Wednesday around like a faithful servant in the dorm room last night, but it turns out Tyler wasn’t competent enough to keep the Addams away from her dorm room long enough for her to ransack it for the book.

Wednesday had been there and Laurel had been forced to take swift precautions once she realized she had let Wednesday come a little too close to the answers of how the Gates family played into the much larger plan.

She hadn’t expected the girl to live, to be honest. 

The knife had punctured a bit of her lung when Laurel had stabbed her. Wednesday should have bled to death in her dorm room that night — she should have died and yet she had somehow lived.

The doctors had called it a miracle, like something otherworldly had wanted Wednesday Addams to live another day, to breathe another breath of life.

While this should have alarmed her, maybe even make her panic, it didn’t. Laurel knows that Wednesday now knows who she is, what she’s doing, but it would be too late to stop her, wouldn’t it? 

By the time Wednesday wakes up after her surgery, the entirety of Nevermore would be burned down, the Outcasts surrounding it would be dead, and finally the world would be purged of the disease that never should’ve existed in the first place.

There will only be humans, only Laurel Gates and only Joseph Crackstone.

Only the Gates family with their ancestors and those who would be willing to follow them into a pure, cleaned world.

Laurel hums a little under her breath as she thinks about it. Everything she’s worked for her entire life is now coming to its conclusion. Everything she had bled, pillaged, and murdered for is within her grasp — the resurrection of her ancestor will become a new era for the world and it will all be because of her.

She makes her way down the empty hallway, turning into her office. She closes the door behind her, locking it, and then makes her way to her desk, opening the right, bottom drawer and slid the secret compartment open.

She takes out the knife and the jar of blood, laying them out on her desk, eyeing them hungrily. 

Tonight’s the night, she thinks. Tonight is the beginning of a new world.

She grins.

__

Laurel steps into her family’s manor and closes the door behind her, taking in a deep breath. The old wood smell greets her like an old friend and she smiles briefly, walking down the hallway and towards the basement entrance. She pauses at the stairs, flicking the light switch.

It doesn’t come on.

She frowns, turning it off and then back on, but the light never flickers on. “Piece of shit.” Laurel mumbles, scowling. A busted bulb. Great.

She shrugs a little bit, keeping the entrance door open to let some light in so she won’t trip, taking the stairs down into the basement. The air is cold on her arms, prickling her skin. There’s a small sense of uneasy the further she walks into the room, like something’s watching her every move.

Laurel glances around warily. 

But there’s nothing.

She walks to the shelves where the appendages are jarred, reaching out to take one. Her fingertips barely skim over the glass before a loud clatter makes her turn around. She squints into the darkness. “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Laurel reaches into her pocket for her knife, heart pounding, before there’s the sound of rushing footsteps. They’re fast, too fast, and a force knocks into her, sending her to the ground. 

There’s primal fear that surges up her throat. There is something in here that will kill her.

She doesn’t know how she knows, doesn’t even know what it is, but her body moves before her brain can even catch up, pushing herself from the ground and rushing for the stairs. 

A hand snags around her ankle, yanking her backwards harshly. She hits the floor again. Hard.

Laurel lets out a shout as her teeth crash against her tongue, biting it. Blood fills her mouth and she spits it out, dangling from her lips. Her glasses are knocked halfway off her face, nearly falling off the bridge of her nose. 

A shadow moves, fast, to the stairs. The door — the only way in and the only way out — slams shut. There’s a loud click of a lock sliding into place.

Her heart drops. 

“Who are you?!” Laurel demands. Her arms shake as she pushes herself up again. Her chin burns from where it smacked against the ground. Blood drips down the wound on it and slides along the front of her neck. “What do you want?!”

There’s silence. There are no footsteps. Only Laurel’s ragged breath, panicked little gasps.

She waits until it feels like she might actually pass out, the fear that clouds her mind and paralyzes her body. A cold sweat runs, mixing with the blood on her neck and chin, dripping into her lashes.

“Who the fuck are you?!” Laurel shouts. Her hands shake, unable to stand the silence anymore.

“You can scream all you want,” says a voice, low and raspy from across the room. “Nobody is going to help you. I made sure of it.”

Laurel turns around. Amber eyes, shining bright, bright, bright peers from darkness. There’s a shriek of claws against the wall and a wide, fanged grin flashes, just barely visible.

“I hope you know,” the monster says lightly, “that killing you won’t make me lose a wink of sleep tonight.”

Laurel takes a step backwards. The thing takes a step forwards. 

“What do you want?” she chokes out. 

“Vengeance.”

The monster lunges and Laurel grabs the knife from her belt loop, slashing out with it. The thing dodges, wrapping a surprisingly warm hand around her wrist before twisting it. Laurel screams as a crack echoes. The knife drops from her hand as it goes limp. 

“Good try,” the voice laughs, deranged and wild. “But not good enough.”

A foot hits her sternum, making her slam against the floor. The air is knocked from her lungs, leaving her breathless. Laurel gasps, struggling as she looks up, those haunting amber eyes staring back at her, steadily, bloodlust shining in them.

The monster just stares at her for a long moment. “…Did you really think I wouldn’t find out eventually?” it whispers softly, suddenly.

Laurel grasps to figure out why that voice is so familiar. “What?”

“I know what you did,” the monster comments offhandedly, though its voice wavers with barely concealed anger. “I know you attacked Wednesday. I know it was you that hurt her.”

Laurel frowns. “…Enid?”

The monster leans in close. Enid’s face is clear to her now, though it’s almost unfamiliar. Her amber eyes — usually blue — are bright, allowing her to see the sharp fangs that flash whenever she opens her mouth. Her hair is tied back and she’s wearing that same sweater she wore yesterday. It’s stained at the sleeves with Wednesday’s blood.

Enid looks at her, quietly contemplative. “You know,” she starts, soft, “I liked you, Thornhill. You were always really nice to me. I thought we were friends.”

“We were— we are friends, Enid,” Laurel grasps onto the words, desperate. “Help me up. We can pretend this never happened.”

“I know about your plan,” Enid replies, unnatural eyes unnerving, like she’s staring straight into her soul and picking it apart. “I know about everything.”

“But you’re not like the others, Enid,” Laurel says, trying to seem warm. “You’re different. We can rule together, you and me. We can raise my ancestor. Don’t you want revenge on them? After everything they’ve done to you? Every mean word they’ve said to you? Don’t you want to watch them suffer?”

Enid blinks slowly. She seems to be contemplating it. Laurel watches eagerly. “What about Tyler?” she asks.

“What about him?” Laurel says right back. “He served his purpose. I don’t need him anymore.”

Enid hums. She leans away, staring down at her. “There’s only one bad thing about it.”

“What’s that?”

Amber eyes flash, rage in them. She stomps on her leg and Laurel screams as her bones buckle under the force. Enid watches, unfazed. “You tried to kill Wednesday.”

Laurel gasps, tears streaming down her face. “She doesn’t matter. Not anymore. It’s about us and a new world, Enid.”

“You’re wrong,” she growls. “She’s the only thing that matters.”

“Enid, please—”

“All of the pain that you caused Wednesday, you’ll feel three times as much,” Enid says, voice low and dark. “You’re going to suffer here and you’re going to die here alone.”

Laurel looks around, desperate for some kind of escape, for someone to help her. But she knows, deep down—

“Nobody is going to save you, just like nobody was able to save Wednesday from her pain.”

—there is no escape.

__

Enid finishes pouring the last bit of gasoline, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She tosses away the can, letting it clatter back in the house. She takes out a box of matches and lights one.

The flame flickers in the night, as bright as her eyes.

She tosses it forward without hesitation. She watches as the gasoline catches fire, the house going up into flames. She stares at it for a long while. Blood from her hands drip onto the grass below her.

Enid takes a deep breath and tilts her head backwards. She looks up at the Blood Moon. It shines down on her, like it’s congraduating her on a job well done.

Thornhill’s muffled screams echo in her ears.

__

Enid walks into the hospital, fresh from her shower, hair still slightly damp. She’s in a new sweater, soft on her skin. She walks up to the desk lady, who blanches at the sight of her, remembering her earlier outbursts from yesterday.

“I’m here to see Wednesday Addams,” Enid says calmly.

The woman squeaks. “I’m sorry, Miss, but her family is—”

“Enid Sinclair.”

Enid turns and finds Morticia Addams stepping out of Wednesday’s room. She’s tall, towering over her and dressed to perfection, even though it’s the middle of the night. She looks a little haggard, but she smiles when Enid looks at her.

“My daughter will be pleased to see you,” Morticia says and her eyes are staring at her like she can see through her. She looks at her like she already knows everything that Enid’s done. “Please, come in.”

Enid doesn’t give the desk lady another glance as she strollls forward. “Mrs. Addams,” she greets politely.

“Oh, none of that nonsense, dear,” Morticia waves off. “Please, call me Morticia.”

“I— okay, Mrs— uh, Morticia,” Enid stammers a little bit, smiling awkwardly as Morticia laughs, a small sound behind her hand. 

Morticia steps back inside and Enid follows her, entering the hospital room. Wednesday is awake and laying on the bed, looking like she wants to be anywhere but here. She scowls at her brother when he tries to poke her stitched up stab wound, grabbing his finger and twisting it backwards until he pleads mercy and she lets him go after a moment of watching him squirm, satisfied.

Gomez chuckles and pats his son on the back as Pugsley pouts at him, shaking out his hand. “Now, now, son, you know better than to mess with your sister’s stitches unless you want to get maimed.”

“I just wanted to feel them!” Pugsley whines. “They’re so sloppy.”

“Unfortunately, I must agree with him,” Wednesday drawls, frowning down at her side. “The stitches are mediocre at best. I could do better with both of my eyes gouged out.”

“How about we don’t talk about you getting your eyes gouged out while you’re currently in the hospital?” Enid suggests. 

They all look over at her and Wednesday’s face softens a fraction. “Enid.”

Enid smiles. “Wednesday.”

“Ah, my little storm cloud, it’s your cute werewolf roommate,” Gomez jests, like he’s repeating words that have been said.

Enid flushes and Wednesday whirls on her father, glaring at him murderously. “Nobody will ever find your body,” she hisses.

Gomez simply laughs, not the least bit threatened.

“Come on, my dears, let’s give Wednesday and Enid their space,” Morticia coos. Gomez instantly follows her directions, shooting a lovesick look at his wife as he goes, Pugsley whining as he trots off after his father. Morticia sends one last knowing smile Enid’s way before walking out with them, closing the door with a click.

Enid turns back towards Wednesday, who stares right back, eyes dark. “Wednesday,” Enid whispers, taking cautious steps forward until she’s by her bedside. She reaches out before her hand pauses, hovering on Wednesday’s. She looks at her, desperate. “May I?”

Wednesday pauses but then nods slowly. Enid settles her hand over hers before moving them so she’s simply holding it. Wednesday stares down at their joined hands, something odd in her eyes before she glances back up at her. “Enid…”

“Wednesday,” Enid chokes out. “I…I’m…” She squeezes her eyes shut, a tremble racing over her shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Enid.”

“I was so scared,” Enid manages. She grips Wednesday’s hand tightly in hers. She blinks and she’s not surprised when her vision is blurry with tears when she opens her eyes. “I thought you were dead.”

Wednesday tightens her own hand in response, holding back in response. “It was Thornhill. She’s Laurel Gates. She’s going to use my blood to resurrect Crackstone. He’s her ancestor—”

“I know,” Enid stresses. Her teeth grit together. “I know.”

Wednesday’s eyes widen, only slightly. “You…know?”

“I—” She laughs a little, feeling something bitter and angry bubble up her throat. “I figured it out. After you were attacked, I— I went looking for who did it.”

“We have to stop her,” Wednesday says.

Enid shakes her head. “No, we don’t.”

“Enid, she’s—”

“She’s dead, Wednesday,” Enid bursts out. She locks eyes with her, watching as Wednesday goes very, very still. “She’s dead.”

Wednesday looks at her like she’s staring at her for the first time, taking in the large ring of amber in her eyes that nearly overtakes her blue and the sharpness of her fangs that flash when she talks. “Oh.”

“I waited until she went back to the Manor to get the rest of her ritual ingredients,” Enid spits out, voice rapid. “I wore the sweater I found you in, I—”

She brings up her other hand, encasing Wednesday’s between her own as she leans forward.

“I wore that sweater for you,” Enid explains, eyes wild as she looks at Wednesday. “It was stained in your blood. Even though you weren’t there, a part of you was. A part of you was right next to me while I watched Thornhill take her last pathetic breath until the life died from behind her eyes.”

Wednesday’s eyes grow darker the more she talks, lips curling up and up and up the longer she rambles. It’s there that Enid sees it — that similar dark, festering thing that makes her want to climb into Wednesday’s skin until nobody could ever tell them apart; the desire to possess the one you love so wholly and deeply that you are almost one person.

And it’s reflected back in Wednesday’s eyes.

“I did it all for you,” Enid breathes out, chest heaving, dizzy from the way Wednesday’s looking at her. “Every scream, every drop of blood…it was all for you. Every bit of Thornhill’s suffering was for you, because of what she did to you.”

There’s only the sound of Enid’s strangled breathes in the air.

Wednesday shifts, dark eyes staring at her. “Sinclair,” she starts, voice low as she brings up the hand Enid isn’t holding, settling it against Enid’s cheek, “is this a…love confession?”

Enid leans into her touch. “Depends,” she murmurs, calming down from her earlier rant, “Are you interested?”

“Perhaps,” Wednesday murmurs darkly, eyeing her lip hungrily. 

Enid leans forward until they’re close enough their breaths fan against their skin. She hesitates, only for a second, until Wednesday nods a small movement and she crashes their lips together. Her hands slide away from Wednesday’s instead to brace herself against the hospital bed at Wednesday’s sides, keeping herself up.

Wednesday reaches up to wrap her arms around her neck, yanking her forward to keep her close. Enid lets her, sinking into her as it feels like fire is rushing through her veins. 

Wednesday bites down her lip, tugging at it, destroying the scab that was healing the wound left by Enid’s fangs from when she ran one across it. Enid snarls into the kiss, iron sour in her mouth and her fingers curl into the sheets by Wednesday’s sides — if she was coherent enough, she’d worry about accidentally shredding the flimsy mattress of the hospital cot if her claws were to make a show.

Black painted nails dig slightly too hard into the back of Enid’s neck, tracing at the top of her shoulder blades before scratching down to settle at the base of her throat, making Enid groan, hissing between her teeth. 

Suddenly, a strangled noise slips from Wednesday’s lips and she leans backwards, face flushed and eyes dark. She slides her hands to Enid’s shoulders, planting them there. “Curse this insipid wound,” she growls, glaring down at her side.

Enid catches her breath and laughs a little at her expression. “So,” she says lightly, “considering you want to keep kissing me, this means you like me back, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Wednesday deadpans, eyes sliding back to her. “My stony, black heart only beats for you now. It is yours to do as you wish.”

“Well,” Enid whispers, bringing one hand up to cup Wednesday’s cheek, “what if I want to keep it for myself forever?”

Wednesday’s breath hitches ever so slightly. “Then, it will be yours forever.”

I will be yours forever.

She plants a gentle kiss to Wednesday’s cheek, lingering there for a moment, “There’s still one last thing we need to do.”

“What’s that, mon chiot?” Wednesday murmurs, dark eyes fixed on her as Enid leans back.

“Tyler’s still on the loose.” Enid smiles, fangs sharp. “What do you feel about monster hunting?”

Wednesday’s answering smirk is nothing less of cruel.