Chapter Text
Of course, it was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that Wednesday and Sinclair were locked in some kind of cold war.
Though with those two, 'war' is probably too strong a word, I mused, leaning against my locker.
It's more like a glacial standoff, with Enid trying to melt it with sunshine and Wednesday… well, being Wednesday.
The blonde was a constant, agitated blur, flitting from one end of the campus to the other, always enveloped by her precious pack and that new boyfriend of hers, a buffer against the chill emanating from their room.
In response, Wednesday’s… delegation… had reached a new level of intensity. She began assigning me multiple missions at once, her efficiency turning utterly ruthless.
She’d corner me by the Nightshades library, her voice a low monotone, and with that flat, piercing stare that sees right through your skull, she’d say, “You are sufficiently naive and eager to please to handle both tasks before nightfall.”
Naive and eager to please.
The words echoed in my head long after she’d swept away.
I couldn't quite decipher her tone.
Was it a sliver of pity for my transparent need to be useful?
Or a shred of admiration for my competence?
Knowing her, it's a simple, factual statement. A assessment of a tool's usability.
And yet, I found myself turning it over and over.
I suppose earning a genuine compliment from Wednesday Addams is a far more arduous achievement than I had initially imagined.
It would be like extracting a confession of love from a stone.
Yet, infuriatingly, Enid Sinclair made it look effortless.
She’d get a curt “Your aim is adequate” after a fencing match and beam as if she’d been awarded a medal.
It's not as if Wednesday is the type to give you a pat on the back and a beaming smile for successfully infiltrating the principal's office for the fifth time in a single week.
You’re more likely to get a list of everything you did wrong.
But I’d noticed it—the subtle shift.
Whenever she spoke of her roommate, her voice would adopt a different quality.
Not warm, never warm, but a marginally softer, almost tolerant tone.
It was as if she felt the need to temper her characteristically sharp remarks about the blonde or the latest chaos caused by the pack's boisterous invasion of their shared room.
A curious phenomenon.
The Addams allergy to sentiment, fighting a losing battle against Sinclair's relentless friendship.
Sighing, I decided to seek out the source of the frost.
I made my way down the long, dimly lit corridor, finding Wednesday’s dorm room with ease.
It wasn’t just because I spent most of my free time here; the door itself was a dead giveaway.
While other doors were plain and foreboding, theirs was a chaotic, vibrant collage of a truce.
Taped haphazardly across the dark wood were drawings—some small, some large, covered in crayon scribbles that depicted not only a stoic, frowning Wednesday but a beaming, colorful Enid, often with glitter pens.
A soft smile touched my lips as I reached out and carefully peeled one corner of a particular drawing loose. It was a simple sketch of the two of them holding hands, Enid’s cheerful stick figure next to Wednesday’s decidedly more grim one, complete with a tiny noose doodled next to her head.
My index finger traced over Sinclair’s trademark clawed, mitten-like hands.
She always remembers the details, I thought with a quiet chuckle.
The drawing was too endearingly funny to leave vulnerable in the hallway.
With the care of a art thief, I folded the precious paper and tucked it safely into the inner pocket of my blue jacket.
Blackmail material, or a future peace offering. Depending on how this goes.
Just as I raised a clenched fist to knock—a strict rule enforced by Wednesday, who was perpetually annoyed whenever I materialized inside without her explicit awareness—the door suddenly flew open with violent force.
It wasn't just opened; it was hurled inward, as if the person on the other side had put far more angry strength into the action than necessary.
Enid Sinclair burst out of the room like a shot, her face flushed and her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.
She was muttering under her breath, a low, furious stream of words that was utterly uncharacteristic for the sunny werewolf I’d spent so much time observing. “…and she can just… ugh!… with her stupid… typewriter!” she growled to herself, not even seeing me.
Before the door could swing shut, I let my invisibility drop and smoothly stepped into the doorway, a playful smirk already gracing my features. “Well, someone’s got their claws out.”
Wednesday didn’t bother to answer or even look up, but I stepped into the bicolor room anyway.
The stark divide was more pronounced than ever: Enid’s side was a riot of pastel pinks and blues, adorned with glossy K-pop posters whose members smiled with unnerving cheerfulness.
Her clothing drawer was yanked wide open, a clear sign of a hasty and frustrated search, and her laptop sat dark and abandoned on the corner of her desk.
“Someone didn’t seem very happy,” I remarked, a note of amusement in my voice as I made myself at home on the edge of Enid’s bed—the lack of seating options being a permanent feature of the room.
Not that Sinclair would ever discover my trespass; she’d probably just burn the bedsheets if she found out, or something equally dramatic.
Or she'd just cry, which would be worse.
Wednesday continued her relentless assault on the typewriter keys, the sharp clack-clack-clack filling the tense silence as her only reply. Tap-tap-tap-CLACK. Tap-CLACK.
It was aggressive. Punishing.
I shifted on the bed, pushing aside the ridiculous giant teddy bear to get a better look at her.
Her silence was unnerving.
I’d rather be met with a string of cutting remarks than this utter quiet; it felt… punitive.
It made me feel foolish, like a child being ignored for a misdeed she didn’t understand.
Just ask, Agnes. Dive in. “So… what did you do?”
“She will recover after sharing salivary fluids with Yuson at today’s fencing practice,” Wednesday stated flatly, finally breaking her silence.
She still didn’t turn around, the words delivered with her trademark clinical indifference.
As if she were diagnosing a minor infection.
“What is the agenda for today?”
Of course I couldn't help but ask with bubbling excitement.
She was the one who call for me (not literally).
That alone meant it was either critically important or deliciously dangerous.
Frankly, both options suited me perfectly.
“I’m assuming it’s more exciting than babysitting a lovesick werewolf?”
“Just ensure Enid makes it back to our room after her dance practice. I have other matters to attend to,” she stated, her voice devoid of any urgency, as if she’d asked me to pass the salt.
This time, I rose fully from the bed, my confusion growing as I noticed even Thing preparing to depart, skittering up to perch on Wednesday's shoulder like a bizarre, five-eyed parrot ready for a mission.
“Wait, what? Her wolf-boy boyfriend will be with her. He can walk her back,” I complained, but my protest died in my throat as Wednesday's gaze hardened into obsidian. I swallowed hard. Wrong thing to say. She doesn’t want him to. “I mean... I can help you with your other—“
Wednesday cut me off by fixing her inscrutable stare on me for several long seconds before shifting her eyes slightly toward Thing on her shoulder.
“Thing will be tasked with surveilling Enid. Your assistance is not required. You are free to leave if you wish.”
A pang of panic shot through me.
No.
Don’t cut me out.
“No!” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly, terrified of being dismissed entirely. “I’ll do it. I’ll make sure she gets back.”
Please, just give me the mission. Let me be useful.
Wednesday merely arched her eyebrows and gave a slow, deliberate blink, as if she were a predator sizing up a curiously persistent insect.
Without another word, she turned and vanished through the doorway, much as Enid had minutes before, though with a chilling calm that was entirely her own.
I was left alone in the silent, divided room.
Well then, I thought, a new determination settling over me.
Time to go on wolf-sitting duty.
______________
I was languishing in a pool of utter boredom, drowning in the dim, dusty air at the very back of the school's theater.
If this is what supporting friends looks like, I’d rather be dissecting roadkill with Wednesday, I thought, slumping lower in the velveteen seat.
From my shadowed perch in the last row, I had a perfect, pathetic view of Enid and her wolf-boy boyfriend fumbling through the opening sequence of their dance for what felt like the hundredth time.
He stepped on her foot—again—and a muffled “oof” echoed in the cavernous space.
But then, a flicker of interest.
It wasn’t him.
It was her.
Sinclair.
She moved her arms not with his clumsy enthusiasm, but with a surprising, sharp precision. Each step landed with a clean, certain finality that his lumbering gait completely lacked.
Well, well, Sinclair, I mused, my boredom momentarily shelved.
A cynical, knowing smile touched my lips. I knew that posture, that specific tension in the shoulders that screamed of corrected form.
I could recognize the ghost of formal training in her muscle memory—the clean lines, the painfully controlled extensions. It was a language I was forced to fluency in.
Years, wasted in a mirrored ballet studio, forced into a pristine white leotard by a mother who saw grace as just another battlefield obligation, another weapon to be honed, had given me a mercilessly keen eye for it.
“Posture, Agnes! A future leader does not slouch. A queen is always performance-ready.”
My mother had promised me I would never abandon ballet once I mastered it.
That its discipline would be my foundation.
But then, she promised many things—most of which turned out to be as substantial as smoke.
_____________
The lovebirds finally wrapped up their practice, lingering on the stage for a few final, murmured words.
Enid seemed… confused, a slight frown creasing her forehead as she waved a half-hearted goodbye to the boy.
He practically fled, taking the stairs two at a time before vanishing through the main door into the evening.
Left alone, Enid gathered her things with a quiet sigh and began her slow trudge back to Ophelia Hall, her eyes glued to her phone screen, scrolling absently.
Perfect.
Seizing the opportunity, I slipped past her, my movements silent and swift.
I moved like a shadow ahead of her, a ghost in the hallway, reaching their dorm door long before she did. I positioned myself just beside it, melting into a dark alcove.
Every few seconds, I’d peek down the corridor, a silent guardian ensuring the puppy made it back in one piece.
Wednesday would never forgive me if something happened to her on my watch.
She finally rounded the corner, her steps slow and heavy with whatever was weighing on her mind.
Just as she was one step away from fumbling for her key, she stopped dead.
Her head lifted, and she sniffed the air once, then twice, her nostrils flaring.
She let out a long, exasperated sigh.
"You can come out now, you know! I can smell you, you little devil!" she announced to the empty hallway, swatting a hand in the general direction of my alcove as if she could bat me out of hiding.
A new development.
A slow, impressed smile spread across my face.
I’d clearly underestimated her.
The thought was both startling and intriguing.
Of course, I chided myself mentally. She’s a werewolf, you fool. Their sense of smell is their entire thing.
So much for being stealthy.
"Wow, someone's senses are sharp today, little wolf," I said, pouring every ounce of forced cheer I could muster into my voice.
Yet, despite my best efforts, my words seemed to have the opposite effect.
A clear, unmistakable look of disgust flashed across Enid's features.
It was a strange sight to behold, especially while I was still invisible.
I can't even see myself, but I can see her distaste for me.
How fitting.
I once overheard one of Enid's countless friends whisper that I was probably the first person who could ever actually get a genuine scowl out of Enid Sinclair.
That particular comment had been stuck in my brain for an embarrassingly long time, a twisted little badge of honor.
"Get lost, Agnes. Wednesday's not here," she snapped, trying to shoulder past the empty air I occupied.
Her attempt to escape the conversation only fueled my desire to prolong it.
There's a certain thrill in poking the one bear in this school that's supposedly all cuddles.
"I know," I purred, finally letting my invisibility drop. I leaned casually against the stone wall beside her door. "She tells me things, you know..." I let the comment hang in the air, a deliberate, tantalizing hook.
Enid just rolled her eyes, but unlike Wednesday's cold, dismissive rolls, Enid's were always accompanied by an unconscious, childish pout on her lips.
It's almost adorable.
I suppose picking a fight with her brings me a certain kind of perverse entertainment.
Or maybe, just maybe, a tiny, hidden part of me is still desperately trying to earn the approval of the one girl in this entire academy who somehow finds a way to love even the most unlovable of teachers—and roommates.
"If she's not the reason you're here, then what do you want?" Her tone was marginally softer now, more weary than outright hostile.
Her blue eyes scanned me, searching for a clue, some hidden motive etched on my face. The intensity of her scrutiny was almost amusing.
"I don't know," I shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with a practiced nonchalance. "Maybe I just wanted to visit you."
I poured every ounce of sarcasm I could muster into the words, layering them with a thick, false sweetness that I knew would get under her skin.
It worked.
Enid's face scrunched up in a fresh wave of irritation, her nose wrinkling.
"Ugh, I don't have the energy to fight with you today, you crazy girl," she huffed, and before I could volley back another retort, she’d shoved the door open, slipped inside, and slammed it shut in my face, leaving me standing speechless in the empty corridor.
The bluntness of it was almost impressive.
'Crazy girl'?
That was the best she could do? She was truly, pathetically bad at crafting hurtful nicknames.
I suppose that even in her hatred—or more likely, her profound annoyance—she was simply incapable of mustering a truly cruel insult.
Or perhaps, a quieter, more unsettling thought whispered, I just wasn't worth the effort.
Maybe fighting with me, and even thinking up a proper cutting name for me, wasn't even worth her time.
With nothing else to occupy my time—or, as Enid would so charitably put it, no one else to bother—a profound listlessness settled over me.
The brief, sparkling thrill of the confrontation had evaporated, leaving behind the dull residue of another endless Nevermore afternoon.
I turned and made the solitary trek back to my own room, the echo of my footsteps the only company in the deserted corridor.
Pushing the door open, I was met by a silence so complete it felt like a physical presence.
It was the kind of quiet that amplified every faint creak of the old building and every rustle of my own jacket.
Well, that was the most entertaining part of the day, I thought, the words echoing hollowly in the stillness.
And now it's over.
The excitement, the brief connection, even the irritation—it had all been outside these four walls.
Now, it was time to retreat back into my.. own world.