Chapter Text
The moment Wednesday falls back on her arm, she knows she’s made a grievous error. It stretches behind her, and when she falls back on it, there’s a nauseating crunch (the bad kind of nauseating) and a shot of pain straight up her arm and shoulder.
Pain rarely takes her by surprise, but she –and the surrounding fencing team– are all equally surprised by her shout.
Bianca lowers the blade she had pointed at Wednesday’s neck and drops her saber. “Shit, that sounded bad.”
“I’m fine,” Wednesday grinds out through gritted teeth. She isn’t, of course. A tingling numbness has taken over where pain once was, and when she tries to move her fingers, she can’t feel them.
“The fuck you are.” Bianca extends her hand and cuts Wednesday off before she can say anything. “Just take the help, Addams.”
She does, begrudgingly, and only because the searing in her wrist –and it appears to be localized to the wrist– is making her dizzy. Bianca walks her to the nurse’s office, and if it wasn’t embarrassing enough to be handled with kid gloves, Weems makes a personal appearance to bring her to the emergency room. It’s blindingly white, horrifically loud, and Wednesday fights to focus under flickering fluorescence.
Three hours and several x-rays later, she leaves with a splint and instructions to return in a few days for a cast once the swelling goes down. It’s bright white, and she already hates it.
She expects Enid to be asleep, but the door flies open before Wednesday even reaches it and she’s met with the most concerned expression. Thing signs ‘You okay?’ from Enid’s shoulder, and Wednesday nods as her overly-bubbly roommate ushers her inside.
“Bianca texted me,” Enid starts, holding her hand out to take Wednesday’s bag.
The gesture hangs in the air between them as Wednesday brushes past her to carry out her nightly routine. She’s tired and annoyed, and she can’t even use her typewriter to vent some steam into Viper because she can’t write like this. Not without pecking the keys like a sad chicken, and that’s just going to frustrate her more. And she doesn’t want to lash out at Enid, who’s done nothing wrong except be annoyingly cheerful and colorful.
If she’s grown softer since the end of the semester, nobody would dare tell her so.
“Do you need any help?” Enid asks, softer this time. Wednesday doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s hovering just beyond the line drawn down the center of their room. The tape never went back up, but Enid still respects that Wednesday’s side was hers, and it’s something she genuinely appreciates.
If there’s anything Wednesday truly hates in this world, it is the feeling of weakness. “No.”
Enid snorts, an undignified sound that nonetheless catches Wednesday’s attention for the briefest of moments. “Okay, Bear Grylls,” Enid scoffs, and Wednesday has no idea who that is but she knows it’s a light jab at her fierce independence.
Footsteps fade as Enid retreats across the room, but Wednesday still has the distinct feeling of being watched.
Everything is harder minus one hand. Moving items takes more thought, and she instinctively tries to flex her injured hand more times than she cares to count. She hasn’t had a chance to change and is still in her fencing clothes, which luckily, are loose. The splint is narrow enough that she slips her sleeves over it and manages to shimmy out of her pants with little difficulty.
Unfortunately, she has far less luck with her bra. And sleeping in it would be a sensory nightmare that she is not willing to compromise on. Especially not with the throbbing in her wrist, which could almost be pleasant if it weren’t so annoying.
She lets out a breath, already wildly uncomfortable with what she’s about to ask.
“Enid.”
Enid’s “Hm?” is far too chirpy for her liking.
“I may have… underestimated… my need for assistance,” Wednesday manages. “One hand is not enough to undo the clasp.”
“Oh,” Enid says, and then quickly follows with, “Oh, yeah, of course. Gimme like two seconds to finish Thing’s nail.”
She waits, impatiently, and is so wrapped in her own seething thoughts over how inane a mistake this was that lead to such a ridiculous injury that she doesn’t hear Enid approach until fingers graze her back. The sudden touch startles her and she arches away so dramatically that it takes them both by surprise.
Enid sighs, and Wednesday glances over her shoulder at her. She doesn’t look dejected, exactly, but she does look slightly annoyed. “You asked me for help.”
“I am aware,” Wednesday snaps, and a beat later, “Apologies. You startled me.”
“I never startle you.”
“I was engrossed in thought.”
“Huh.” The air feels thick, and for a moment, Wednesday considers just sending Enid back to her side and sleeping in uncomfortable undergarments. “Okay, well, you know I’m here now. Just… hold still. It’ll take like two seconds.”
Wednesday fights every instinct in her body to bolt, but it is less alarming now that she’s expecting it. Enid’s hands are so warm, and even if she struggles with the three clasps a little –muttering about her claws the whole way—she does eventually get it.
She sucks in a breath that she probably thinks Wednesday doesn’t notice and steps back. “There.”
It brings new feelings to the surface. Feelings that are too light and fluttery for Wednesday’s liking, feelings she can’t sink comfortably into the way that she does with anger and sadness and violence. “Thank you,” escapes her before she can stop it, and she’s surprise by how soft it is.
Enid retreats again, and when Wednesday pulls an oversized sweatshirt over the splint, she considers asking Enid to brush out her hair for her.
Her spine tingles, and she brushes the idea aside. No more of that.
She sleeps with her hair in braids that night, and tries to ignore the fluttering feeling in her stomach.