#wenclairfic

“I’m fine,” she rasped. A lie so transparent Wednesday refused to dignify it with response.

Instead, she guided Enid into the chair by the desk, retrieving her medical kit from its place beside her violin case. It was odd, one instrument to mend the body, one to soothe the mind. however , Wednesday had long since accepted her attraction for contradiction.

The buttons of Enid’s torn blouse resisted at first, gummed together with blood. Wednesday’s fingers worked them open one by one with clinical efficiency, though the heat beneath her skin reminded her she was dismantling far more than fabric. Enid flinched when cotton peeled back from the wound.

“Hold still,” Wednesday instructed. Her tone carried the same sharp edge she might use with Eugene when he fumbled a hive frame, but softer beneath it, tempered for Enid alone.

She cleaned the wound with iodine. Enid hissed. A sound equal parts pain and defiance, and for reasons unfathomable, Wednesday found herself cataloguing it alongside Enid’s laugh, Enid’s whines, Enid’s ceaseless chatter.

The first stitch went in clean. Wednesday’s hands were steady, she had never been anything less. Thread pulled skin together in a neat, uncompromising line.

“You do this a lot?” Enid asked, voice watery but curious.

“More than you would expect,” Wednesday replied. “Less than I would like.”

Enid managed a laugh, weak but real. The sound vibrated in Wednesday’s chest like a dissonant chord. She found herself irrationally relieved when it did not stop.

When the last stitch was tied, Wednesday pressed gauze into place and taped it down. “You will shower,” she said. “Now. Your current state is unsanitary.”

Enid blinked at her, then nodded. Compliance, though exhaustion had stripped her of her usual bite. She swayed when she tried to rise. Wednesday was there instantly, her hand braced against Enid’s back, guiding her toward the bathroom.

Steam curled around them, rising thick enough to blur the mirror. Enid stood clutching the towel as if it were armor, her shoulders hunched forward. For once, she wasn’t babbling. Her silence told Wednesday more than words ever could.

Her voice fractured. “I don’t look good.”

Wednesday tilted her head. The observation struck her as absurd. Enid was covered in bruises and half-healed claw marks, yes, but the wolf wore her wounds as evidence of survival. Wednesday found them honest. “You are alive,” she said. “That is sufficient.”

Enid laughed weakly, but she still twisted the towel tighter around herself, knuckles blanching. Wednesday’s gaze lingered, not on the exposed skin, but on the way Enid’s hands shook. She recognized the gesture for what it was: shame, misplaced and corrosive.

“Turn around,” Wednesday ordered, tone flat but not cruel. When Enid obeyed, hesitant, Wednesday took the cloth and began with her back, scrubbing away blood in careful, measured strokes. She kept her eyes on the task, not the body. To look too long might have humiliated Enid further, and Wednesday—though she loathed to admit it—found the thought intolerable.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” she said finally. “Nudity is biology. Biology is clinical.” A beat passed. “I don’t see you as diminished.

The wolf let out a shaky breath. Some of the tension bled from her shoulders.

Enid shivered as hot water sluiced over her. Blood spiraled down the drain in pink rivulets, diluted but insistent. Wednesday rolled up her sleeves further and again took the cloth in hand, scrubbing gently along Enid’s spine, over her shoulders, down her arms.

When the grime had lifted and only raw skin remained, she shut off the tap. Steam clung to them, curling Enid’s hair in damp golden ropes that stuck to her cheeks. Without hesitation, Wednesday wrapped her in a towel, tucking the edges with soldier’s precision.

“Lift your arms,” Wednesday instructed. Enid obeyed, pliant with fatigue, as Wednesday guided her into the waiting flannel top. Buttons slipped easily into place beneath deft fingers. Wednesday smoothed the collar down, then maneuvered Enid’s legs into the soft bottoms, pulling the fabric carefully over bruised knees.

By the time she had settled Enid against the mattress, the wolf’s eyes were glassy, half-lidded from exhaustion. She clutched the blanket when Wednesday drew it over her, and for a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, haltingly, as though daring herself, Enid whispered, “Will you… stay? Just tonight?”

Wednesday regarded her in silence. A dozen retorts lined up in her mind, cold, precise dismissals that would have been true to her nature. And yet, the sight of Enid trembling in her bed, stitched and still bleeding in places unseen, made cruelty feel dishonest.

She compromised. Without a word, she perched at the edge of the mattress, back rigid, hands folded in her lap. She remained upright, alert, eyes fixed on the dark corners of the room as though she might will the Hyde into reappearing simply to destroy it again.

Enid exhaled softly, satisfied. Her eyes drifted closed, breath evening into the rhythm of sleep.