It doesn't matter. (anon asks)
Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader.
Theme: Angst. Warnings: Discussions of suicide, depression.
Wordcount: 3.5k.
Wednesday sat on the railing of her balcony, her legs hanging over the edge, boots scraping against the cold stone.
Enid was sleeping softly in her side of the dorm. Peaceful. Oblivious. Even Thing had curled up on his little makeshift bed, unmoving, trusting that she would do nothing drastic. They thought they understood her.
They thought she was above weakness, above fragility.
Fools.
She had studied death. Pored over it. Dissected its meanings, its finality, its inevitability. She had wielded it in her hands like a sharpened blade, used it as a threat, a weapon, a fascination. But now, she wondered: was a fall from this height truly lethal? Would her bones shatter on impact? Or would she suffer, twitching on the cold stone until the void finally claimed her?
The world below seemed so far away, yet so close. A single misstep, a slight shift in weight, and she would no longer be perched between life and death, she would simply fall.
She had read about people who had jumped. Some regretted it before they hit the ground. Some had died on impact, their bodies broken beyond recognition. Some had lived, haunted by the knowledge that they had failed at escaping.
Would she regret it?
A foolish question. She didn’t believe in regret. She believed in action.
It didn’t matter.
It really didn’t matter.
She sat in the quad, her fingers curled over the spine of a book she had long since stopped reading. Her dark eyes were fixed on a single point across the courtyard.
You. It had been a year since she talked to you, that day.
She was watching you again.
Why?
She didn’t know.
She wasn’t even aware of when it started.
You were reading. Or, at least, you had been.
Now, your book was gone, ripped from your hands by a sneering group of students who thought themselves superior. She had seen this before. Watched from a distance. The same group. The same scene, playing out like a wretched cycle. A hand shoved at your shoulder, another voice laughed in your face. Your lips pressed into a thin line, your fingers curling into fists, but you did not fight back.
You never did.
You had been like this for a while now, silent, withdrawn, smaller. You never stood close to her anymore, hadn't been for the past year since that day. You never hovered near her anymore.
It wasn’t the first time she had seen this.
She had been seeing you, as you closed yourself from.. everything.
Wednesday could end it.
It would be easy. A single glare, a few well-placed words, and they would scatter like cockroaches under a harsh light. She could terrify them, send them running, make them regret every second they had spent trying to break you down.
But how could she?
How could she, when she had done the same to you?
The wind was colder now, biting at her skin as she sat motionless on the railing. Wednesday didn’t move, didn’t blink, only stared at the ground below.
She understood now.
Why you had chosen her.
It wasn’t because you were fascinated by her, nor because you admired her, no, you did admire her but not in the way the others did.
The Hyde investigation had reached a standstill.
Wednesday gritted her teeth, Yesterday’s rain had washed away what could have been critical evidence. It was infuriating. She hated inefficiency, hated wasting time, hated failure.
And then there was you.
Trailing behind her like a shadow, quiet but persistent.
“…Maybe it’s not someone from this school at all, but an outsider?” Your voice was soft, hesitant, barely loud enough to rise above the sound of her footsteps.
Wednesday didn’t reply. Her mind was a swirling storm of deductions, dead ends, and mounting irritation.
“I mean… you’re so smart, Wednesday. I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon.”
A compliment. Empty words, spoken with sincerity, but meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
Wednesday stopped walking.
“Stop talking.”
Her voice was flat, sharp, laced with barely contained irritation.
She didn’t have time for this.
You flinched, but you didn’t leave. Instead, you simply adjusted the grip on your notebook, as if grounding yourself, as if trying to take up less space. Your footsteps became softer, your presence dimming, but still there.
Still following.
Still clinging.
By the time they reached the main hallway, the low hum of students passing through only made the irritation coil tighter inside her chest. The voices, the movement, the constant press of bodies—it was suffocating.
And then—
“…I could help if you need someone to brainstorm with…”
She still doesn't understand what was wrong in that sentence that caused her to lash out.
Wednesday stopped abruptly.
You hadn’t been expecting it. You barely had time to react before you bumped into her shoulder, the force of it barely anything, but it sent a fresh wave of irritation through her already frayed nerves.
She spun around, her hand latching onto your arm before she shoved you against the nearest wall.
“You are insufferable.”
Your back hit the cold stone, you froze, your notebook still clutched to your chest.
“Do you not understand the concept of personal space?” Her voice was rising now, sharp enough to cut. “Or basic social cues? How many more insults will it take to penetrate that thick skull of yours and make you realize I am not interested in your pathetic attempts at friendship?”
She remembers she noticed it.
The way your eyes flickered around, the way you took in the students stopping, whispering, watching.
She didn’t care back then.
“I don’t care about your feelings. I don’t care about your problems. And I certainly don’t care about your pitiful attempts to get closer to me.” Her voice was ice, unwavering, merciless. “So why don’t you do us both a favor and stay the hell away from me?”
She didn’t wait for a reaction.
Didn’t wait to see the way your fingers trembled around the edges of your notebook.
She just turned and walked away.
And now, sitting on the railing of her balcony, she understood.
You had clung to her because she was a wall, an impenetrable fortress of indifference and cruelty, and as long as you stayed near her, no one else could touch you. No one else could hurt you.
You weren’t trying to befriend her. You were trying to survive.
She had been your shield.
You had felt safe around her.
Safe.
Wednesday stood outside your dorm, the same day she had watched as they surrounded you, as they tossed your book aside like it was worthless, as you stood there and did nothing, accepted it like it was as natural as breathing.
And now she was here, because… because what? Because she felt responsible? Because she had spent a year noticing the silence you left in your absence? Because something about the way you had looked, empty, resigned—had made something inside her twist unpleasantly?
Her hand hovered for only a second before she knocked twice.
“Wednesday?” you asked, your voice quiet, indifferent.
Wednesday opened her mouth, then closed it.
She had spent the past hour deliberating over this moment, she had thought of this moment in her head, had run through different variations of how this conversation might go, but now, standing in front of you, she realized she had no idea what to say.
She expected—no, she had prepared for—the possibility of anger, of bitterness. Perhaps even avoidance, a door slammed in her face, a sharp remark thrown back at her in retaliation for last year.
But this?
This quiet, unreadable calm?
It made her skin crawl.
How can she bring this up? How could she string together words that didn’t sound weak, didn’t make her feel foolish?
You tilted your head slightly, waiting. Then, after a beat, “Do you need something?”
Wednesday finally forced herself to speak.
“I saw some students bothering you today,” she said, her voice clipped. “Why didn't you even try to fight back?"
It was a simple question. A reasonable one. And yet, the moment she said it, something in your expression shifted.
You looked… surprised.
As if the very idea of someone asking had never even crossed your mind.
Then, slowly, you smiled. A sad, small thing that barely touched your eyes. "It doesn't matter. I'm used to it."
Wednesday studied you carefully, but there was no tension, no bitterness, no frustration—just quiet acceptance, like this was simply a fact of life, an inevitability you had long since resigned yourself to.
“I’ve learned not to fight battles that don’t matter,” you added.
Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like cowardice.”
She expected a flinch, a glare, some kind of reaction at the insult.
But you only looked at her, that same faint, almost knowing smile on your lips. "Maybe," you said. "Or maybe I’ve just realized there’s no point."
There was no weight behind the words, no emotion for her to latch onto. Nothing.
That should have pleased her. Wednesday had always hated dealing with overly emotional displays, found them exhausting, unnecessary. But this wasn’t peace. This wasn’t calm.
This was a void.
And it unsettled her more than anything else could have.
Wednesday held your gaze for a long moment. Then, before she could stop herself, before she could convince herself it wasn’t necessary, she forced the words out
“I haven’t spoken to you in a year,” Wednesday said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, though still blunt. “That day in the hallway…”
You tilted your head slightly, as if trying to recall something distant. “I don’t blame you, Wednesday. You don’t need to apologize.”
The statement caught Wednesday off guard. She hadn’t been planning to apologize, not exactly. But the fact that you brushed it off so easily, as if it didn’t matter at all, made her feel even more uneasy.
“I wasn’t going to apologize,” Wednesday said quickly, more to reassure herself than you. “I don’t apologize. I just..." she sighed, taking a deep breath.
"I just wanted to say I am not one to dwell on past mistakes, nor do I often feel the need to correct them. However…" A pause. Her fingers twitched at her sides. "I shouldn’t have said what I did. Last year."
Nothing.
No flicker of relief, no sign that this meant anything to you at all.
You simply nodded, voice as steady as ever. "It’s fine."
It wasn’t.
"It really doesn’t matter," you added.
Wednesday’s jaw tightened.
It didn’t matter.
That was what you had said.
The same way you had said it about the group who bullied you.
The same way you had said it about yourself.
It should matter.
But you spoke like someone who had already accepted things would never change. Like someone who had given up long ago.
She didn’t know why that bothered her so much. Wednesday exhaled slowly.
"If they bother you again, tell me."
Your polite, practiced smile returned.
"I’ll keep that in mind."
You wouldn't.
Wednesday was feeling tired now, she hadn't been able to sleep for the past few days. And there was the round glowing thing, up there in the sky, judging her.
So the next time Wednesday didn't hesitate. “Are you all incapable of finding something more productive to do than harass the same person every day?” she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.
The bullies froze, their smug expressions faltering as they turned to face her.
“Look, Addams, we’re just—” one of them began, but Wednesday raised a hand, silencing them.
“I don’t recall asking for an explanation, if you want to keep your body parts intact, I would suggest moving away now.” she said icily.
Before she could take another step toward them, you stood abruptly, placing a hand on Wednesday’s arm.
“It’s okay,” you said softly, your voice steady.
Wednesday frowned, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not okay.”
You shook your head, your gaze meeting Wednesday’s for a brief moment before dropping again. “Please. Just leave it. It doesn’t matter.”
Those three words, and here she thought she hates the other set of three words.
She was beyond frustrated. “Of course, it matters—”
But you cut her off with a faint, almost pleading smile. “Thank you, Wednesday. But I can handle it.”
Your calmness only made Wednesday angrier, but she allowed herself to be stopped. The bullies muttered something under their breath and walked away, clearly unwilling to push their luck further.
You let go of Wednesday’s arm and gathered your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “I’ll see you later,” you said quietly, before walking away without another word.
Wednesday watched as you walked away, the ghost of that practiced smile still lingering on your lips.
It unsettled her.
She should have felt satisfied. The bullies had left. You were no longer being bothered. By all accounts, this was a resolution. Yet, as she stood there, the frustration in her veins had not lessened. It had thickened.
Because you weren’t relieved. You weren’t grateful or upset or anything at all. You were just… neutral. Indifferent. As if nothing that had just happened actually mattered.
And that was what disturbed her the most.
She hadn’t intended to seek you out again that day, but as evening settled over Nevermore, she found herself in your presence once more. It was not premeditated. At least, that was what she told herself.
You were at your usual spot in the library, tucked away in the corner where few people ventured. Your book was open, but Wednesday could tell you weren't reading, your thoughts were elsewhere.
Wednesday sat down across from you without invitation. You looked up, but instead of questioning her presence, you simply nodded in acknowledgment before returning to staring at the pages in front of you.
She waited for you to speak.
You didn’t.
“I assume you have no opinion on this novel?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
You blinked, finally lifting your eyes to hers. There was no confusion, no curiosity—just quiet patience, as if waiting for her to get to the point. “It’s fine,” you said simply.
Fine.
Wednesday studied you for a long moment.
A year ago, you would have said more.
A year ago, you would have tilted your head, started a conversation, told her what you thought, even if you knew she might not respond.
But now?
She felt a strange, unfamiliar irritation.
Wednesday exhaled sharply. "You used to be more talkative."
You blinked, tilting your head slightly, as if this was a strange observation. "Did I?"
Wednesday's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes."
You hummed, as if considering it, before turning the page of your book. "I guess I don’t have much to say anymore."
There was something deeply, profoundly wrong about that.
"You always had something to say before," Wednesday pointed out.
“I suppose I grew out of it.”
Wednesday didn’t believe that.
Not for a second.
But she didn’t know how to make you tell her the truth.
Wednesday had never been one to admire beauty—she found it frivolous, a distraction from the inevitable decay that awaited all things. And yet, she could not deny it.
The moon did look beautiful tonight.
And perhaps it's too late to notice this... has she always been too late to notice things?
It's alright, it doesn't matter.
Somewhere in the months that followed, she had begun to notice things.
Small things.
The way she was drawn to your presence more than she cared to admit. The way her mind wandered when you weren’t near. The way irritation clawed at her when she saw you retreat into yourself, as if part of you was slipping away, disappearing into the quiet that had settled around you for the past year.
She found herself seeking you out, not out of curiosity or obligation, but because she wanted to.
It was unnatural.
It was wrong.
But it was happening.
And she noticed that something else was happening, too.
You were changing.
At first, the silence had been suffocating. Wednesday had spent months trying to pry something—anything—out of you, trying to provoke a reaction, to hear your voice the way she used to. But it had been slow, painfully so, like pulling teeth.
Then, one day, she made a comment about Xavier's iq, and you—
You laughed.
It wasn’t much, just a quiet huff of amusement, barely even there. But it was real.
Perhaps that's what pushed her over the edge.
It started happening more often after that.
Little things.
A subtle smile when she made a dark observation about the world. A quiet response when she asked you a direct question.
You weren’t how you used to be. Not completely.
But you were less silent.
And Wednesday—who had spent her entire life preferring silence—found herself desperate to hear more.
One evening, as you sat across from her in the library, she caught herself staring.
You were focused on a book, your expression calm, lips slightly parted in thought. A stray strand of hair fell in front of your eyes, and without thinking, you reached up and tucked it behind your ear.
It was an utterly mundane action.
And yet, something inside Wednesday twisted.
She dropped her gaze immediately, pressing her nails into her palms.
This wasn’t right.
She knew what this was. She wasn’t stupid. She had read about these things, seen them infect others like a slow-spreading disease.
She was falling for you.
And it was unacceptable.
But the realization did nothing to stop it.
She still sought you out. She still lingered in your presence. She still noticed every detail about you—the way you fidgeted when deep in thought, the way your voice softened when you spoke to her, the way you had begun to meet her gaze a little more often.
She noticed how you were changing.
And she noticed that she was, too.
She had tried to fight it. Tried to ignore the way something inside her clenched whenever you smiled—really smiled, not the polite, practiced one you gave so often.
But it was pointless.
Because this had been building for months now, like a slow-burning fire that refused to be smothered.
And perhaps—
Perhaps she didn’t want to smother it anymore.
Wednesday wasn’t blind to the world. She knew what affection looked like, even if she had never experienced it herself. She had read of it, studied it, dissected it through history and literature and human observation.
And now, she was living it.
There was something deeply unsettling about the realization.
But there was something else, too. Something almost… comforting.
It wasn’t so bad, she supposed, to have someone she didn’t mind being around. To have someone who had seen the worst of her and still—still—remained.
Maybe she could allow this.
Maybe, for once, she could let herself have this.
The Raven was approaching.
Wednesday had never cared for such events—meaningless social gatherings. It was an evening of vanity, of shallow declarations and fleeting romances, none of which had ever interested her.
And yet, for the first time, she found herself anticipating it.
Because this year, it had a purpose.
This year, she would ask you.
The realization should have unsettled her, but it didn’t. Not anymore. She had spent months fighting this, dissecting it, rationalizing it, but there was no use in denying the inevitable. She had fallen for you. The thought of it no longer felt like a weakness.
Perhaps, in some ways, it was a strength.
She had spent so long trying to bring you back—trying to restore the version of you that had been buried beneath silence and indifference. And it was working, wasn’t it?
She could already picture the moment in her mind—she would find you alone, somewhere quiet, away from the noise of the others. She would state it plainly, without unnecessary theatrics or hesitations.
You would say yes.
And after the Raven—
She would tell you.
That she had fallen for you. That somewhere between your silence and your soft smiles, between the way you had once tried so hard to reach her and then stopped entirely, she had found herself tangled in something she could not escape.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to happen afterward. But she would deal with it when the time came.
For now, she just needed to ask you. She just needs to go to your dorm and ask you. She just needs to go to your room and find you.
Wednesday sat on the edge of the balcony railing, her legs dangling over the side.
In her hand, a letter trembled, one she had found beside you.
Her fingers curled tightly around the paper, the words smudged in places where she had gripped it too hard, as if by crumpling it, she could change what was written, change the reality of what had happened. But the ink did not bleed, and the words did not disappear.
They stared back at her.
"I'm sorry."
""I'm tired, Wednesday."
"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."
"Don't blame yourself."
But Wednesday did.
How could she not, when she had seen the signs too late? When she had spent so long convincing herself that you were getting better, that the quiet was no longer something suffocating? When she was the reason you got away?
You were smiling more. Talking more. Responding when she reached out.
For all her investigation skills, she should have known better.
It was never real.
She had studied death all her life, dissected it, understood it in ways most people never could.
And yet, she found herself wondering—
Would a fall from this height be lethal?
It doesn't matter.
She was going to find out soon anyway.
[Author's note: This was a one-shot ask. So blame anon for the heartbreak. I can't believe I wrote all that in one sitting lmao.]
Taglist: @ognenniyvolk@mally-ka@protozoario@machyishere@freakshow2501@101rizzlrr
(If you guys don't wanna be tagged in one-shot asks, inform me, I don't mind.)
