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Enid wakes up with a dry mouth, an aching back, and feeling like she's just been run over by a steamroller.
Right. Wolf-out. She's still getting used to the full moon, the power that courses through her, how she gets up every morning after feeling like death. Yoko says it's what a hangover feels like. If that's true, Enid doesn't think she ever wants to drink.
Wednesday always stays through it all, though. Enid's memories from her wolf-outs are spotty, nebulous things - flashes of scents and sounds and feelings - but she remembers Wednesday keeping her company through the night, speaking to her softly, her hands gentle as they ran through her fur.
Wednesday's here now, too.
They're curled together in Enid's bed, a mess of brightly colored blankets and sheets and pillows pushed to the floor, Wednesday's legs bracketing hers - Enid's foot is falling asleep, that's what must have woken her up, she realizes, but she's not about to wake Wednesday. Not when she looks this comfortable.
Wednesday's drooling on her shoulder, catching up on what must be a veritable mountain of sleep debt. Enid's half of the stained-glass window paints her face with vivid hues of red and blue and green - so much for the color allergy, Enid thinks with a fond smile.
She wants to let Wednesday sleep. But she can't stop herself from reaching down to press a soft kiss to Wednesday's temple, where a green sunburst brightly glows.
Wednesday stirs- squinting, nose crinkling, so unlike her usual aloof demeanor. “I feel like I’m being assaulted by a Lite Brite,” she groans.
Enid laughs. “First this, then I get you into a rainbow snood. It’s all part of my master plan.”
“Enid." Wednesday’s gaze softens. "Are you feeling all right?”
“Never better,” Enid says, and means it.