Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Adjusting to life at Kamar-Taj is difficult for America, to say the least. Don’t get her wrong — she’s grateful for it. Of course she is. A bed, free food (a rarity in this universe — something she still finds weird), and training to help her use her powers.

But it is difficult.

This kind of sorcery doesn’t exactly come easy to her. This kind of structure isn’t necessarily natural either. For a girl who’s been to over 70 universes, it’s quite the adjustment for every day to look more or less the same, with its schedules and routines. For someone who’s been on her own for the better part of eight years, suddenly being surrounded by this many people — ones who know her, for better and for worse — every day can be overwhelming.

And then there’s the atmosphere at Kamar-Taj itself. The place suffered serious losses under the Scarlet Witch, and when she first arrives, the dead on the trainees’ faces is unmistakable. The damage, the physical part of it anyway, has mostly been repaired, but there’s a solemn mood that seems to linger long after the buildings have been reconstructed.

To be honest, part of her can’t help but feel a little guilty. She was the one who the Scarlet Witch was after — the reason she came to Kamar-Taj and did what she did. She was the reason people had lost colleagues. Friends. Family, even.

They’re trying, America knows. Everyone is trying to welcome her, but there’s a little part of her deep down nagging her that she doesn’t belong here. That she never really will. That every time someone passes her, all they’ll see is her past with the Scarlet Witch. The reason so many are gone.

She’s here. They aren’t. How could they not resent her a little for that?

She worries more that everywhere she turns, she’ll see her, too. That the Scarlet Witch will never stop haunting her memories. That she’ll always be watching her back, waiting for her to come for her again.

Her breath catches in her throat when she turns the corner one night coming back from the dining hall and spies her, the Scarlet Witch, watching from a distance. It’s not unusual for her to show up as some sort of sick hallucination, so America has to blink a few times to make sure it’s really her. That she’s really there. That she’s not just some twisted illusion, her eyes playing tricks on her again.

Her stomach drops when, after squeezing her eyes shut and opening them once again, she’s still there. The realization that this is really happening. That not only is the Scarlet Witch not dead but she’s found her and breached Kamar-Taj’s security to finish what she started all those months ago.

She considers running, considers screaming, but she can’t imagine what good either would accomplish. Neither tactic has proven successful against her before. 

Instead, she lifts her hands. To do what? She’s not sure. She’s gotten better at using and controlling her magic, but she’s still far from being able to take on the Scarlet Witch. 

“Don’t,” she says, attempting to sound strong, tough, formidable. But her fear is palpable, and she can’t imagine the Scarlet Witch is fooled. “Don’t come any closer.”

The Scarlet Witch looks surprised that America’s spied her, and she hears her whisper a curse under her breath. She doesn’t advance, though. Doesn’t move forward. All she does is raise her hands, too. 

America can’t help but flinch at the sight of them — at the blackened edges of her fingers. A mark of what she’s done. An imprint of the Darkhold’s corruption.

And yet, despite that, she looks shockingly…normal. Human. Almost timid, even. It’s as if it’s not the Scarlet Witch, a powerful being capable of spontaneous creation, standing before her but rather Wanda Maximoff, a person not unlike herself.

There’s a distinct lack of malice in her gaze, but America knows better than anyone that everything is not always as it seems — that just because someone didn’t look dangerous didn’t mean they weren’t. She wasn’t about to drop her guard.

Wanda opens her mouth to speak, but she closes it as soon as it opens. America uses the opportunity to keep talking.

“You don’t want to hurt me,” she warns as she slowly begins pacing backward, hands still out in front of her. “Remember Billy and Tommy? You don’t want to do that to them again,” she reminds her. Her children — that was the ticket last time.

Wanda swallows hard at that, and America can practically see her heart break apart in her chest. 

“You’re right,” Wanda replies quietly. “I won’t hurt you. I—” she falters before regaining her composure. “I wanted to apologize. I’ve already talked to Strange, to Wong, and now…”

America stops walking at that, eyes narrowing as she looks at her. She really does seem sincere, but then again, she was a master of manipulation. 

“How can I believe that? Why should I trust you?” she tests, another thought popping into her head. “Also: why aren’t you dead? I thought Mount Wundagore collapsed on you."

“It did collapse on me,” Wanda says, starting with the easier question. “I thought I was dead, too, but then I woke up under rubble. Something about my magic protected me, I guess.” She sighs, mouth curving down into a small frown as she contemplates the other, more difficult, inquiry. 

America can’t help but notice how tired she looks. Weak. Her eyes are bloodshot, her shoulders hunched. She wouldn’t be surprised if all she’d done the past few months is cry. She feels a small spark of compassion, but before it can materialize into anything, Wanda continues.

“I can’t give you a reason to trust me,” Wanda finally admits. “You have every reason not to.”

That reminder — that she has every reason not to — snaps her back into the moment.

“You’re right,” America agrees, voice hard. “I do have every reason. You sent monsters after me. Kidnapped me. Tried to kill me. More than once! That’s really…” She searches for the right word but can only, lamely, come up with: “Effed up.”

Wanda bites her lip as America rattles off her list of offenses, nodding in recognition. “I did do that. It is…effed up. I’m sorry — I know that means nothing. I just wanted to make it known that I…” she trails off, losing her words.

It’s America’s turn to swallow hard, that small spark of compassion catching this time. Fanning into a flame that ignites something in her heart.

She knows, logically, that it could be a setup. But something about the way Wanda’s acting doesn’t seem fake — there’s something in her eyes that America doesn’t think you can fake. 

She finally — slowly — lowers her hands. “It doesn’t mean nothing,” America tells her quietly.

Wanda tilts her head, looking at her intently. “What does it mean then?” she asks, voice equally soft as she takes a small step forward.

America can’t help it — she instinctively flinches back when Wanda moves closer. She forces herself to stay put, not to flee, but she’s grateful that Wanda seems to sense her discomfort and puts space between them again.

“I don’t know, exactly.” She shrugs. “But it means…something. Everyone effs up sometimes, in every universe, but not everyone says sorry.” Most people, in fact, didn’t say sorry — especially not to a kid.

“Well, I am sorry,” Wanda says emphatically. “I don’t know how to fix any of this…but I…” she trails off again.

America bites her lip, a sense of regret about bringing up her children when she had no reason — when they should have been her last resort. Regret about how this whole mess unfolded. 

“I’m sorry, too. About your kids.” She swallows down the lump in her throat, looking down at her feet and toeing the dirt with her shoe. “I…my moms. I don’t know where they are. So I think I get it. Kind of. It’s…really hard to lose people like that.”

“Thank you,” Wanda breathes out, some of the tension seeming to leave her body. “Where did your moms end up, do you think? If I can ask. I’m sorry you lost them.”

“Thanks,” America says quietly, picking at a nail. “I don’t know. Apparently, there are billions of universes out there, and I’ve only been to, like, 80. Math isn’t my strongest subject, but even I know the odds of finding them again aren’t great.”

Wanda nods. “Maybe there’s hope. I dream about other versions of myself who are so many different things. Is there a way you could track them down?”

“Yeah, maybe. I hope I’ll be able to eventually. My trainers here say it just takes time. That you can’t cut corners because that’s when you get into trouble,” she recites.

“They’re right,” Wanda confirms. “I didn’t listen to someone who told me the Darkhold was powerful and corrupting — I just took it, and look what it did to me,” she says with a sad smile.

"I won't make that mistake," America quickly promises, fingers fidgeting as she adds: "Nobody will, right? All of them are destroyed now?"

Wanda pauses for a moment before speaking. “Yes, they are. At least I hope they are. But there are other ways things can go wrong without a Darkhold,” she warns, her voice strangely maternal. It almost reminds America of when her mothers told her not to play with fire or run into the street, causing the lump in her throat to return.

“I know,” she says softly, dropping her gaze. “I didn't even know what a Darkhold was when I did that to my moms. That all happened because of a stupid bee,” she mutters, kicking at the ground again.

There are a few moments of silence before Wanda replies. “Bee?”

America glances up to see Wanda tentatively stepping forward again, arms wrapped around herself. This time, America doesn’t flinch away. Instead, she just mirrors her posture, arms protectively folding around her own body.

“Yeah. My powers…they only happen — used to happen, before the training — when I was scared. I remember being afraid of the bee, and then…” She sniffles at the memory — as clear and vivid as if it happened yesterday. “It’s really dumb.”

Wanda takes a few more steps, hand hovering toward her for a split-second before she thinks better of it, dropping it back to her side.

“It’s not dumb,” she assures her. “You were young…and didn’t know what your powers could do,” she says softly.

“That’s what Strange said, too. He said not to blame myself. But it’s still my fault. They still got ripped away from their universe because of me.” She looks up at Wanda then. “Sometimes I wish you had taken my power — taken it before I had a chance to hurt them,” she admits, swiping away a tear.

Wanda frowns, absentmindedly tapping her side where one arm is still crossed. “I understand what you mean, and maybe a part of how you feel…it doesn’t go away, the grief, but it gets easier — at least that’s what they say. You may have done something to cause your moms to multiverse travel, but you had no intention to do so,” she says gently. “I— I would have taken something else from them that I know is very precious.”

America tilts her head, brows knitting in confusion.

“You,” Wanda clarifies.

America’s lip trembles at that, trying — without much success — to keep it together. “I just…miss them,” she says, voice cracking. “I know I'm not alone anymore, but it still feels lonely sometimes."

She’d made friends at Kamar-Taj. Had teachers who cared about her. But there was still a hole. It wasn’t like with her moms, and she doubted anything would ever come close to that again.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Wanda says softly, shifting to open her arms every so slightly — an invitation. “I know nothing I say can make it easier, but I’m sorry.”

America purses her lips, debating for a moment before awkwardly shuffling a few steps closer to Wanda, tentatively wrapping her arms around her. Wanda immediately returns the embrace, hand lightly rubbing her back. Her touch is careful, gentle — it's almost as if she’s afraid of breaking her.

It was a little weird, to be hugging the person who tried to murder her only a few months ago — it was even weirder, to find it soothing — but then again, stranger things had definitely happened.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda whispers again. Somehow, America knows she means it.

She closes her eyes and buries her face in Wanda’s shirt, soaking up the comfort. She was on her own for so long, had to grow up so fast — it feels nice, to have someone hold her like this. It reminds her again, for just a moment, of her moms.

“Maybe you can make it up to me,” she says.

“Hm?” Wanda hums. “How’s that?”

“Maybe we could help each other not feel so lonely,” she hesitantly suggests, pulling back slightly to look at her. It was a risk — a big one. Perhaps not life or death now, but there was still a chance for rejection. “Maybe you could…help me, with my powers. And maybe you could buy me some pizza balls because I don’t have any money and the food in this universe isn’t free.”

There’s an agonizing beat as Wanda thinks this over before, miraculously, she nods. “I think I’d like that. It’d be nice to not be so lonely…and we’ll find you some pizza balls,” she promises, a small smile flickering behind her eyes.

America grins up at her. “Extra cheese and extra pepperoni, right?”

“Yeah,” Wanda agrees. “We can do that.”

“Yes.” America pumps her fist, a few tiny sparks flying out as she does so. “Oops.” Her eyes widen. “I think sometimes my powers come when I’m really scared and really excited now,” she explains — yet another recent revelation. She tries not to think too hard about how she hadn’t had anything to be truly excited about since age six.

“We can work on that, if you’d like. My powers used to do the same,” Wanda offers with a quick shrug.

America feels her shoulders relax, relieved as the sparks disappear. 

“I would like that,” America agrees. “Maybe you could tell me more while we eat? Because I’ve been wanting these pizza balls forever but Strange wouldn’t buy them because he said they would give me a stomachache even though he’s the one who always pukes when we change universes — not me.” She rolls her eyes.

“That’s fine with me,” Wanda says, smile growing. “Are the pizza balls here or in another universe? I’ll try not to puke if we jump the multiverse.”

“There are some in this universe now. I taught a guy in one of those pizzerias how to make them. He looked at me like I was just some dumb kid, but there’s always a line around the block since he put them on the menu, so really he should be thanking me,” America says, squaring her shoulders proudly.

“I’ve never had them. They must be good, though.”

“They’re the best,” she promises, tapping her chin. “Could you get us to New York? I don’t want to accidentally land us in the paint universe if I try to use my powers, and I don’t have my driver’s license. Or my pilot’s license. Basically, I can’t operate any heavy machinery yet.”

Wanda lets out a breath of laughter. “Yes, I can, but paint universe?”

“Trust me — you don’t want to go to that one.” She shudders. “I’ve never done hard drugs, but I think it probably feels like hard drugs.”

“I’ll take your word for it. It sounds like a trip,” she says. Her smile is easier now — less sad. “How old are you, anyway? If you’re not old enough to have a license.”

“I’m almost 16,” America says — a bit of a lie considering she’s still nearly a year away from 15. She straightens her posture anyway to try and seem older, more mature.

“Well, you’ll have to tell me when it’s your birthday so I can celebrate with you,” Wanda says before quickly turning and focusing on conjuring a portal, seemingly embarrassed to have even made the suggestion. Probably thinking she was being presumptuous. 

And maybe she was, but it makes America smile anyway, a nice, warm feeling spreading in her chest. She’d spent her past several birthdays alone — the thought of actually celebrating this year made her excited again. A few more little sparks escape from her hands.

“It’s July 4th. Maybe we can get pizza balls and cake balls that day.”

Wanda breathes a sigh of relief. “We absolutely can,” she vows before nodding toward the open portal. “To New York, then? For pizza balls?” she asks.

“To New York.” America nods in agreement, stepping through. Somehow, it feels like stepping into her future — into a new chapter of her life. One that makes her whole body spark with excitement.

Chapter Text

Nighttime in New York is always stunning, with the lights and skyscrapers sparkling against the dark sky. After stepping through the portal, America takes a second to look up at them — mesmerized.

“This is one of my favorite places in the multiverse,” she muses.

“It is beautiful,” Wanda concurs, following close behind her. “I wish I’d been here on better occasions.” 

America agrees — running down these same streets being chased by the monsters Wanda sent after her is not exactly what she’d call a stellar occasion — but she bites her tongue. Continuing to bring up her past mistakes, ones she clearly regretted, was not going to help them turn over a new leaf.

“So where are the pizza balls?” Wanda asks, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Oh!” America perks up, remembering what they’re there to do. “Uh…” She spins around a few times, trying to orient herself, figure out where she might be and where they should go. She was usually pretty good with directions, but things could get a little confusing, traveling to so many different places across so many different realities. 

In the process of searching, she feels someone slam into her arm, sending her stumbling backward into Wanda.

“Hey, watch it, kid!” a man yells. 

“Sorry!” she calls to him before looking back at Wanda, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she repeats.

“It’s okay,” Wanda says gently, helping America catch her balance before promptly flipping off the man.

America can’t help but smirk, the small action putting her at ease. Wanda had her back — literally and figuratively. 

“What an a-hole, am I right?” America asks with a roll of her eyes.

“Agreed,” Wanda says, mouth twitching into a small smile. “He was really rude.”

America sticks up her chin, feeling more confident now. “The pizza balls are that way. I'm sure of it,” she says, pointing across the street. “By Times Square.”

“Lead the way,” Wanda says, motioning to her.

She nods, heading across the street and past a plethora of souvenir shops with “I <3 NYC” shirts and “Love from the Big Apple” postcards in the window. 

“Why do they call it The Big Apple?” she asks, wrinkling her eyebrows. “They should call it The Big Rat.” As if on cue, a giant rodent scurries past her sneaker.

Wanda shrugs, watching the rodent scamper by. “I have no idea. Probably some bit of history or something.”

“I went on one of those tour buses once and learned some of the history,” America tells her. “But they kicked me off before I could learn the apple thing. How was I supposed to know you needed a ticket?! You guys have to pay for a lot of stuff in this universe — it’s so weird.” 

Wanda nods. “You’re telling me. I know it makes no sense, but that’s capitalism for you — Natasha talked about it a lot.”

"Seems kind of dumb to have to pay for things everyone needs like food and transportation. That's like having to pay for air." She freezes, eyes widening again as a thought pops into her head. "Wait, you don't have to pay for air here, do you?"

“No, we don’t,” Wanda reassures her with a laugh.

“Good,” she breathes out a sigh of relief as they make it to the pizza shop. She pushes the door open, a bell dinging as she leads Wanda inside. The smells hit her nose immediately, and she thinks she hears Wanda’s stomach growl. She did look thinner than last time, like she hadn’t been eating a lot lately. Hopefully, she’d like the pizza balls.

“It smells good,” Wanda comments as she follows America to the counter.

“Greasy deliciousness,” America says, rubbing her hands together in excitement. “Yo, Vinny!” she calls to the back. 

A man glances up, looking thoroughly unamused. “I told you — it’s Mr. Bianchi to you.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” America waves him off. “I need three pizza balls — extra cheese, extra pepperoni. And…” She looks at Wanda. “What do you want?”

“Uh...three pizza balls?” Wanda raises her brow, shrugging.

America nods in approval. “And three pizza balls for my friend here!” she yells, holding up three fingers. 

“Yeah,” Vinny says, shooting her an irritated look. “I heard her.” 

“See?” America shakes her head as Wanda steps up to the cash register and reaches into her pocket. “I told you — no respect even though I gave him the pizza ball idea.”

“He’s certainly a character,” Wanda says as she pulls out some money, amusement clear on her face.

It doesn’t take long for their order to be ready. Once Vinny calls their name and gives America one last glare, she grabs the tray, carefully balancing it as they make their way to a table. 

“Are you ready for this?” she asks as they sit down. “Because I think it’s going to change your life.”

“Oh, is it?” Wanda asks, a playful smile on her face as she reaches over to grab one of the pizza balls. She takes a bite, nodding as she chews. “These are good,” she admits.

“Told you!” America says, eagerly popping an entire pizza ball into her mouth. “Ouch.” She immediately winces as it burns the roof of her mouth. “Hot. Hot,” she whimpers as she fans it, trying to cool it down.

“You okay?” Wanda asks, stifling a laugh as she takes another reasonably sized bite.

“Mhm,” she promises, face pinched in pain. She finally manages to swallow, it burning her throat on the way down. She grabs her can of soda, chugging it to try and relieve it. After a few gulps, she sets her can back on the table and takes a deep breath. “All good.”

“Good.” Wanda nods, taking a drink of her own soda. “So, you’re 15. What else is there to know about America Chavez?”

She bites her lip, tearing at a napkin on the table. “14, actually. I maybe exaggerated a little to seem older,” she mumbles, risking a glance up at her. “I’m sorry — I’m just tired of everyone treating me like a kid. I can jump universes.”

Wanda nods. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem angry. “I can’t jump universes, but I know what you mean,” she sympathizes. “I was 17 when I joined the Avengers and got treated like a kid forever despite having…gone through a lot. But I know they were just trying to protect me.”

“Yeah.” America focuses her attention on ripping the napkin again. “I get it,” she says, though she doesn’t, really. She hadn’t really had anyone protecting her — not for the past eight years. There was a kind stranger here and there, but she’d mostly been on her own. People seeing right through her, annoyed at her mere existence, for a multitude of reasons. 

She shakes her head — she doesn’t want to think about that right now. “What else is there to know…oh!" She cheers up a little. "My favorite color is blue. My favorite animal is a panda — there were these really cool pandas in the 30th universe I went to. I try to keep notes of all the places I go here.” She pulls a notebook from her jacket pocket — the front covered with stickers. “See?”

“That’s cool,” Wanda says, peering at the book. “What’s the coolest universe you’ve been in?”

“Literally? Definitely Universe 58,” America says, flipping to the section doodled with penguins and polar bears in the snow. “But figuratively…” she turns back a few pages, showing Wanda her observations from Universe 12. “The ground was, like, springy. Like a trampoline or a bouncy house, you know? And there were really good tacos.”

“That sounds really fun,” Wanda says with a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s something…off that America can’t quite place. Something melancholy clouding her features. Maybe a little guilt.

“What about you?” she asks, attempting to pivot the subject to something she might be happier with. “What’s the coolest place you’ve ever been?”

“Sokovia,” Wanda says without thinking. “I grew up there. I loved it — even during the war.”

“Your home,” America says softly. That she understands — her home universe is her favorite place, too. “What’s it like?”

Wanda does think before answering this time, eyes glazing over slightly. Transported. Remembering. It’s something America knows well. “Before it was destroyed by Ultron, it was recovering from the war. Honestly, a scary place to be, but it was home. Pietro and I–” She stops. “My twin,” she explains softly. “We used to protest the war. We didn’t have a lot, but we stuck together. I was a kid when the war was going on, but back then, he and my parents were alive. My dad used to smuggle in American TV.”

“That does sound scary,” America quietly admits. She’d lived in a lot of places, but thankfully, a warzone had never been one of them. She frowns, processing the other information. “So you lost your parents, too? And your twin?”

Wanda nods. “I lost my parents when I was eight or so and Pietro when I was 17.” And Billy and Tommy and Vision, America’s mind adds. That was a lot of loss.

“I’m sorry,” America says softly. She bites the inside of her cheek, not knowing what to say. Nothing she could say could make it better, really. That she knew firsthand. “What kind of TV did your dad show you?” she asks instead.

Wanda’s mouth quirks into another smile at that. “Sitcoms, mostly. A few dramas for him and Mama. My favorite from then is The Dick Van Dyke Show.”

“Can I watch it?” America asks. “Will you show it to me?”

Wanda blinks, seemingly a little caught off guard. “Yes. If you want to.”

“I do,” she says eagerly. “I mean, if that’s okay,” she quickly adds, noticing Wanda’s awkwardness.

“Yeah, it’s okay. I was just surprised.” 

"Oh.” She tilts her head. “Why? You don't think I'll like it?"

“It’s not that.” Wanda shakes her head. “It’s just that most people don’t take enough interest.” 

"Well, I'm interested," America says, popping another bite of pizza ball into her mouth. "What's it about?"

“This couple named Laura and Rob and their lives. It’s from the 60s, so way before I was born,” Wanda explains.

"And way, way before I was born. But I trust your opinion and am willing to give it a chance." She folds her hands on the table diplomatically.

“That’s sweet of you.” Wanda breathes out a laugh. “I’m happy to watch it with you. I also like some more modern shows like Schitt’s Creek,” she suggests.

"I've seen that one!" America says excitedly, pleased they've found some common ground that's not quite so depressing. "It's really funny. ‘Little bit Alexis,’" she sings, doing a little shimmy. 

“Exactly.” Wanda lets out a small laugh. “We could watch that if you don’t like The Dick Van Dyke Show.”

“I’ll like it,” she says confidently, fully planning on pretending to enjoy it even if she didn’t — it seemed important to Wanda. Plus, she was older and powerful and cool — she wanted to impress her. “But maybe we could watch both.” 

Another thought pops into her head. She was older. And powerful. And cool. She probably had better things to do than hang out with her 24/7. “I mean…if you have time,” America adds. “If you’re not too busy.”

“I’d love to. I haven’t done much since Mount Wundagore. Haven’t really been able to get out of bed,” she admits before cringing a little, the last part clearly slipping without thinking.

“Yeah, almost dying always makes me pretty tired, too.” America nods, the darker implications of the confession going over her 14-year-old head. “But if you just lie in bed all day, you can’t do fun stuff like watch TV.” A beat. “Well, I guess you can if you have a TV in your bedroom, but I never did. That’s why I think staying in hotels is so fun,” America says, popping the last pizza ball into her mouth. “They give you a TV right in front of your bed and you can order food right to your room and sometimes there’s even a swimming pool. There are these books about this girl named Eloise — she lived at The Plaza Hotel."

She glances out the window. “We could stay in one tonight, maybe,” she says as casually as she can manage, trying not to sound too hopeful. “If you’re still tired from almost dying and don’t want to go all the way back to Kamar-Taj.”

Wanda smiles again. “We can definitely do that if you want. I should have enough money for one night.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” Wanda nods. “It’s getting a little late, so we should start looking for one soon. The Plaza maybe?”

"Really?" she asks again, eyes widening. "We could stay there? I'll pay you back. I'm a really good pickpocket. Or I can beg Strange for money. I've got him eating out of my hand," she says proudly, wiggling her fingers.

“Well, I honestly don’t know how expensive it is. If we can’t stay there, we’ll find somewhere else.” There’s a pause before she adds, half-joking: “Or we could beg Stephen for money.”

"We'll make it work,” America says quickly, heart now set on the hotel from the book. “Like I said, I'm very resourceful. And good at sneaking around since no one ever notices kids."

“I feel like I should be telling you not to pickpocket, but it’s a forgivable crime if there is such a thing. Just be careful,” Wanda cautions.

“I will,” America says, a small edge to her tone. She feels her cheeks grow hot, a strange mix of emotions swirling in her chest. A little defensive — she was always careful, and she knew what she was doing — but something else, too. Wanda’s voice…it reminds her a little of her moms again. Protective. Caring. She doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Wanda raises an eyebrow, America’s reaction not going unnoticed. Thankfully, she doesn’t push the subject, holding her hands up in surrender. “Let’s head out.”

"Okay," America says, fidgeting. She feels a little guilty for snapping — she didn’t mean it. It was just…an instinct, at this point. “Are you going to finish that?” she asks, pointing at Wanda’s last two untouched pizza balls.

“Uh, no. I’m not.”

“Can I—" she starts, about to ask if she can finish it. But then she thinks of how weak Wanda looked at Kamar-Taj, the way her stomach growled as soon as they walked into the pizza shop, her talking about not getting out of bed for weeks. “I’ll get you a to-go box. Maybe you’ll be hungry later,” she says instead, sliding out of the booth and heading to the counter. 

“Yo, Vinny!" she calls. No answer. “Vinny!” she yells again. 

“What?” he asks gruffly, reluctantly turning from the oven to face her. 

“Hey. Be nice to me — I’m a paying customer. One who needs a box.”

“You didn’t pay. She did,” he says, gesturing to Wanda at the table. 

“Well, it’s for her, if that makes you feel better.” America rolls her eyes. “Thank you!” she says once he reluctantly tosses her one, and she goes back to the booth, plopping Wanda’s leftovers in. “Ready?”

“Yes. Shall we?” Wanda asks, standing and making her way toward the door.

“To The Plaza we go.” America grins, stepping out onto the sidewalk. 

After a few moments of walking in silence, America speaks up again. “Can I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

“Of course,” Wanda says, Sokovian accent getting thicker — maybe from exhaustion. “What is it?”

“Who’s Natasha?” America asks, eyes flicking over to see Wanda’s expression. “You mentioned her earlier when we were talking, and I was just…curious.”

Wanda bites her lip. “She was my best friend,” she says softly. “In this universe, after Thanos’ snap, she gave her life to get the soul stone and bring us back.” 

“Oh.” America nods, the space between her eyebrows creasing into a line. Yet another person Wanda had lost. “I’m sorry. She sounds really brave.”

“She was. She taught me so much, did so much. I miss her.”

“She was like your mentor? Is she the one who taught you about your powers?”

“Not necessarily about my magic.” Wanda shrugs. “She taught me how to fight better, how to survive and help me grieve Pietro…no one actually taught me magic.” It looks like she wants to say more on that last point for a minute, but when she doesn’t, America decides not to push.

“I wish I could meet her,” America says, kicking at a small rock on the ground. “But who knows? Maybe I will someday, in a different universe.”

“I like to hope there’s a version of her out there that’s happy. If you do, she won’t know me, but…” Wanda shakes her head. “I just want to give her one more hug. The hugs she always groaned about, but I know she secretly liked them, too,” Wanda says, a small, bittersweet smile on her face.

“Yeah,” America says, returning it. “I used to complain when my moms hugged me outside of school when they dropped me off — said I was too grown up for them. But…it's like you said. Now I'd do anything for one more.”

“I’m sorry about your moms, America. I wish you hadn’t lost them so young either.”

She shifts a little closer to Wanda, wordlessly linking her arm through hers as they walk — she needs the comfort right now. Thinks maybe Wanda does, too.

It doesn’t take long to get to the hotel, and her eyes light up when they step into the lobby — gold trim on the walls, a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Whoa,” she says quietly, taking it all in.

“It’s fancy,” Wanda agrees, eyes scanning it, too.

"Can we swing it, you think? No pickpocketing required?"

“Maybe?” Wanda says, glancing down at the still-blackened tips of her fingers. America wonders for a moment if she’s considering making the hotel give them a room by magical means.

“Worth a shot.” She shrugs before Wanda can potentially entertain the thought, charging up to the front desk. “Hello — we need one room, please. Two beds,” she tells the woman behind the counter, then adds: “With a nice view.” Adults loved nice views.

The concierge raises an eyebrow, looking at Wanda. “Your daughter seems eager. How can I help you?” 

“Uh…she–” Wanda stutters, blinking a few times. “She sure is,” she recovers, playing along. America didn’t blame her. Trying to explain their actual dynamic would prove…complicated. “But yes, a room with two beds, please.” 

The woman nods and gives her a price — an expensive one. Wanda grimaces a bit as she forks over her card, and soon enough, they’ve been given key cards and are heading up to the room.

“Thanks…Mom,” America teases once they make it into the elevator, glancing at Wanda to gauge her reaction.

“Yeah, no problem,” Wanda says. She forces a chuckle, trying to laugh it off, but it’s clear the interaction has hit her hard. In what way, exactly, America doesn’t know. 

“Did it bother you?” she asks as they step out of the elevator and make their way down the hall. “That she assumed that?”

Wanda shakes her head. “No, it didn’t bother me. It was just…strange. I guess I didn’t expect it,” she explains, unlocking their door.

“It was weird.” America nods in agreement. “But…it didn’t bother me, either,” she admits. It felt the tiniest bit nice, if she was going to be honest. Which she wasn’t. It was way too soon for that.

Her eyes widen when they enter the room — it’s huge, and from what she can see out the window, it even has the requested view.

“It didn’t bother you?” Wanda asks quietly, sitting down on one of the beds.

“Nah, not really. I mean, I already have more moms than most people — what’s one more?” she jokes with a shrug, running and leaping onto the other bed, hopping a few times. “Oh, this is a good jumping mattress,” she declares. “You should try it.”

“I’ll pass,” Wanda says with a small smile. “Be careful — don’t hit your head on the ceiling,” she warns.

“Oh, come on,” America encourages, effortlessly hopping from her bed to Wanda’s. “It’ll be fun!”

“I’m too tall,” she tries with a shake of her head, but her smile widens.

"You're only, like, an inch taller than me!" America argues.

She’s closer to two or three inches taller, and they both know it, but Wanda doesn’t argue. “I don’t know,” Wanda protests.

“All right, all right,” America relents. “I'll just have to jump enough for the both of us then.”

True to her word, she jumps for a few more minutes…until she starts to get a little nauseous. 

“Ugh,” she groans, flopping onto the bed, hand on her stomach. “Maybe not the best idea after pizza balls.”

When Wanda doesn’t respond, America turns her head to look at her. “Are you okay?” she asks, the space between her eyebrows pinching in concern. “You look kinda pale. Do you feel sick, too? Maybe Strange was right about the extra pepperoni and cheese…I hate it when he’s right.”

Wanda continues staring at her blackened fingers, mind clearly somewhere else — somewhere dark.

“Wanda?” she gently tries again.

When the older woman finally looks up at her, there are tears glimmering in her eyes. She forces a breath in and out before standing. “I’ll be right back,” she says quietly, going to the bathroom and shutting the door behind her.

America stays sitting on the bed as Wanda goes, stomachache even worse — for a different reason now. She racks her brain, trying to figure out what had changed in the past few minutes, what had gone wrong. She’s not sure what she’s said, what she’s done, but she must have messed up somehow considering how Wanda was acting. 

Typical, she thinks bitterly. She always ends up hurting people when she doesn’t mean to. Her moms, for one. It was a good thing, probably, that she was alone all those years — she couldn’t ruin anyone else’s life.

She listens hard and can hear the faint noise of the sink turning on. Something being scrubbed, a few scratches. The sound of Wanda’s sobs getting louder and louder.

She waits. And waits. And waits some more. She considers knocking, making sure Wanda was okay, but how was she going to be able to help? Especially when she’s the one who caused it? 

America bites her lip before standing from the bed, going to the notepad sitting on the desk in the corner of the room. Sorry, she scribbles on it before slipping it under the bathroom door. 

She’s not sure where she’s going to go. Back to Kamar-Taj? Somewhere else? It didn’t matter. 

She’d figured it out before. 

She’d figure it out again.

She goes to open the front door, prepared to step into another chapter of life. Unlike stepping through the portal to come here, the thought of this new journey doesn’t fill her with any excitement at all. 

Chapter Text

Before America can step out of the hotel room, she hears the sink turn off and the bathroom door open. “It’s not your fault,” Wanda says.

America closes the door, turning to face her. She looks…well…not great. Her face is splotchy and tear-stained, her hands red and bleeding. Some of the skin on her fingertips has completely given way to the layer underneath.

Seeing her in Scarlet Witch mode was scary, but in a way, seeing her like this was even scarier.

“How?” America asks, voice cracking. “I’m the only person around — I must have done something.”

Wanda sucks in a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “I– I just. It’s nothing. I…I just got upset with myself,” she vaguely explains, reaching out a raw hand to squeeze America’s shoulder. “I promise you haven’t done anything, dear,” she says, the pet name slipping seemingly without thinking.

“Yet, maybe,” America replies, shrugging her hand off — she doesn’t want to push her away, but she has to. It’s the right thing to do. “I haven’t done anything yet, but it’s bound to happen eventually.” It always did, after all. She was a curse, destroying everything and everyone in her path. Her moms. Strange in some universes. All those people at Kamar-Taj.

Wanda shakes her head. “If it does happen, I won’t leave you or push you away. We all make mistakes,” she says, voice patient and kind — things she didn’t deserve.

"But why?" America challenges. "You barely know me. You've already lost so much — I don't want to make you lose even more. And if you stay with me, you will. People always do."

Her words — they appear to hit Wanda hard for some reason. Her eyes well up, looking at America with an expression that’s not pity but not quite sympathy either. It’s something stronger. Understanding. Empathy. 

“I want to stay with you because you’re like me,” Wanda says, voice soft and shaky. “We both need people, and no one gives a fu– heck about us until we do something wrong.”

America feels her throat get sore at that, feels her eyes burn — tears threatening to escape. “But what if that’s all I’ll ever be capable of?” she says, barely louder than a whisper. “The wrong thing? Or…or hurting people, even if it’s not on purpose? Isn’t it better to just be alone then? Isn’t it selfish not to be?”

Wanda puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, and America allows herself to be led over to the bed, slumping down on it. She’s suddenly exhausted by talking about all these fears and emotions she’s never had to voice to anyone before. It’s overwhelming, but somehow it doesn’t feel completely terrible. It’s almost…a relief, in a way. Especially since Wanda can understand, in some capacity.

“You were not born with venom in your veins,” Wanda soothes once they’re settled. “You may hurt people occasionally, but you just have to learn to control your magic. It’s hard. It’s also hard to not want to be alone because you see yourself as a monster — I know. But you deserve people.”

America looks down at her lap, fingers fidgeting. “It’s scary, though,” she says quietly. “And what’s even worse is that a lot of the problems start when I get scared. It’s all just so…confusing. I don’t get why I have to be…wired this way.”

Wanda puts a hand on her back, rubbing calming circles. “I can’t answer that, but I do know it’s scary and confusing. I get angry when problems start.”

America leans back into the touch, her muscles relaxing a bit. “I get scared; you get scary,” she teases with a small smile. “What a pair we are, huh?”

Wanda’s mouth quirks into a smile, too. “You’re right. What a pair we are.”

“I just….I don’t understand why couldn’t I have gotten a helpful power — like making pizza balls appear out of thin air,” America laments. “I could feed all the hungry and never have to deal with Vinny’s attitude again.”

“Your powers are useful,” Wanda says, expression dropping into a frown. “And aren’t you learning the mystic arts?” she asks, clearly trying to be encouraging.

“Yeah, that’s true. Or they will be useful if I can figure out how to use them right. I’m at the bottom of my class right now,” she mumbles. “But that’s not for lack of trying,” she quickly adds. She didn’t want Wanda to think she was lazy. “I try. Hard.”

“I don’t doubt that you try.” Wanda nods. “Sometimes it just takes time and practice. I know that’s not the most helpful advice, but…” she trails off.

“It is helpful,” America quietly assures her. And it was. “Talking to you…it is helpful.”

“You think so?” Wanda asks, the small smile returning for a moment before it quickly drops again as she catches sight of her hands — a brutal mixture of black and red.

“Yeah,” America promises, cringing as she gets a better look at her wounds up close. They had to be sore. “Do you need something? I can go get a band-aid…or some kind of lotion, maybe?”

“I’ll be okay.” Wanda shakes her head. “I just…” she hesitates, clearly debating whether to tell America the truth. “I hate the mark the Darkhold left,” she finally admits nodding to the black.

America bites the inside of her cheek, not sure how to respond. She wants to help, but how? She doesn’t know what to say, what to do.

“I have this scar on my elbow from falling off my bike,” she says after a few moments, sliding one of her jacket sleeves off. “See?” She shows it to her — a thin white line a few inches long. “I get why you don’t like the mark, but…maybe it’s not so different? Maybe it’s just, like, part of your past. A reminder of stuff you went through. Honestly, I think it looks kinda—" She drops her voice to a whisper. She wasn’t supposed to curse, but maybe it would be okay this one time. For effect. “Badass.”

Wanda looks at her hands, considering. Part of her still looks like she's itching to keep scrubbing, but she refrains. “You think so?” she asks.

“Oh, totally. It’s like…a finger tattoo.”

“Maybe I should actually get tattoos over it,” Wanda suggests.

And she’s probably joking, but the prospect excites America. "That would be cool! Maybe we could get a matching one."

Wanda can’t help but let out a small laugh. “You sure?” 

"Very sure," she says confidently. "I already know that I want a star."

“Stars seem to be your thing. Your portals are star-shaped.” Wanda nods, and America can see right through her. She knows she’s trying to steer the conversation in another direction — distract her from the tattoo topic because she was ‘a child’ and ‘not old enough' — but America wasn’t going to fall for it.

"Exactly! It is my thing, so I'll never change my mind and regret it,” she points out.

“Do you know why that is? Why they’re star-shaped?” Wanda asks. “Or is it just a weird point of reality?”

And that question, as innocent as it is, does make her forget about the tattoo for a minute.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, fidgeting a little. “But…my moms used to call me their estrellita, their little star, so I like to think that has something to do with it."

Wanda smiles. “That’s really sweet.”

“Yeah,” America agrees, mouth curving into a tiny grin, too, at the memory. “Do you have any nicknames? I feel like if we’re going to be friends you need a nickname.”

Wanda shakes her head. “Not really. Most people just call me Wanda.”

"Hmm." America taps her chin, considering. "What about...Wands? No, that feels basic...W? No, that's what they called one of the presidents in some universes…” She squints, racking her brain, but nothing springs to mind. “I'll think about it and get back to you,” she promises.

“Sounds like a plan,” Wanda says, giving her a serious nod. “So what’s my nickname for you?”

"I don't know." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "But I feel like if I get to make up one for you, you should get to make up one for me, too. It's only fair."

Wanda raises an eyebrow and lets out a short laugh. “The only one I can think of is ‘Star Girl.’ I guess I’m not good at coming up with nicknames.”

“Star Girl,” America repeats, trying it out — seeing how it feels rolling off her tongue. She grins. “I like it.”

“You do?” Wanda asks, eyebrow quirking up higher.

"Actually, no — I don't like it." She takes a short pause for dramatic effect. "I love it. It's like a superhero name."

“It is,” Wanda agrees with a smile. “And I’d say you’re pretty close to a superhero so it’s fitting.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” America scoffs, but she blushes a little at Wanda thinking so. “Someday I want to, though — be a superhero like you.”

Wanda tenses at that, smile faltering. She recovers after a moment, but her expression is tighter. Forced. One that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s nice.”

“It’s true.” America shrugs. “And if you teach me, then it’ll happen. I’ll learn from the best.”

Wanda goes silent, pursing her lips. America can practically see all the thoughts swirling around in her head, but she can’t pin any of them down. Can’t read any of them. She has no idea what she’s thinking, and as much as she wants to pry, she doesn’t want to push too hard too soon. 

“I’m happy to teach you,” Wanda says simply.

“You’ll be a cool teacher, right? You won’t make me write essays or do a bunch of homework?”

Wanda lets out a small laugh — a good sign, America thinks. “No essays, but I can’t promise no homework. It takes practice to be good.” 

“Okay,” she relents. “That’s fair. I want to be good. No — I want to be the best,” she corrects.

“And you can be as soon as you learn more about your powers,” Wanda says.

“You really think so?” America asks, stifling a yawn — it had been a long day, not to mention an emotionally heavy one.

Wanda nods. “You’re very powerful. You just need to trust yourself and learn a bit more.” Wanda looks back at the alarm clock on the nightstand — it had to be getting late. “Do you want to go to sleep?”

“No, that’s okay — I’m not tired,” America lies, eyelids growing heavy. “But, I mean, if you wanted to, we could. I would understand.”

Wanda gives her a knowing look. “I think maybe we should,” she says, lighting rubbing her arm. 

“Okay,” she agrees, letting her eyes close. She makes no move to get up and go back to her own bed yet, just enjoying the comfort — the feeling of not being alone anymore.

After a moment, Wanda carefully gets up and starts untucking the other bed. The way she does it makes it seem like a habit — like it’s something she’s done a hundred times before, maybe for her own kids. “Goodnight,” Wanda says, giving the pillow a pat.

America pushes herself off of Wanda’s bed, walking over to her own. “Goodnight,” she echoes, wrapping her arms around her. “I’ll see you in the morning, right?" she asks.

Wanda hugs back — tighter than at Kamar-Taj. Less afraid. “You will. I promise,” she says, giving her a squeeze.

“Good.” America smiles up at her before pulling back and climbing into bed.

She burrows under the covers and is out like a light — and softly snoring — within seconds, not even bothering to try and figure out pajamas. Despite sleeping in jeans, her rest is deep and peaceful — which is more than she can say for Wanda.

She wakes up to the sun peeking under the blinds of the hotel window and the sound of the other woman whimpering. America rolls, turning to face her. “Hey,” she softly greets — voice still groggy as she blinks a few times, eyes adjusting to the light. “You okay?”

Wanda’s eyes snap open as she gasps for air. It takes a few seconds for her to register where she is, what’s happening. “I– I…just had a dream about my boys,” she admits as she attempts to catch her breath.

“Oh,” America says softly, more alert now. She climbs out of bed, padding over to the bathroom to fetch a cup of water. “Here." She hands it to her. “It helps me sometimes.”

Wanda sits up with a wince, taking the cup. “Thank you,” she whispers, voice equal parts grateful and embarrassed.

“You’re welcome,” she says, hovering there awkwardly for a few seconds. She doesn’t know what else to do, but she feels like she should do something. 

After a moment, America sits down on the bed next to her, crawling under the covers and resting her head on her shoulder. “I’m here,” she says quietly. “I’m still here.”

Wanda takes a sip of water, scooting over to give America more room. “I know,” she says. “And I’m glad you are.”

“Me too. It would have sucked to have gotten sucked through a portal when I was asleep — you paid so much for the hotel, so I want to enjoy every second of it,” she teases.

Wanda smiles a little at that. “You’re right — I did pay a lot. It’d be a shame if the other guest got whisked away before morning.” 

“The hotel should definitely give you a refund, in that case.” America laughs. “Or at least complimentary room service or something.”

“It’d be worth a shot,” Wanda says, raising the glass to her lips again. “Out of curiosity, could you have? Opened a portal in your sleep?”

“It’s happened a couple of times when I was in universes that were…well…not super safe,” she says, biting her lip. “I don’t have nightmares exactly — you know, because of the whole not dreaming thing — but I guess my body can still panic when I’m not totally conscious? Anxiety and all that. I don’t know the logistics. All I know is that waking up after that happens is really confusing.”

Wanda nods. “I can imagine — that sounds confusing. Have you gotten a better grasp on controlling that now?”

“I guess so? I mean, it hasn’t happened in a while.” America shrugs. “But still — it would be nice to figure out how to make sure it definitely doesn’t happen again.” She looks up at Wanda. “Could you teach me how to do that? Or…I don’t know…do you know someone who might be able to? Have you met other people like us?”

“I know one other person like us,” Wanda says slowly. “She might be able to help.”

“Yeah?” America asks, sensing the caution in her voice, her own tone matching its uncertainty. “Is she…I don’t know…nice?”

“She’s…something,” Wanda says vaguely. “She tried to take my powers once then said I’d need her one day.” She bites her lip.

“Oh. That sounds…intense,” she says, eyes widening slightly. “Well, we don’t have to see her. Not if you don’t want to. We can figure it out a different way.”

“We can. She actually might be able to help. She’s just…like you said: intense.” Wanda sighs, offering America a small smile.

She gives her a small smile back, though the word ‘intense’ isn’t particularly reassuring. Still, she did want help — beggars, she supposed, couldn’t be choosers. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m about as sure as I’ll ever be. I don’t know how it’ll go, but she knows far more about magic than I do. Like I said, I don’t have any formal training.”

“That’s so crazy,” America shakes her head. “I feel like you know so much.”

“I know a lot from studying the Darkhold,” Wanda quietly admits. “I also just learned as I went. It sort of came naturally.”

“Well, I think that’s really impressive — I’m sure that was hard, even if it did come naturally.“ America nods. “I also think I’m really lucky I won’t have to do it all on my own thanks to you and…what’s her name? This other person?”

“Agatha.” 

“Agatha,” she repeats. “Does she live close? Not that it matters, I guess, since we could just portal there…”

“She lives in Westview, New Jersey,” Wanda says with a small wince.

"What?” America asks, noting the reaction. “Is that really far? It feels like it shouldn't be far. New York, New Jersey...feels like they should be grouped."

“It’s not that it's far away. It’s that…” Wanda sighs. “I put her under mind control after she attempted to steal my powers,” she says. And I don’t want you to hate me for it, her voice implies.

That’s something America couldn’t promise yet, her head spinning from the confession. Her chest feels tight, a bit of familiar terror creeping up — terror she thought had disappeared when it came to Wanda. 

“Wait, mind control?” America asks, scooting away and standing. “What does that mean? Does she have to do whatever you say? Is she still under it?”

Wanda grimaces, shaking her head. “No — it’s a long story but no. And yes, but I’ll let her out of it when we get there.”

“What does it mean, then? What does it do? Is she the only one?” she asks, crossing her arms. She was starting to trust Wanda — she still wanted to — but this information made it hard not to be freaked out.

“She’s the only one,” Wanda promises. “I’m sorry. She was just dangerous, and I know that’s not an excuse. I just– I was scared,” she says, dropping her gaze to her lap — unable to look at America.

America contemplates this, staring down at the ground, nudging the carpet with her toe. She doesn’t like the sound of it, but she can understand, on some level — who knows what kind of lengths she herself would go to stop being scared? 

“Is she still dangerous?” she asks quietly. “Will she try and hurt us if you take the spell off?”

“I have no idea,” Wanda admits. “She might be, but she wouldn’t hurt you. I wouldn’t let her,” Wanda says firmly.

America softens at that, some of the anxiety — about Agatha, about Wanda — melting away. “I trust you.”

Wanda finally glances up, “I– thank you,” she says in a way that makes America know that means something to her. Something important.

America gives her a small smile. “So should we hit the road? Or…hit the portal? Or do you want to hang out here — get breakfast first?”

Wanda’s nose crinkles at the mention of food, but she’s obviously trying to be a good nutritional influence because she says: “We can get breakfast first.”

“I…probably won’t eat anything,” America says. “Still full from all those pizza balls, you know?” she says — only half-true. She did eat a big dinner, but she knows it's more the nerves, the anticipation of meeting this Agatha person, that's messing with her appetite.

“Honestly, neither will I,” Wanda confesses with a sigh. 

“Maybe we just…skip it? Eat a big lunch later?” America suggests. “Sounds like we might need one after meeting Agatha,” she tries to joke.

Wanda smiles a bit. “Sounds like a plan. Should I take us there then?” she asks, standing and waving her hand over her sleep clothes to reveal a fresh outfit.

America’s jaw drops. "Okay, you're definitely going to have to teach me how to do that sometime." 

“We’ll see what we can do.” Wanda winks.

“Okay.” America takes a deep breath, hyping herself up as Wanda opens the portal. "I'm ready."

She’s about to step through before changing her mind, going to the mini fridge in the room first and grabbing Wanda's leftover pizza balls from last night. 

“Seems rude to arrive at her house empty-handed,” she explains. “Peace offering.” She shrugs before going through the portal.

Soon enough, the two of them are stepping onto the sidewalk of a quiet, suburban neighborhood. It’s idyllic, really. Green grass, blue skies, well-kept houses. "This place seems nice," America says as they traverse through the neighborhood.

It’s not all warm and fuzzies, though. The few people they pass on the street stare the two of them down — their eyes following their every move. Some glare. Some cower. All the while, Wanda keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the ground, refusing to look up. 

"The people seem kinda nosy, though," America whispers.

“They are,” Wanda agrees. “And I know why. It’s…a long story.” She sighs.

After walking a little further, Wanda turns, leading them up the driveway of what America can only assume is Agatha’s house. It’s unassuming, with robin egg blue shutters, but her stomach still churns when Wanda raises her knuckle to knock on the door. 

America doesn’t know what she’ll be greeted with on the other side — and she’s not entirely sure she’s ready to find out. 

Chapter Text

After a couple of seconds, the door opens to reveal…frankly, a pretty normal-looking woman. She’s wearing an apron with a few specks of flour on it, her brunette hair tied up in a ponytail. She smiles when she sees them, which America takes as a good sign. 

But there’s something a little…off, too, America realizes the longer she looks. Her smile looks just a bit too big — forced, somehow — and there’s a strain in her eyes.

“Hey, hot stuff,” she says, giving Wanda an admiring once-over.

Okay, so that’s unexpected. And weird. And kind of…gross. Wanda was, like…well, not her mom, but also not somebody she wanted to see people flirt with.

Before America can react, Wanda’s hands are on the woman’s temples, and immediately, it’s like a flip has been switched. The strained look melts away, the cheery smile replaced with a smirk. Her posture changes, too — somehow more relaxed and domineering at once.

“Wanda, Wanda — back so soon,” she says, looking her up and down again. Even her voice is different: deeper, smoother, all traces of chipperness gone. She turns her head — a little reluctantly, it seems — to scrutinize America. “And who’s this?”

America struggles not to squirm under her gaze. “America Chavez,” she says formally, lifting her chin and sticking her arm out for a handshake instead. Trying to project confidence. "Wanda's protégée, one might say," she adds for credibility’s sake.

Agatha raises an eyebrow but shakes her hand. “Agatha Harkness,” she says before shifting her attention back to Wanda, the smirk returning. “A protégée? Before you’ve learned anything formal? How ambitious, Wanda.”

“Who says I haven’t learned anything?” Wanda replies through gritted teeth, Agatha clearly already grating on her. 

“She knows stuff,” America says, suddenly feeling very defensive of Wanda. “She literally went like this—" She waves her hand over her body to demonstrate. “—and changed her clothes this morning. They appeared out of thin air.”

Agatha crosses her arms. “I’m sure she did,” she says, tone sitting somewhere between condescending and amused. But she grows serious after a moment, eying America. “What is it you can do? And why are you two here?”

“I can open portals. Ones to different universes,” she explains, which causes Agatha’s eyes to widen. America glances over at Wanda for some kind of cue, not sure how much to elaborate — what to reveal. Could they trust Agatha? What this her being hostile, or was this her standard amount of haughtiness?

As if reading her mind, Wanda gives her a small nod as if to say: yes, I trust her, and yes, this is typical. She looks back at Agatha. “Can we talk to you?”

“Yes. Come in.” She nods, stepping aside to usher them into the house. 

America walks in slowly, staying close to Wanda as she looks around. The place is neat. Organized. There are a few cutesy knick-knacks that did not seem on-brand for her scattered around. America wonders if maybe that was part of it somehow — the whole mind control thing.

“Tell me more about your powers,” Agatha prompts, leading them into the living room.

“To be honest? I don’t know that much about them. That’s…kind of why we’re here. We thought maybe you could help,” America says as she and Wanda take a seat on the couch. “Like I said, I can open portals — access the multiverse — but I haven’t really figured out how to control it yet. Haven’t mastered when it happens or even where I go. It usually happens when I get scared, sometimes when I'm excited — experience a strong emotion, I guess.” She pauses, racking her brain for any other information. “Oh, and the portals are star-shaped. In case that’s relevant, for some reason,” she adds.

“Star-shaped portals? And you don’t know how to control them? Interesting…” Agatha says, lazily sitting in an armchair across the room and mulling over what America has said. “What do you know about magic?”

“Well, I went to magic camp when I was five, so I know how to make a penny disappear and pull a rabbit out of a hat,” she jokes — a habit when she’s nervous. “But about real magic? Next to nothing,” she quietly admits.

“Well, there’s lots to learn it seems,” Agatha states.

“I know there is,” she assures her seriously, trying not to sound intimidated — both by the daunting prospect of figuring it all out and her presence in general. “And I want to learn it all.” America looks down at her lap, realizing she’s still holding the box of pizza balls. “Oh. We also…brought you these. If you want them. As a…thank you,” she says awkwardly, sliding it across the coffee table. Everybody liked gifts, right?

Agatha glances at the to-go container with a raised eyebrow. “What are they?”

“Pizza balls. They’re the best.”

She leans forward, flipping open the lid to look at them. “Well…” she says, struggling to come up with a proper response. “Thank you,” she settles on before sitting back in her seat and getting down to business. Not one for small talk, America supposed. “First things first: your mind is your most powerful weapon?”

America nods. “I guess it would be, yeah. Or it will be once I understand how my thoughts and feelings work with the magic, how to control it all.”

“It already is. In order to jump the multiverse, you need mental fortitude,” Agatha says, voice brash. “But I do understand what you’re saying about needing control. You think Wanda can teach you?" she asks with a scoff.

“I know she can,” America says, defensiveness flaring up again. “She promised she would. And she must be pretty good if you tried to take her powers, right?” She raises a challenging eyebrow of her own.

Agatha’s mouth thins into a line. “Wanda is the Scarlet Witch. Capable of spontaneous creation. A nexus being. Of course she’s powerful.”

“Right. Obviously,” America says, despite not knowing what half of those things mean. “She’s…the spontaneous, creative nexus thing, and she seems to think you’re the best at the more formal side of magic. Ideally, I’d like help from both of you, but if you’re not interested…”

“I’m happy to help,” Agatha cuts her off.

“Really?” Wow, maybe this was going to be easier than she thought.

“Under one condition.”

Of course.

America crosses her arms, trying to keep up her tough demeanor, though she doesn’t love the idea of a condition — especially not from this woman. “Name it.”

“Actually two,” Agatha corrects, looking from her to Wanda. “I want to be free your spell, Red,” she says with a wink. “And I want to know what happened to the Darkhold,” she adds, holding her own blackened fingers up.

America swallows hard, looking over at Wanda. The first one’s not up to her, and while she knows what happened to the Darkhold — all of the Darkholds — she’s afraid Agatha might not like the answer.

“Fine.” Wanda nods, trying to exude an air of ease, but there’s clearly anxiety simmering under the surface. “You won’t be under my spell anymore — as long as you promise not to hurt me or America.”

Agatha’s mouth curves into a cocky grin. “Sure. Can do, sweetheart. And the Darkhold?”

“What do you want with it?” America asks instead of answering.

“Oh, nothing,” Agatha says, locking eyes with her. “It just used to be mine is all.” 

“Well…” America squares her shoulders. “Unfortunately, it was destroyed for the sake of the safety and stability of the multiverse. So…sorry about that.”

She prepares herself for violence, or at least a screaming match, but thankfully, all Agatha does is frown. “Well that’s no fun,” she says. “I could feel something happen to it, though, a little while back — presumably when it was destroyed.”

“Yeah. It’s a bummer,” America agrees — the terror fading into general discomfort. “But, I mean, who really wants to read anyway, right? Call me when there’s a movie adaptation,” she awkwardly jokes.

“Wanda wanted to read it. Didn’t you, dearie?” Agatha glances at the other woman, eying the black on her fingers. “I see the Darkhold got the best of you,” she says, her voice feeling very I told you so.

“Yes.” Wanda looks down at her hands, visibly uncomfortable. “I suppose you could say that on both accounts.”

“So what happened?” Agatha pries, expectant grin on her face.

“It doesn’t matter,” America cuts in, sensing Wanda’s unease. She did not want another hotel bathroom situation. “She’s not under its spell anymore, and you’re not under hers, so I think we can all just—" She waves her hand. “—let it go, yeah?”

“You’re no fun either.” Agatha rolls her eyes.

“What? I am very fun,” America says, indignant. “I jumped on the bed last night, and I’m getting a tattoo,” she informs her — proof of her funness.

“I’m sure you are, dear,” Agatha says, somehow more patronizing than before, if that was even possible.

“I am fun. And I am getting a tattoo. It’s going to be a star, and it’s going to look really cool, so…”

Agatha looks like she’s debating whether to say something, but she ultimately decides against it. “Uh-huh,” she murmurs instead. 

America scowls at the fact she very clearly doesn’t believe her. She’s about to argue further when Agatha speaks again. “So what is it exactly you want my help with?”

She shakes her head — the tattoo defense all but forgotten. Yeah, this lady was annoying, but she might be able to help. That was more important. 

“Well…a lot of things,” America says. “I mean, I know so little I don’t even know what I don’t know. But the most pressing is being able to control my powers — especially when I sleep. I’ve been learning — with Wanda and at Kamar-Taj — but this is…urgent.” She fidgets a little, voice growing softer, thinking back to all the times she was pulled away from somewhere she didn’t want to leave. “I don’t want to wake up in some other universe again. I like this one too much.”

Agatha’s expression changes to an intense look — but it’s a different kind this time. Academic instead of aggressive, as if she’s trying to think of a solution. “Maybe your powers are rooted in emotion,” she suggests.

“That was our hypothesis,” America agrees, nodding her head toward Wanda. “But how do I control that? Isn’t the whole point of emotions that they’re, I don’t know…involuntary?”

“Not exactly.” Agatha shakes her head. “Emotions are complex. Have you worked through identifying them in the moment? Before they get so big?”

“I don’t know.” America shrugs, looking down at her hands. She suddenly feels shy, having all this attention on her. And being vulnerable, open like this — it's hard. “Not really, I don’t think? I wouldn’t even know how. Most times it feels like they come out of nowhere and hit me like this…like this wave. And they’re so strong it’s like they drown me before I can even try to swim through them."

Agatha nods, voice gentler — more sincere — than America’s heard all day. “I know this isn’t the magical advice you probably came for, but start there. Then we can work on channeling them.”

America sighs, looking up at her. “And I know this isn’t the magical advice you’re probably qualified to give, but how do you suggest I do that?” she asks quietly.

“When you start to feel an emotion or situation coming on that could be emotional, stop and assess what you’re feeling. Break it down,” Agatha explains.

“Stop and break it down,” she repeats with a nod, taking a shaky breath in — fingers fidgeting again. Truth be told, she was feeling pretty emotional now.

Wanda must notice it, too, because she reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. It makes her relax a little — the touch helping to ground her.

“Should I practice now?” she asks softly. “Assessing the emotions?”

Agatha shrugs. “Are you emotional? Emotional enough to open a portal?”

“Not yet, but the point is to stop it before it gets to that level, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Agatha nods.

America takes a deep breath, looking down and nudging the floor with the toe of her shoe. “I feel weird,” she quietly confesses. “I’ve been alone for so long that it’s weird not to be anymore. And to…talk about stuff like this. And I feel…a little nervous because I am very aware you could likely kill me with your magic in like two seconds.” She glances up at Agatha. She pauses — reconsiders. “Maybe even less time than that.” Another pause. “Probably less time than that, actually. I don’t think you will — I mean I hope you won’t — but it’s still…uh…a little intimidating.”

Agatha’s expression remains unreadable for another moment before she cracks a small smile. “If I wanted you dead, you would be,” she says — an oddly comforting fact. “First of all, though: I don’t want you dead. And second of all: hot stuff over there would stop me,” she says, glancing over at Wanda. An even more comforting one.

America slowly nods. “Both excellent points,” she admits.

“Keep working on those emotions. As for the magic parts, since you have no formal training, we’ll have to start from the basics,” Agatha declares.

“The basics?” She scrunches her nose. “So, like…magic kindergarten?”

Agatha lets out a chuckle. “I don’t know. If you want to call it that, sure. You just need to learn the fundamentals.”

“Like what?" she asks curiously. "Give me an example. I want to know what to expect."

Agatha raises an eyebrow in thought for a second. “Sigils. Runes.”

America racks her brain, trying to remember what those words even mean. “Those are symbols, right? Pictures?” Agatha nods. “So I'm essentially learning to read? Be...witch literate?"

“In a way. Sigils you channel an intention into and charge with your magic — they can ward, among other things. Runes are typically a divination tool.”

“That’s…important. I guess,” America says, unenthused. She leans forward. “But when do I get to learn the cool stuff like how to change my clothes and make food appear out of thin air and curse those who’ve wronged me? Vinny,” she says, coughing the last word.

Agatha grins a little, amused. “In time. What you’re talking about is chaos magic. Except the hexing. That, once you have a grip on things, should be easy.”

“‘In time.’ That’s something people say when it’s forever away,” she grumbles, slumping back against the couch and crossing her arms. “What grade?” she pushes. “If sigils and runes are magic kindergarten, what grade is the awesome chaos magic?”

Agatha lets out another chuckle. “I don’t know, but you need to understand the basics before you cast chaos magic.”

“Ugh,” she throws her head back so she’s staring at the ceiling. “You say I’m no fun? I think you’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty fun once you get to know me,” Agatha says — an edge to her tone.

She looks back at Agatha, giving her a noncommittal shrug. “I’m sure you are,” she says, parroting her own words and suppressing a smirk. 

Agatha had spent the entirety of their meeting so far trying to get under her and Wanda’s skin — she had to admit, it felt a little good to successfully turn the tables for a moment and rile her up. Especially now that she knew Agatha was...well, not harmless but at least not planning to try and harm them.

Agatha rolls her eyes before sparing another glance at Wanda. The way she’s looking at her…oh, there was definitely something going on there. Wanda wasn’t controlling her mind anymore, but if that look was any indication, she was still very much in control of her heart.

Agatha blinks a few times, making herself refocus. America does the same because again…ew.

“How do you want do this?” Agatha asks, folding her hands in her lap. “In terms of me teaching you.”

“Whatever you think is best, I guess?” America holds up her index finger. There were limits to that statement. “But I don’t want to write essays. Wanda already promised no essays.”

“No essays,” Agatha agrees. “All of it will be practical work. Practice. If you want to learn, be here every day at 11 am sharp, and we’ll take it day by day.” 

11 am — that was much better than her old school starting at 8. “Weekends, too?”

Agatha cocks a challenging brow. “Well, I don’t know — how quickly do you want to learn?” 

America hesitates, considering this for a moment. “Okay — weekends, too,” she relents.

Agatha smiles, more genuine than before. Could it be she was actually looking forward to teaching her? “Good, good.”

“Great.” She nods. She feels more butterflies in her stomach, but it’s different from before. Not nerves but excitement at the prospect of learning more about her magic. About herself. She hungers for the knowledge. 

Her stomach growls, hungering for something else, too. 

“Should we all get lunch? We skipped breakfast,” America says, nodding toward Wanda.

“If Wanda wants to stay, I’m happy to cook,” Agatha says, glancing at her, too.

Wanda sighs, rubbing her face — she already looked tired again. “Sure,” she finally relents. “Why not?”

Chapter Text

Agatha stands from the couch, heading into the kitchen to prepare lunch.

“I can help,” America quickly offers, following suit and standing, too. It seemed she was currently on Agatha’s good side — she wanted to stay that way. Halfway through the living room, she pauses, realizing that assisting might not actually be in her skillset. “Or…I mean…do you just use a regular oven and stove and stuff? Or do you cook with magic?” she asks, wiggling her fingers on the last word.

“Magic is a lot easier, but you can set the table for me,” Agatha says, nodding toward the cabinet.

America pouts at being assigned the much more boring task. “Really making good on that ‘fun’ promise,” she sarcastically mumbles under her breath, though she obediently retrieves a few plates and bowls.

“Telekinesis to set the table or cook or anything really is a lot harder than you think,” Agatha says without looking back, beginning to gather the ingredients for vegetable soup and some rolls.

America momentarily freezes, her eyes widening — she did not expect her to be able to hear her snarky comment. Maybe she was louder than she thought, or maybe Agatha could read her mind — a more advanced power. 

She quickly grabs a few spoons from a drawer, carrying them over to the table where Wanda is already sitting.

“This is going well, right?” she whispers — even more quietly than before.

“I think so.” Wanda nods. “This is close to the person I knew before she…you know. Just a little smugger.” 

“Smug. That’s one way to put it,” America says, rolling her eyes as she starts setting the table.

Wanda breathes out a laugh, though America can see her watching Agatha carefully through the cracked kitchen door, her hands adeptly controlling pots and pans with magic. 

A few minutes pass as America focuses on putting out the place settings — neatly, because Agatha seemed like the type to make her redo it if she deemed it too sloppy. She can hear Agatha lightly humming to herself from the next room, the light clinks and clangs of kitchen utensils as she assembles the dishes. “This’ll be ready in about 10 minutes,” she calls.

“Sounds good!” America calls back, briefly looking up from her task to see Wanda still staring intently into the kitchen, a strange look on her face. “Everything okay? She’s not, like, poisoning the soup, is she?” she asks, lowering her voice again as she glances back at the kitchen as well. “Because she promised she didn’t want to kill me. You heard her say that."

Wanda glances up, blinking a few times — ripped from a daze. “Yeah,” she assures her. “Everything’s okay. No soup poison — I’m just thinking." She shrugs, shaking her head as if trying to rid it of a thought.

“About what?” America asks, setting down the last spoon and going to sit next to her. She has her suspicions, of course, but she’d learned the hard way that assumptions could be dangerous things.

Wanda lets out a small sigh, looking at her. It’s clear she’s considering whether or not to lie to her. “Agatha,” she says simply. It doesn’t feel like a lie, but it doesn’t feel like the whole truth either.

“Okaaay…” America says slowly. “That makes sense considering we’re in her house and have been talking to her all morning.”

Wanda gives her a look. “You know I’m not saying something, don’t you?”

America shrugs, busying herself with straightening an already-straight spoon on the placemat. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says, trying to make her voice sound casual, though she is fishing for more information — reverse psychology and all that. “I mean, you can — but you don’t have to.”

Wanda nods, seemingly mulling it over in her head. “I was just having a weird thought about her,” she quietly admits after a moment.

And there it is — suspicions confirmed. Agatha was very not subtle about her feelings for Wanda — she literally called her “hot stuff” within the first two seconds of seeing her — and while Wanda was much more reserved, harder to read, this is all the proof she needs to know that those feelings are not one-sided.

It does still kind of make America want to gag a bit — who wants to think about their temporary guardian-type person and their teacher that way? — but she does have to admit that it is kind of sweet in a way, too. She wanted them both to be happy.

She just hopes they can figure their stuff out on their own. America didn’t want to have to meddle to make them realize their mushy feelings for each other, but she would if it came down to it. For the cause. For the common good.

But she doesn’t think those drastic measures are necessary — not yet at least.

So instead she just nods, deciding not to press for now. “Well, she is kind of a weird person, so that makes sense, too,” she teases, a small smile on her face.

“That she is,” Wanda agrees, smiling back. Her eyes drift to the kitchen once again. God, they were really down bad for each other.

After 10 minutes — almost exactly on the dot — Agatha flicks her wrist, and a large container of soup and a pan of bread get whisked to the table by streams of purple magic. “Lunch is ready,” she announces.

“Whoa. A+ service,” America says as the magic carries the dishes to the table. This, Wanda changing her clothes — all the common, everyday magic stuff may be no big deal to them, but it was still wicked cool to her. A rich, aromatic scent wafts its way into her nostrils. “And it smells good. Thanks, Agatha.”

She takes the ladle, scooping some soup from the large bowl into her smaller one. “Do you want a nickname, too? Wanda calls me Star Girl, and I’m still thinking of one for her. I noticed you call her Hot Stuff already,” she says, crinkling her nose. “Which I will not be adopting because that would be weird.”

Agatha freezes when America points out the nickname — just for a millisecond, but still. She dares a quick glance at Wanda, who promptly averts her gaze. After a moment, she recovers, shrugging and smoothing her napkin on her lap. “If you’d like to give me one. I’m indifferent, dear.”

“You definitely need one,” America asserts, grabbing a roll and promptly burning her fingers on it. Patience was never her strong suit. “Ow. Hot,” she hisses, dropping it onto her plate. But she doesn’t allow the slight obstacle to deter her from her task. “Ag. Aggie. Big A. Auntie Ags,” she rambles some options.

“Oh?” Agatha raises an eyebrow. “Pick any you like.”

She knows Agatha is only going along with it to humor her, but she squints, taking her self-imposed task seriously. “Auntie Ags, I think,” she determines. “It has a nice ring to it, with the alliteration and all.”

Agatha breathes out a chuckle. “If you say so.”

“I do say so, Auntie Ags,” she says proudly, liking the way it rolls off the tongue.

Agatha cracks a small smile at that, softening in a way that makes America wonder if anyone had ever given her a nickname before. “Shall we eat then?” Agatha asks.

“We shall.” America eagerly picks up her spoon, remembering to blow on it this time before taking a bite. It’s worth the short delay — the soup is delicious. Thick, hearty, a little spicy. “Oh, this is good." She nods appreciatively.

“Thank you. It’s an old recipe.”

"Well, it's a good one," she says, taking another bite. "You have me enjoying vegetables, which is honestly the most magical thing you've done all day. Hey, maybe you could teach me how to cook, too. I only know how to make a few things,” she says. 

A wave of sadness hits her suddenly as she thinks of being in the kitchen with her moms — standing on a stool and helping them make tamales and chilaquiles. She looks down at her bowl, stirring her spoon around.

Agatha clearly notices — tilting her head slightly — but thankfully, she doesn’t push. “Maybe I can. What do you like to eat?”

“Lots of things.” She shrugs. “What do you like to make?”

“I bake, but I also cook a lot of savory meals, spicy dishes—”

“I like spicy,” America says with a small grin. “We should definitely make spicy.” 

Agatha nods. “I remember a lot of old recipes from Salem that’d fit the bill.”

“Salem?” America asks curiously. “That’s where you’re from?”

“Yes. From the age of the witch trials.”

“Oh. I see.” She nods, trying to appear more knowledgeable than she is. She knows the basics — she’d spent a lot of time in libraries; they were usually some of the safest places in most universes — but it’s not something she's particularly well-versed on. She probably should be, all things considered, but she did not want to add a history lesson to the agenda and make it even longer before she got to learn the cool parts of magic. “Do you miss it?”

Agatha ponders this for a moment. “Maybe,” she says vaguely. “It’s hard to say. Depends on the day.”

America nods. “That makes sense. You like it here? In Westview?”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “When we were under the Hex, it depended on the decade. When I was trapped as Agnes, no, so it’s a mixed bag.”

“Wait…decade?” America asks, eyebrows wrinkling as she looks between her and Wanda. The math was not adding up. “How long did you live here?”

“The Hex was a spell I accidentally put over Westview,” Wanda explains. “Each time something semi-bad happened in each decade, my magic would just shift the Hex to a new one.”

“Oh.” America nods. This makes more sense. It sounds similar to what she accidentally does — shift things when they get bad.

“And I’ve been alive for almost 300 years, dear,” Agatha clarifies. “But I’ve only been Westview a few months.”

“Well, you look great for 300,” she tells her. “My grandma was like…230 years younger than you and had way more wrinkles.”

“It’s the magic,” she says, giving America a wink.

It sparks an idea in her brain. “If the magic can make you look younger, does that mean it can make me look older?” she asks slowly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Wanda shoot Agatha a warning glance across the table. No mischievous looks cross Agatha’s face, though — instead, she seems deep in thought.

“Theoretically,” Agatha finally decides. “But that’s not the point of magic — it’s a bonus. Why would you want to be older?”

“So I can do cool stuff, obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “Get a tattoo, drink, drive — not at the same time, of course,” she says quickly. “I’m not that irresponsible”

“Maybe we don’t do that,” Agatha says dryly. “Besides, you’d need an ID.” 

“Right, but you could use magic to whip up an ID, too, couldn’t you?” she presses. “Hypothetically?” she adds, trying — and likely failing — not to seem suspicious.

Agatha chuckles. “You’re quite the schemer — I approve.” Her expression grows more serious, shooting America a look complete with the eyebrow raise that is, frankly, a little scary. “But no, I would not.”

“Okay, Auntie Ags,” she agrees, raising her hands innocently — wisely deciding not to push the subject further. “No pretending to be older, no fake IDs — just runes and sigils and maybe some cooking here and there. Promise.”

Agatha nods, satisfied. “How old are you anyway?”

“Oh, I’m only 100,” she teases, ripping another piece of roll. “Kidding. 14."

Agatha nods, glancing at her appraisingly. Silence falls for a few moments, everyone preoccupied with eating, before Agatha speaks again. “How did you meet Wanda?” 

There it was. The simplest yet most complicated question she could pose.

“Uh…well...” America stutters, spoon frozen halfway between the table and her mouth — small drops of soup dripping back into the bowl.

Wanda shifts uncomfortably in her seat, glancing over at her — a look that told her she would let America decide how much to say.

America shrugs, giving her a small nod. They’d have to tell her the truth. What choice did they have? They were going to be seeing Agatha every day for the foreseeable future, and she did not seem like the type to let things go.

Wanda opens her mouth, then closes it again, trying to think of the words. “I kidnapped America and sent monsters after her so I could steal her power,” she says, ripping off the band-aid. Her voice is full of shame. Regret. Pain.

“Oh?” Agatha looks between them. “Product of your interactions with the Darkhold then?” 

“It had to have been,” America says in with a nod, looking at Wanda. “You wouldn’t have done it otherwise. That’s not you.” It was still a little hard to reconcile that version of Wanda with this version of her — the person who put her in so much danger with the person who finally made her feel safe.

Agatha looks at Wanda with a small smirk. “I warned you about the Darkhold, and that you’d need me.”

Wanda looks up at her, eyes narrowed, but the way her face is pinched shows she feels guilty — that she knows Agatha is right and doesn’t want to admit it.

“Okay, you don’t have to be a witch with a b instead of a w about it,” America cuts in, that defensiveness flaring up. “What, you’ve never made a mistake before?”

Agatha holds her hands up. “I don’t mean to be a bitch.” Her smug expression tells America that’s not completely true. “I’m just saying.”

“You tried to steal Wanda’s power, Wanda tried to steal mine — it kind of seems like it’s just part of witch culture. Like an initiation,” America reasons.

“Maybe so,” Agatha replies. “Whose powers will you steal?” she jokes without missing a beat.

America laughs at the unexpectedness of it, nearly choking on her soup. “Now that’s funny,” she says, pointing at her. “Maybe you are fun.”

“Told you,” she says with a wink, taking a few more bites of her soup before speaking again. “So where are you from?”

Another simple yet extremely complicated question. She was on a roll with those.

“That’s…complicated,” America says, giving her a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “A different universe, but I haven’t been to it since I was six. I’ve been to over 70 since then, so I guess you could say I’m from…everywhere. Or nowhere, depending on how you look at it.”

Agatha nods. America can tell she’s itching to pry, but she’s glad she refrains considering she’d ended up in tears telling Wanda about it. “70 universes?” she asks instead. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah. Some of them were cool, and some of them were…well…paint.”

“Paint?” She raises an eyebrow. “That sounds interesting.”

“Not that interesting.” She scrunches her face. “Not that pleasant either.” She pulls out her notebook from her jacket pocket, handing it to her. “I wrote about all of them. I thought it could help to have the details. Maybe figure out a way to go back to them eventually once I had better control.”

Agatha takes the notebook, skimming through a few pages before glancing back up. “That’s a good goal.”

“Thanks,” she says, hiding the tiny, proud smile her mouth curves into with a bite of her roll. A powerful, centuries-old witch approved of a plan she came up with herself — maybe she wasn’t completely hopeless.

Agatha nods, handing her back the journal. “So is there another version of you you’ve met?”

“No.” She shakes her head, putting the notebook back in her pocket. “Never. I don’t think there are any other mes.”

“Oh? That’s quite something.” Agatha bites her lip in thought. “Do you know which universe you’re from?”

“It’s called the Utopian Parallel,” America says, a little hope blooming in her chest — if anyone might know it, there’s a decent chance it’d be her. “Does that mean anything to you? Have you heard of it?”

“I haven’t, no,” she finally begrudgingly admits. “What’s it like?”

America’s shoulders slump slightly, a little disappointed at another dead end. “It’s really beautiful,” she says softly. “Colorful. Lots of plants and animals. Food, housing, all the essentials are free.”

Agatha snorts. “If only that were this universe.” 

“No kidding.” America rolls her eyes. “I mean, how am I supposed to get money?”

“The way I do it is fabricating it with magic,” Agatha says with a shrug. One pointed look from Wanda and she quickly adds: “Not that I’m advocating you do that.”

She pouts a little. If she wasn’t advocating her to do it, she probably wasn’t going to teach her how either. 

After a moment, her face lights up with an idea. “What if I help you do important stuff — like an assistant? And then you give me some fabricated money — like a salary?” (Her pitch was, of course, more akin to ‘doing chores for an allowance,’ but this verbiage made it sound much more official and grown-up.)

Agatha considers it, shooting another glance at Wanda — who’s watching intently but doesn’t seem opposed to the idea. “I think I can work with that,” Agatha says.

“Yes,” America says excitedly, pumping her fist before turning to Wanda. “Now I won’t have to pickpocket or mooch off you all the time."

Wanda laughs a little. “You were planning to pickpocket me?” she teases.

“No!” A beat. That’s a bit of a lie. The thought flickered in her mind at the pizzeria — just in case things went south, she would have a few dollars in her pocket. “Okay, I considered it very briefly yesterday — but then I thought better of it.”

Wanda shakes her head, more amused than offended. “Well, I’m glad you did. That would have been something.”

“Yeah…” she agrees with a grimace. “And probably not a good something…”

Wanda shrugs. “Doesn’t matter now because it didn’t happen,” she says, giving her an encouraging smile. 

“Right. Didn’t happen.” America nods, giving her a small one back before scooping up the last of her soup and popping the final bite of roll into her mouth. “So. What now?” she asks the two of them.

“Well, that’s up to you, dear,” Agatha says. “Do you want to start learning today or tomorrow?”

“Today,” she says quickly. She wanted her to know she was serious — that she didn’t make a mistake agreeing to train her.

Agatha nods. “Well, as soon as I do the dishes we can get started.” She stands up and, with a flick of her wrist, begins to whisk plates and silverware into the kitchen.

America shakes her head in amazement. “That will never not be cool.”

America leans back in her seat, trying to think of the last time she had a home-cooked meal. She lived mostly off of fast food when she was on her own, and most recently, the cafeteria at Kamar-Taj. It makes her feel…warm in a way that’s not just from the soup. Relaxed. 

And then there’s a knock on the door. 

“I’ll get it!” America calls, making a move to get up before remembering this is not, in fact, her house. “Actually…that might be weird,” she says, hovering near her chair.

“I got it,” Agatha assures her, going to answer it. 

“Hi,” a man greets her, looking a bit awkward and a lot out of place. “Sorry to bother you — this will only take a second. You haven’t happened to have seen a woman, sort of strawberry blonde hair, about this tall—" He holds his hand up at Wanda’s approximate height “—and a kid, 14, black hair, running around here anywhere, would you?”

Agatha narrows her eyes. “Why do you want to know, Stephen Strange?”

“I have reason to believe the girl is in danger.”

Chapter Text

Agatha crosses her arms at the claim. “And why is that?” she asks. “If I saw her and she was, I could handle it,” she says, using one hand to make a wisp of purple light appear.

Stephen blinks, taken aback by her magic — he clearly hadn’t expected it. He shakes his head, recovering from the shock. “That’s a complicated question.” 

“Doesn’t seem that complicated.”

“No offense,” he forces out, growing impatient. “But I’m not sure you understand the magnitude of what that woman she’s with is capable of.”

“Oh, I perfectly understand what Wanda is capable of,” Agatha assures him, mouth curving into a grin. “I tried to take her powers, and I told her what she was.”

It seems to send a chill up his spine. “She got help this time,” he says under his breath. He squares his shoulders before charging into the house. “Wanda!” he calls, pushing past Agatha — something that does not please her in the slightest.

“What the fu—” 

“America!” he yells, storming into the kitchen.

America looks up from the table, smiling and standing when she sees him. “Stephen?” she asks. Her smile quickly falls when she spies his expression and notes that he looks pissed. “Stephen?” she repeats nervously. 

“Stephen?” Wanda follows suit, standing and putting her hands up defensively. “What are you doing?!”

America looks between him and Agatha, who’s following him in, for any clue as to what the heck is going on. “What’s—” America starts, but she’s cut off by Stephen stomping around the table and pushing her behind him protectively.

“Get away from her,” he practically growls at Wanda.

Wanda’s eyes widen. “I’m not trying to hurt her! I— Agatha and I are trying to teach her!”

“Teach her what?” Stephen spits. “What happens when you cross the Scarlet Witch? Well, I’m not letting that happen,” he vows, continuing to block America. America opens her mouth to explain, but before she can, Agatha cuts in.

“No — for god’s sake.” She rolls her eyes. “Her powers, Strange. She asked.”

“I’m sure,” he scoffs. “I suppose that’s why you had to kidnap her first.”

“Nobody kidnapped me!” America exclaims, stepping around him. He holds a hand out, attempting to stop her, but she brushes it away, looking at him defiantly — he needed to know she was serious. “Nobody kidnapped me,” she repeats.

“See?” Wanda says, raising an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t do anything. I told you — the Scarlet Witch is dead, and so is the Darkhold.”

He looks between the three of them, eyes narrowed. After a moment, it seems to click for him — the pieces falling into place. “I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going on here,” he says, voice even.

Agatha glances at him, irritation etched into her features. “And what might that be?” 

“You’ve hexed her,” he says, touching America’s forehead. “America, I know this is scary, but don’t worry — I’m going to find a way to fix this.”

“Stephen,” she groans, batting his hands away. It was sweet that he cared, nice that he was concerned, but he wasn’t always the greatest listener. And now is a time she really needed him to listen. She liked what she had going with Wanda and Agatha — she didn’t want anything to mess it up. “I’m not under a hex, I swear. I came here of my own free will.”

Wanda sighs, waving a hand in front of America — a detection of magic spell, America assumes. She’d learned a little about those back at Kamar-Taj. When nothing lights up, Wanda shoots Stephen a pointed look.

Stephen searches both her and America’s expressions before it’s his turn to sigh. He runs his hand over his face. “Then why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going?” he asks America, the fear in his voice from earlier now giving way to frustration.

“I…uh…just kinda forgot.” She bites her lip, rubbing the back of her neck. Guilt churns in her stomach. She realizes now how badly she’d messed up — her irresponsibility had caused a headache for Strange, Wong, and everyone at Kamar-Taj, not to mention gotten people mad at Wanda and Agatha.

“Don’t be irritated with her,” Wanda tells Stephen. “Why did you jump to so many conclusions?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, putting his palms up. “I was just worried. Wong, too. We couldn’t find America, and we assumed the worst.”

“I’m sorry, too,” America says softly. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I should have told someone. It’s just…Wanda and I ran into each other, and we were really vibing—"

“Vibing?” Stephen asks.

“—and I didn’t think about it.” She swallows hard, fingers fidgeting. “I’m not…really used to having to tell people things like that. Not used to anyone caring.” She’d never had to ask permission to go places, do things — not for a long time at least. Any kind of boundaries were still new. Something she had to learn to adjust to.

“I should have reminded you to say something. That’s my bad,” Wanda says, giving America an apologetic look before turning to Stephen. “I came to you to make amends. Did you think right away I would just ruin that?” she asks. There’s a little part of her voice that sounds insulted, but there’s a bigger part that sounds hurt.

“I didn’t know what to think. I panicked,” Stephen admits. “The timing of you showing up last night and her going missing — logically, after everything that happened, it seemed a bit…” he searches for the right word.

“Sus,” America finishes. She can understand why he’d be wary. She thinks he could have handled the whole thing better, but she understands. And she counts herself lucky he’d go to these lengths to save her — again.

“Right. Sus. Sure,” he says awkwardly.

Agatha rolls her eyes, decidedly less sympathetic. “You really think hot stuff over there would kidnap a child? After the Darkhold is gone? Do you understand anything about how the influence of that book works?”

“Well, considering I’ve used the Darkhold — to help save her from her, no less,“ he says through gritted teeth, pointing at America and then Wanda. “Yes. I think I have a relatively intimate understanding of the Darkhold and its effects.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “Oh, do you now? So what did it do to you? If you’ve used it. And if you’d used it, I would have expected you to make a little more of a logical leap,” she tuts.

“It took its toll,” he says vaguely, scratching his forehead before sucking in a deep, agitated breath. “What leap would you suppose I make? One minute she’s attempting to kill her, and the next minute they’re best friends?”

“I mean…you did try to kill me, too, to be fair — right before we became friends,” America points out.

“Ah,” Agatha says, seemingly enjoying his irritation. “So you tried to kill dear America then became friends with her. What were you saying about Wanda now?” She smirks. 

“That’s not entirely true,” Stephen says defensively. “That was ponytail me from another universe.”

"I see. So you can understand that, but you can’t understand that constant exposure to the Darkhold creates almost another version of you?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course I can understand that. I never said I couldn’t understand that,” he says, clenching his jaw — Agatha was working his last nerve. “Can you not understand having difficulty trusting someone who’s tried to hurt you? Hurt a kid you promised to protect? Having fear win out over rationality?”

“Oh, I understand that perfectly.” Agatha nods. “Trust me — I was under Wanda’s spell for months, and it was hell on earth. But without the Darkhold around, Wanda’s a lot less naturally powerful. And you said she’d made amends, yes? Do you think she’d ruin them immediately?” Agatha tilts her head, crossing her arms.

“Less powerful is still pretty damn powerful, in my experience,” Stephen says, crossing his arms as well. “She lied last time — about wanting to help America when I went and talked to her. You know the phrase: fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. I didn’t want to be made a fool. More importantly, I didn’t want America in danger. Perhaps I could have gone about it all with a bit more tact, but it seems we all have the same goal here now.”

“You didn’t want to be made a fool?” Agatha asks, latching onto that little part of his explanation. “Hm…that’s a little egotistical. That probably led you to be so tactless, huh?”

Stephen opens his mouth to argue, but America cuts in before he can. At this rate, they’d be arguing all day. Plus, if they were going to yell at anyone, it should be her. “Auntie Ags, Stevie—"

“Stevie?” Stephen scoffs, which she promptly ignores.

“—please don’t be mad at each other. Or at Wanda. Just…be mad at me.” She takes a deep breath, shame flooding through her. Shame and a little fear. Who’s to say if any of them would still want anything to do with her after this? It was a terrible thought, but she had to be accountable for all the trouble she’d caused. “This is all my fault.”

“It’s not all your fault,” Wanda says softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Yes, you should have said something, but Strange jumped to a lot of conclusions.”

“I did,” he relents, though it clearly pains him — mistakes were not something he admitted to easily. “And I’m sorry. I’m just a little confused. We thought you were happy at Kamar-Taj, and now you want to train here? Did something happen? Do you not like it?”

“I do!” she quickly assures him. “It’s not that. It’s just…” She looks between him, Wanda, and Agatha, trying to find the words — a hard task when she couldn’t quite even figure out what she was feeling. “It’s hard to explain, but…I feel like here is where I need to be. For now, at least.”

Agatha smirks at Strange. “We are very powerful witches, and we know how to teach.”

“And Kamar-Taj is full of very powerful sorcerers who know how to teach, too,” Stephen says, struggling not to snap. “But it’s not a competition. As I said: we have the same goal here — to help America.”

“I agree.” Wanda nods. “We all want to help America. So why can’t it be okay that she wants to be here?” she asks.

“The Scarlet Witch and a centuries-old powerful one — pretty effective teachers. I understand why she’d choose us,” Agatha says, a smug smile on her face.

“I never said it wasn’t okay. I never said I didn’t under—”

“Just because we don’t live in a palace on top of a mountain doesn’t mean we have nothing to offer,” Agatha continues, relishing in cutting him off. “We can provide her with the discipline needed to be truly great, not to mention work with her one-on-one. That level of personal attention, individualized training, you simply can’t get at a place like your precious little school.”

“I never said you couldn’t do that either. Now who’s jumping to conclusions?” Stephen grumbles, rubbing his temples. “I’m just saying it’s an unorthodox situation and that there are logistics to figure out. Where is she going to live? Is she supposed to portal back and forth from here to her dorm at Kamar-Taj every day?” 

America’s heart drops as he starts listing the questions — once again, she hadn’t thought that far out. The plan she’d concocted in her head — the feeling that this routine of showing up here every day at 11 to learn from Wanda and Agatha was right, what she was meant to do — it was nothing more than wishful thinking. A pipe dream. 

“I would have to see if that’s even an option,” Stephen continues. “Usually lodging is only for trainees, but we may be able to make an exception, work something out…”

“She can stay with me in my cabin,” Wanda quickly offers. “Or if she doesn’t like that...” she trails off, looking at Agatha.

Agatha shrugs. “Or she can stay here. I have plenty of room in the house. It’s just me and Señor Scratchy.”

“Really?” America asks, looking between both of them. It’s so generous she almost doesn’t believe it; it’s so overwhelming she almost feels like she might cry. “You don’t mind? I’ll use the money I earn from being Auntie Ags’ assistant to pay rent,” she promises. “That will come first — even before I start saving up for my tattoo.”

“Tattoo?” Stephen asks, eyes widening.

Wanda shakes her head at Stephen. “I won’t let her,” she mouths at him. She’s trying to be subtle, but America sees anyway. Any other time, she’d argue, but she’d just offered to let her live at her house — now is not the time to pick that battle.

Stephen relaxes a bit at that. He turns to America, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You’re not paying rent, kid — that’s an adult problem you don’t need to worry about anymore. You should be spending your money on stuff like…I don’t know…makeup or candy or whatever,” he guesses awkwardly. And any other time, she’d laugh at him for that, but he’d just spent the last several hours frantically searching for her — now is not the time to pick that battle either.

He turns back to Wanda and Agatha. “If finances are a concern, you call me.”

“We will,” Agatha assures him, still smirking — the novelty of picking at him still hadn’t worn off. “But they shouldn’t be.”

“Are you mad?” America asks softly. While she’s glad to have built bridges with Wanda and Agatha, that didn’t mean she wanted to burn the ones with Strange and Wong.

“At you? Of course not, kid,” he says, squeezing her shoulder again. “At myself?” He shoots Wanda another apologetic look. “That’s another story. But as long as you’re safe and happy, that’s what matters. As long as this is what you want—"

“It is.” America nods eagerly. 

He gives her a small smile. “Then it’s okay with me. Don’t be a stranger, huh kid?"

“I won’t. I swear.”

“We’ll take care of her,” Wanda says firmly. “I promise.”

“I know you will,” Stephen mumbles.

“Do you have a problem with me, Strange?” Agatha asks.

He narrows his eyes. “I could ask you the same.”

“Now whatever would give you that impression?” Agatha asks innocently, wide smile on her face.

“Well, this hasn’t exactly been the warmest welcome I’ve ever received,” he says dryly. "Not the coldest, either, mind you, but certainly not the warmest."

“Well, forgive me for that,” Agatha scoffs, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But you’re the one who barged into my home, accused Wanda of kidnapping a child, and has an ego the size of this house.”

“And I apologized,” he reminds her. “What, we can forgive everyone around here except me?”

The weirdest thing happens then: they go silent. Neither of them speaks, but they definitely still look like they’re arguing. It sort of looks like a staring contest, but every few seconds, one of them will tilt their head or let out a humorless laugh.

America looks over at Wanda, puzzled and a bit alarmed. “What’s going on?” she whispers.

Wanda leans in to whisper back. “I think Agatha is talking in his mind. I don’t know what to make of the conversation because his face is always like that.”

“It is always like that, isn’t it?” she whisper-agrees. His mouth is in a thin line, his eyebrows pinched together. It looks like he’s concentrating hard on something. That, or on the toilet. “Will you guys teach me how to do that? The mind-talking thing?”

Wanda nods, a small smile creeping onto her face. “I think we can do that.”

“Cool.” She grins.

“You’re rather enjoyable to toy with,” Agatha says with a shrug, switching to speaking out loud again. “Very responsive.”

It clearly takes everything in Stephen not to roll his eyes. “So glad I could serve as the post-lunch entertainment for today," he deadpans before looking back at Wanda and America, face softening. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Thankfully, Wanda speaks up before Agatha can get another word in mentally or verbally. “We’ll see you around, Stephen.”

He takes one last glance at Agatha — who’s still wearing a smug smile, reveling in his annoyance — shaking his head and opening a portal back home. Before he steps through, he turns back to America, pointing a finger at her. “No tattoos.”

“What? But—” He’s gone before she can finish her argument.

Once he’s gone, Wanda turns to Agatha with a sigh. “Did you have to egg him on?”

“It was fun, and he was easy to rile up.” She shrugs before turning to look at America. “He’s right though — no tattoos.”

“What?” she cries again. “Auntie Ags, come on. You’re really going to take his side over mine?”

Agatha holds her hands up. “In a couple of years, we’ll reassess. In the meantime, there are plenty of ‘cool—’” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “—things you can do.”

“Like get a nose ring?” she asks, hopeful.

Agatha and Wanda share a glance, having a whole conversation with their eyes. Or maybe they’re doing the head-talking thing. She’s not exactly sure, and frankly, she doesn’t exactly care as long as they rule in her favor. 

Finally, Wanda looks at America. “We’ll see. One step at a time.”

She nods. She’ll accept it — for now. “Then I’m ready—” she says, taking a literal step forward. “—for the next step.”

Agatha chuckles. “Well, that would be letting me finish cleaning things up from lunch because I was so rudely interrupted. If you two want, you can head down to the basement.” 

“That feels a little serial killer-y, but as you said — if you wanted me dead, I already would be.” She turns to Wanda. “Lead the way?”

Wanda gives a small nod, guiding her across the house. She takes a deep breath as she opens the basement door, putting her foot on the first stair.

Step one.

Chapter Text

America slowly follows Wanda down the stairs, taking in her surroundings. For all her big talk about wanting to learn real magic, now that she’s actually in the place she’s going to, she’s a little nervous. It’s kind of spooky: shelves of old books, jars with unidentifiable substances, a small cage toward the back of the room.

“She literally lives in a Halloween store,” she jokes in an attempt not to let her anxiety show.

Wanda laughs a little, though she seems a bit uneasy, too. “Yeah, she does.”

“Is this place…haunted?” America asks. Maybe it’s a stupid question, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.

“Señor Scratchy is about as haunted as it gets,” Agatha’s voice answers, which makes America jump — she’d been too distracted to realize she’d joined them.

“Señor Scratchy?” she inquires once she recovers.

Agatha nods to the enclosure, and America peers in, spying a rabbit. “Aww, he’s so cute." She reaches a hand out to pet him before stopping herself. “Does he bite? Or…scratch, as the name suggests?”

“Not unless I tell him to.” Agatha chuckles, giving her a wink. “He’s my familiar. You can pet him.”

“Oh,” she says, relaxing a bit as she reaches out to softly run her hand over his back. She makes a mental note to keep Strange away from the rabbit if he ever comes back — he would probably end up with some serious scratches if left up to Agatha. “Familiar?” she asks curiously.

“Yes.” Agatha nods, stepping further into the room. “He’s magically connected to me. Not like we can speak to each other, but there’s a kind of mental link. He works with me.”

“Will I get one someday?” she asks, still petting the rabbit. “Do you get to choose your animal, or are you, like, assigned?”

“They pick you. Scratchy picked me back in Salem. It’s possible you’ll get one — some witches get them immediately while others never do,” Agatha explains.

“I hope one picks me,” America muses. 

“Maybe one will. Usually, you’ll know when they do.”

America gently scratches the rabbit’s head for a few moments before looking back to see Agatha closely eying her. She immediately steps away. “Sorry,” she says, a little embarrassed. “I just really like animals." She peers at Wanda. "Do you have one? A familiar?”

“I don’t. Since no one taught me magic, until recently, I didn’t really know about the potential to have one." Wanda shakes her head. "If you could pick your animal, what would it be?”

“A starfish, obviously, to go with my star theme,” she says without missing a beat. “I don’t know how practical that would be, but eh. I feel like I could make it work.”

“It’d be quite unpractical,” Agatha says, picking up the rabbit and giving him scritches behind the ears. “I do have to ask — star theme? I saw the jacket, but…”

“It’s my thing,” America says vaguely, giving her a shrug.

Agatha raises a brow, unsatisfied with this answer, and America sighs. Her persistence was not going to make things easy. America takes a deep breath. “My moms…their nickname for me was Little Star,” she softly elaborates. “It reminds me of them. Makes me feel close to them.”

That seems to do the trick. Agatha gives her a small smile — a kind one. Another flash of genuineness. “That’s really sweet,” she says. “I’m sorry for whatever happened.”

“Thanks.” America forces a small smile in return before dropping her gaze, looking down at the ground. “Long story short it’s…kind of my fault, what happened to them.” Strange and Wanda had both said she wasn’t to blame, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t still feel guilty. Responsible. She tries to clear the emotion from her throat — she does not want to cry in front of Agatha. “I want to — need to — learn to control my magic to try and fix it…or at least make it so nobody else gets hurt. Which is why I’m going to work hard every day — even the weekends,” she vows.

Agatha slowly nods. “Controlling your powers will take a little time. But we’ll get there — especially if you work hard.”

Weirdly, it’s the most comforting thing she could say. Not reassure her it wasn’t her fault — because it was — but give her hope that she could make it right. “Thanks, Auntie Ags,” she says sincerely, getting unexpectedly choked up. “For helping me.”

Agatha blinks, seemingly caught off guard by her emotional response, too. “Of course,” she says quietly.

America awkwardly swipes at a stray tear that’s managed to escape before clearing her throat again. “Right. So runes. Sigils. I’m ready.”

“Right.” Agatha shakes her head, snapping into action and going over to one of the shelves. “This is where I learned runes from,” she says, pulling out an old book that looks very thick and very heavy and very much does not scream ‘the basics.’

But she nods anyway, trying not to look intimidated. “Cool.”

Agatha waves her hand over the book, unlocking it and turning it to the first page before handing it to America. She was right — it is very heavy.

“What do you know about runes?” Agatha asks, beginning to pace.

America swallows hard, the whole thing feeling a little like a pop quiz. “I know that they're symbols.” She racks her brain, trying to remember what she’d said earlier. “And tools…used for…divination?”

Agatha nods approvingly. “Correct. There are several sets of runes depending on the age they came from, but they originated in Norse witchcraft.”

“Several sets. Different ages. Norse.” She nods, committing this to memory. “Got it.”

Agatha briefly glances over at America. Her anxiety must be palpable because she immediately stops pacing — a fact America is grateful for. It helps dial down the intimidation factor just a smidge. 

“No matter which set we’re looking at, the meanings are relatively close to the same,” Agatha continues. “Usually Elder Futhark is the set I choose to interpret, but any of the three work.”

“Elder Futhark,” America repeats, butchering the pronunciation. There are a million things running through her mind, but she’s trying not to get ahead of herself — that was always the feedback at Kamar- Taj: slow down. Be patient.

“There are multiple simple ways to read runes. Each one of them has a meaning upright and an inverse meaning,” Agatha explains. “Any questions?”

“Um…I have approximately 10,000,” America admits with a cringe.

Agatha lets out a short chuckle. “We have time — fire away.” 

“Okay. So. What do the runes do exactly? I mean, I’m sure they do lots of different things, but do you…consult them when you want to know something? Or cast spells with them? What’s the deal?”

Agatha gives an appraising nod to the question. “You can use them to ask a question and divine that question. They can also be used in certain spells and to honor certain entities.”

“Okay, so for the question thing — how does it work? I mean, is it like a Magic 8 Ball? You ask it a question, and then it gives you an answer in the…Elder…Futh…something…language and you interpret it?"

“Sort of.” Agatha grins, the formulation of her question clearly amusing her. “You can ask a question or have a vague inquiry when you cast the runes, and they’ll give you some sort of answer.”

“And when you say cast runes — do you say something? Or write something? And the runes — do they appear on, like, a piece of paper or in the air, or do you hear the answer in your head like when you were doing the head-talking stuff to Strange? Actually…” She pauses, raising her palms and collecting her thoughts. Slow down. Be patient. “Can you cast one right now? Like an example? So I can see? I’m a visual learner,” she explains seriously.

Agatha blinks for a moment — who wouldn’t at that rapid-fire bombardment of questions? — but nods at the last one. “I can. And you don’t have to say the question out loud, but I will for the sake of demonstration.” Agatha takes a breath, centering herself before asking: “How will my teaching America go?”

For some reason, she hadn’t expected that question — hadn’t really expected her to care enough to know the answer. But now that it was out in the universe, America felt the weight of it. How much was at stake. “Come on, runes,” she whispers, absentmindedly crossing her fingers.

Sure enough, with the wave of Agatha’s hand, symbols start to show up. America watches, mesmerized, as a lowercase ‘n’ with a slanted top, a crocked ‘t,’ and an ‘x’ all appear and, after a few moments, fade away.

“What do they mean?” America asks, anxiously biting her lip.

Agatha thinks for a beat before turning to her. “My interpretation of them in this context is that it’s going to take strength to teach, but I need to do it, and it’ll be a gift to me.”

“That’s good, right?” she asks. The gift part sounded good, at least — she was less sure about how she might feel about the strength and obligation aspects.

Agatha shrugs. “Interpret it good or bad — it doesn’t matter. Usually, messages like this are neutral in nature and up for interpretation, even if they include a warning, which this one doesn’t.”

“Got it.” She nods. She would just have to make sure it was a good thing — be the best student so it didn’t feel like a chore for Agatha. “So three different runes showed up just now, right?”

“Yes. Üruz, Naudiz, and Gebö.” Agatha nods with a small smile.

“Right,” she says, not even going to attempt to pronounce any of them. The gears turn in her head. “So each rune says a different thing? But in order to interpret the message as a whole, you have to see how they all work together? Is that right? Or close-ish at least?”

Agatha gives another nod. “Yes. Each rune means something, and they all work together to dictate a message. There are also inverse meanings.”

America gives a nod of her own — it was all starting to become clearer. “And an inverse meaning is…what exactly?”

“An inverse meaning can be the opposite of the rune. For example, Hagalaz means rapid change, so if it shows up in the inverse, it could mean being stagnant,” she explains. She conjures the rune in question, flipping it a few different ways so it looks different in the air. “Or it could have an internal meaning as in rapid inward change, or a shadow meaning, meaning that it’s going to either be a good or bad extreme within you.” 

“That makes sense,” America says slowly. “Kind of. I think I at least get the gist.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Agatha gives her an approving smile. “You should know that any number of runes can appear at an inquiry as well. Shall we practice?”

America’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Like have me cast one?”

“Yes.” Agatha shrugs. “The only way to get better is to practice. Ask something simple then we can work on the interpretation together.”

“But…” She bites her lip, immediately tensing. This was all moving fast, and she wasn’t sure she was ready. “What if I mess it up?” she asks softly.

Agatha lets out a small sigh. “Then we try again. It’s okay to mess up.”

“Not if someone gets hurt because of it,” America says quietly, still chewing on her lip. “Is there a chance that someone will? If I don’t do it right?”

“No, runes are safe.” Agatha shakes her head. “You can do them without much worry of hurting people. Just take a breath and center yourself,” she encourages.

“Okay.” America nods, closing her eyes and taking a deep, slightly shaky breath. “Um…” she tries to think of a question — a simple one, Agatha had suggested. 

What she really wants to know is if her moms are safe, if she’ll ever see them again, but that feels far from simple, and she doesn’t think she’s prepared to hear the answer if it’s ‘no.’ 

“Will I get a familiar someday?” she settles on instead. Relatively low stakes, yes or no question — seemed basic enough. She cracks an eyelid open to see the runes appear for a brief moment before looking to Agatha for approval.

“Good,” she says. “You’re on the right track. Be more confident and grounded.”

She squares her shoulders, lifting her chin and standing up a little straighter before asking again, her voice more sure this time. “Will I get a familiar someday?”

The runes return, staying a little longer before flaming out.

“Good, America.” Agatha nods. “Very good.”

She lets out a relieved little laugh. “I did it right?” she asks, just to make sure.

“Yes, you did, hon,” she confirms, a gentle smile on her face. “Did you see the runes that popped up and have a chance to identify them?” 

“Yeah.” She grins, the nerves melting away a little, giving way to excitement. “One of them looked like an 'm,' and the other one was sort of like an 's' or a lightning bolt.”

“Ehwaz and Sowilo,” Agatha says. “Ehwaz typically has an association with perseverance, and Sowilo has an association with friendship. How would you interpret that message?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Hmm.” She considers this carefully, eyes narrowing in concentration. Casting the runes was only half the battle. “Perseverance and friendship,” she repeats. “I feel like a familiar could be a friend in a way, so maybe…maybe I will get one, but I’ll have to be patient because it could take a while,” she says slowly. “And maybe Wanda will help?” she guesses.

“Elaborate. How do you think Wanda fits into the interpretation exactly?” Agatha asks. 

“Well…I was thinking maybe it also had to do with our journey,” she tentatively explains. “Wanda and I are friends, so maybe she’ll help me through the process of waiting for one. Be a support system until it happens."

Agatha considers this for a moment, glancing at Wanda, who’s been watching from her place leaning against one of the walls, before looking back to America. America bites her lip, anxiously awaiting her verdict. 

“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Agatha finally says. “At least something in that vein. Good job.”

“Really?!” she asks, breaking into a grin. It falls a little as she grows slightly suspicious. “You’re not just saying that, are you? To make me feel good? Actually…” she changes her mind before she can respond. “You don’t seem like the type to do that. You seem very—” She makes a swift chopping motion with her hand. “Bluntly honest. Which I respect!”

“You’re right.” Agatha chuckles. “I do not pull punches often. I wouldn’t tell you ‘good job’ unless I meant it.”

America’s smile grows again. “Well, in that case — thank you. I think I like runes,” she decides.

“That’s good to hear. They’re quite foundational. You’ll need to memorize what they are and their meanings.”

“I’ll make flashcards,” she vows. “Flashcards always help.” She looks down at the book in her hand. It’s a little less scary than before. “Can I borrow this? To study? Or if there’s a less big, old, important one with the same information somewhere…”

“Well, you’ll be living with me or Wanda, so I don’t mind letting you borrow it. Just be careful — some of the pages are fragile. It’s from Salem,” Agatha explains.

“I will be,” America promises. “This one will come back in perfect condition.” 

She worries for a moment Agatha might make some snarky comment about how the Darkhold’s fate wasn’t as fortunate, but luckily, she mentions nothing of the sort. Perhaps she was growing softer already. “Good. I trust that you’ll make good on your promise,” is all she says. “Any more questions about runes?”

She considers for a moment. She still had a lot, of course, but this seemed like a solid first step. “Not right now, but I’m sure they’ll come up. I can keep practicing casting them on my own, right? Since it's not dangerous?"

“Just make sure you’re grounded and focused when you do, and practice all you want.”

“Good.” She nods, looking down at the book. “Because there’s a lot I want to know. A lot of questions I want answered.” She has one in particular in mind. An answer she needs and dreads in equal parts.

“You’re an eager student. I like that,” Agatha compliments, watching her intently.

“Thanks. You’re a good teacher,” she says with a small smile. She fidgets a little as Agatha continues to focus her attention on her, briefly wondering again if she can read minds in addition to talking into them. Know that question that’s at the forefront of it.

If she can, she says nothing, breaking the intensity with a blink and small shake of her head. “Well, where do you want to stay? With Wanda or me?”

She looks between the two of them. She doesn’t want to offend either of them by choosing the other, but she also doesn’t want to be a burden on anyone. She shrugs. “I’m good with either. Whatever makes the most sense.”

“If you’d like, you can stay with me,” Wanda speaks up, pushing herself off the wall and walking further into the room. “I have room in my cabin.”

America smiles at her, grateful for the offer and the fact she didn’t make her choose. “I would like that. Where is it?”

“Russia, actually. I usually just portal there.”

“Da,” America says with a nod. “That’s the only Russian word I know,” she admits.

“Fair enough.” Wanda cracks a smile. “I’m not fluent in Russian, but it’s similar enough to Sokovian that I can understand most of it.”

“Maybe I’ll try to learn it after I become fluent in runes,” America says.

“Maybe.” Wanda shrugs. “I wouldn’t be the best teacher, but we could try.”

“Don’t say that,” America says, the space between her eyebrows pinching. “I think you’d be great,” she assures her.

“We’ll see,” Wanda replies, noncommittal. “I know I won’t be helpful with runes.” 

“Well, maybe you can learn with me. I’ll need someone to flip the flashcards,” she rationalizes.

“We can do that.” Wanda nods. 

“Good.” She smiles. “Should we head ho—” She hesitates on the word ‘home,’ not sure how Wanda will feel about her calling it that. “To the cabin?” she finishes instead. She taps the book. “Think I have enough homework for tonight.”

“Yes, you do,” Wanda says with a small laugh, opening a portal. “Bye Agatha,” she calls.

Agatha waves, a smirk on her face, “Bye hot stuff. America, see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Professor Auntie Ags!” she calls before stepping through the portal — before heading to what could maybe, someday, if she was lucky, be someplace she could call home.

Chapter Text

Wanda seems to relax the moment she steps into her yard. “Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, glancing back at America. 

America looks around — the cabin is small but nice, surrounded by lots of nature. There are towering mountains, evergreen trees, a pile of logs next to it. It’s beautiful. Peaceful. “I already love it,” she declares.

Wanda gives her a small smile. “I’m glad. I can magically manipulate it however I wish, so if you’d like anything — anything doable — let me know,” she says as she heads toward the front door.

“What’s an example of not doable?” she asks curiously as she follows her.

“I don’t know. Deforesting trees? I guess I could do it, technically, but it wouldn’t be advisable…”

“Ah.” America nods. “Well, I wouldn’t want to do that anyway.”

Wanda takes a deep inhale as she opens the door — hit with memories, maybe. “Sorry about the mess,” she says quietly, seemingly embarrassed.

“It’s okay.” America shrugs as she looks around. It’s a little messy, but it’s not like she minds. She gets it — her moms were always on her about cleaning her room, and she always hated doing it. Plus, she’s used to far worse conditions — sometimes overcrowded shelters or abandoned apartments, depending on the universe — so the fact it’s a house at all is already a hundred times better than either of those.

And then there’s the fact Wanda had almost been crushed by a mountain and had said she struggled to even get out of bed. Yeah, a little mess was definitely understandable.

Wanda flicks her wrist as she leads her through the living room and past a small kitchen, and the clutter immediately floats into its correct spot, being put away in a few seconds flat. This magic thing was going to be very convenient once she got a handle on it.

She follows her down a short hallway — past doors to what she can only assume lead to her own bedroom and the bathroom — opening the door to an empty room at the end of the hall.

“Is this…mine?” America tentatively asks. She doesn’t want to assume.

“Yes. It was going to be.” Wanda glances over at her, apprehensive. “Is that all right?”

“It’s perfect. Even better than The Plaza,” she teases, though it’s not really a joke. It is better — it’s homey and it’s hers.

“I’m glad you think so,” Wanda says, breathing out a laugh. “Let’s see what we can do to spruce it up, huh?” she asks, conjuring a desk, a dresser, and a bed against the back wall. A moment later, a light blue quilt with delicate stars lays itself neatly over the mattress. America’s heart flutters in her chest at the little detail.

She sets Agatha’s book on the desk before lying down on the bed, fingers tracing one of the stars on the blanket as she looks up. “Do you think maybe you could conjure some of those glow stars? The ones you stick on the ceiling, you know?” she asks, a little bashful — it’s a bit of a childish request, she knows.

Wanda’s mouth curves into a smile. “Of course,” she says, immediately obliging.

“Thanks.” America grins, admiring them for a moment before pushing herself up and peering out the window. “Can you see lots of stars outside when it gets dark here?”

“Yeah.” Wanda nods. “I’ve sat and watched them when I couldn’t sleep.” The or didn’t want to sleep goes unsaid. 

“Good. They’re hard to see in the city with all the lights — I always missed them when I found myself there.” Her home universe, the Utopian Parallel, had an abundance of stars. Being able to see them always made her feel close to it, even if she was entire universes away.

“Need anything else?” Wanda asks softly, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“I don’t think so,” she says, turning to look at her. “Thanks again — for letting me stay with you.”

“It’s no problem. I wasn’t sure how much to trust Agatha.”

“She is…” America searches for the right words. “A character,” she finishes, borrowing Wanda’s term for Vinny. “But I like her, in a weird way. I feel like living with her could be a little much, though — for both of us. Hopefully, you won’t get too sick of me,” she says with a tiny smile to mask the fact she is a little nervous about that very thing happening.

Wanda shakes her head. “I won’t be sick of you — I promise. It can get lonely out here. It’ll be nice to have someone around,” she says sincerely.

Her smile grows more genuine. “Yeah,” she agrees. “It will.” 

She peers over at the book on her desk, itching to practice runes — to get her question answered. “Not to sound like a nerd, but I might spend most of tonight studying if that’s cool? Like Agatha said — she does not pull punches. I want to be prepared.”

“That’s absolutely cool. You study, and I’ll start on dinner?” Wanda questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Sounds perfect.” America nods. “I picked pizza balls, so it’s your turn to choose.”

Wanda considers for a moment. “How about I make you something Sokovian?” she asks with a smile, a small glimmer in her eyes — kind of like the way she looked when America asked her about The Dick Van Dyke Show.

“Yes!” America excitedly agrees. “So many firsts today — first runes, first Sokovian food, first time I’ve ever seen Strange that irritated.” She smirks.

Wanda’s smile grows. “I hope you’ll like it. It’s good. A little spicy. In general, that is. I’m not sure what I want to make yet.”

“I love spicy — don’t be afraid to go a lot spicy,” she assures her. Spice was a staple in her moms’ dishes, so she was used to it. She missed it, truthfully. While most universes had free food, that didn’t mean it was always flavorful or good. “Whatever you decide, I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

Wanda gives her a nod, walking toward the door. “Noted. I’ll call you when it’s ready?”

“Sounds great,” America says, standing and following her out. “Just gonna use the bathroom first.”

She finds the bathroom easily, taking a moment to splash some water on her face and look in the mirror, giving herself a silent pep talk — trying to gather the courage to do what she needed to. She’d been searching, wondering, agonizing due to the uncertainty for the past eight years, and yet, now that the moment of truth was finally here, she felt wholly unprepared to face it.

She hears Wanda rummaging around the kitchen, delicious smells already beginning to fill the house as she walks through the hallway and slides back into her room. She softly shuts and locks the door behind her before taking a deep breath and looking toward the book on the desk. What she was about to do could change everything.

She closes her eyes for a moment, remembering Agatha’s instructions: stay grounded, stay focused. Her hand reaches up to hold the pendant of her necklace — the one that had belonged to one of her moms — rubbing it between her fingers as if it’s a rabbit’s foot. A four-leaf clover. A good-luck charm.

After a moment, she asks her question — the one she’s been wondering every day for nearly a decade. She doesn’t dare say it aloud, just thinks it in her mind. Are my parents okay? 

She opens her eyes, and to her surprise, it works. She sees two letters appear and nearly sprints to grab the book before she can forget what the symbols look like. (Not that she ever could. She thinks, after this moment, they’ll be burned into her brain forever.) 

She paces the room, flipping through the pages to find the first rune. H: Hagalaz. Meaning: a negative energy and force that cannot be controlled. 

Her heart drops, and her hands start to shake. Not a promising start. 

She swallows hard, leafing to the page with the second one. ᴚ: an inverse Raidho. Meaning: accidents, dislocation, or even death. 

Her heart breaks, and her whole body starts to shake. She drops the book, vaguely registering a faint ripping noise as it falls, before sinking to her knees with it. If she wasn’t so distracted, she’d curse herself for not being careful with the book like she promised Agatha. Not being careful with her noise levels like she promised herself. There’s no way Wanda hadn’t heard the thump.

Sure enough, a moment later, she hears Wanda’s voice call out. “America?” 

She can’t bring herself to respond. What would she even say? She’s not confident she’d be able to form words right now even if she wanted to. She hopes, futilely, that maybe Wanda will simply ignore it. Go back to cooking.

Of course, she has no such luck. A few seconds later, she hears footsteps coming down the hall, a soft knock on her door. “America? Are you all right? Is everything okay?” There’s a faint sense of panic simmering under her voice.

“I’m…I’m fine,” she forces out, voice strained as she stays kneeling on the carpet. She covers her mouth with her jacket sleeve, hoping she can’t hear the sob that escapes right after. She’s thankful she at least had the foresight to lock the door. She’s hoping she can make herself sound fine, but there’s not a chance she looks it.

“Are you sure? You don’t—” Wanda cuts herself off. “You sound upset,” she says instead. America doesn't respond, knowing her voice would verify this suspicion. But her silence, it seems, does the same thing. There's a long pause before Wanda speaks again. “I’m here for you,” she assures her, voice so gentle — so earnest — it was hard not to give her a chance to prove it.

“I…” America stutters, breath hitching as she looks up toward the door, vision blurry from her tears. She’s so tempted to go open it, let Wanda in, but that wasn’t an option. Not when she was a mess like this, and certainly not when it had been all but confirmed she’d done the unthinkable the first time she opened that portal. She deserves to feel like this — devastated and alone — for killing them. “I can’t.”

Wanda sighs. “Please, Star Girl?” she asks quietly. 

The nickname causes a strange pang in her chest — one that’s somehow both painful and comforting — and she feels her tears come faster because of it. 

She’s quiet for a few minutes, but she can sense Wanda still standing on the other side of the door. Not leaving. She was either going to have to face her eventually or try an open a portal, go somewhere else and never see her again.

“Okay,” America finally says, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Wanda lets out a breath, relieved. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah. You can open it,” she says, giving her permission to bypass the lock with magic. She feels too weak to even move from her spot on the floor to go open it herself.

She can see a small red light glow under the crack of the door, and a moment later, the lock clicks open. “Hey,” Wanda says, brows knitted in concern as she steps into the room. “What’s going on?”

“They’re gone. My moms. They’re gone.”

Chapter Text

It’s another level of hurt, actually saying they were gone. Hearing it out loud. It makes it more real somehow. America brings her knees to her chest, curling herself into a ball. She wants to make herself as small as she feels. She wants to disappear completely. 

Wanda kneels down, wrapping an arm around her. “I know nothing I say will make it better because grief consumes us all in moments like this, but I’m here for you,” she says softly. “What can I do for you? Hm?”

“You shouldn’t be here for me,” she says weakly, though she can’t bring herself to push her away. “You can leave so I don’t hurt you, too.”

“Well, I think you deserve to have someone help.” Wanda frowns. “If being crushed by a mountain didn’t kill me, I doubt you can, and I won’t run away because you have the potential to hurt me — it’d be hypocritical of me to do that.”

“But…but…why would you want to stay?” America asks, looking at her with bewilderment. “It’s my fault. My own parents are dead because of me.” Her lip trembles. Admitting that hurts even worse. “I’m a monster,” she says quietly.

“You aren’t.” Wanda shakes her head, pulling her closer — something America allows, albeit stiffly. “A few years ago, I was with the Avengers in Lagos. My powers blew up a building full of innocents because I was trying to save someone. None of my close friends called me a monster then because—” She hesitates as if she doesn’t quite believe her own words. “Because I wasn’t.”

America considers this. Even if she’s right — even if she’s not a monster — what does it matter? What does it change?

“But I feel like one,” America says. “And I feel…I feel like there’s no way I’ll ever feel okay again.” She sniffles. “Not after this. Not when there’s no hope at all.”

Wanda is silent for a few moments, pursing her lips. “It’ll hurt like this for a long time,” she quietly admits. “But you’ll learn to live with it — for it to be sort of okay.”

It feels impossible that this could be true, but for some reason, a tiny part of her believes her. After all, Wanda knows loss. Must understand what this is like, on some level. “How?” she asks softly, choking on the word. She looks up at her with wide, pleading eyes, begging for the answer. The solution for healing this overwhelming pain.

Wanda sighs, gently rubbing her back. “Time. Time makes it better. And leaning on your people.” 

She feels her body relax a little — literally leaning into Wanda, the comfort she’s offering. It was simpler, less scary to be alone — and on some level, she still thinks she deserves to be — but that didn’t mean it was better. It all feels the smallest bit more manageable since Wanda opened the door. “My people…” she whispers.

“You have me,” Wanda says firmly. “And Agatha.”

She winces a little at the mention of Agatha, suddenly remembering the ripping sound. She looks over at the book — there are a few torn pages, the binding cracked from being dropped. “I ruined her book.”

“I think I can fix it,” Wanda says, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. With a flip of her free hand, the pages fall back into place, the binding melding together again. “There,” Wanda says. “Problem solved.”

America breathes a sigh of relief. It looked good as new. Well, good as old — which was better, in this case. If it looked brand-new, Agatha would surely know something happened to it.

“One of them, at least,” America says, hesitating for a moment before leaning her head on Wanda’s shoulder.

Wanda reaches up, running her fingers through her hair. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks again.

America shakes her head. “The only thing I want…” Is for it not to be true. Is her moms back. “It’s not doable,” she says instead, borrowing Wanda’s words from earlier. She takes a deep breath. “But just…don’t leave. Please? I know I said I wanted you to earlier, but…I didn’t mean it.”

“I would never,” Wanda promises, kissing her temple.

“Good,” America whispers, starting to calm down a bit. Her crying eventually stops, breaths coming a little more even as they sit there. “Is your food burning?” she asks after a few moments.

Wanda sniffs the air. “Doesn’t smell like it, but I suppose I should go check. I’ll be back,” she vows, pushing herself off the floor.

“Okay.” America nods as she goes to the kitchen. She leans her head against the side of the bed, looking up — mouth curving into the ghost of a smile when she sees the glow stars on the ceiling. A small light in the darkness.

It's not long before Wanda returns, lowering herself back onto the floor next to her. America drops her gaze from the ceiling to look at her. “No fires?”

“No fires,” she confirms with a shake of her head.

“Good.” America nods. “What did you make?”

“It’s a spicy chicken dish.” She shrugs, giving America a small smile. “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, looking down at her lap. “Okay? I guess? I know you said it takes time…but I’m guessing you meant weeks, months — minutes and hours probably aren’t enough to make much of a difference in how hard it is, huh?” 

Wanda is silent for a moment, biting her lip. “Yeah, it takes a long time,” she quietly admits. “But in the meantime, you can feel your feelings and talk about them.”

“I feel…weird. Part of me wishes I had never asked the stupid runes, but the other part of me is…I don’t know…relieved I don’t have to wonder anymore.” She sighs, picking at a loose thread on her jacket. “And then the biggest part of me is just…sad. Knowing for sure now…it‘s like losing them all over again.”

Wanda nods. “I don’t pretend to understand this particular situation, but I do know that I’m proud of you for how you’re handling it.” 

America looks up, giving her a soft smile. “Thanks. I’m happy you’re here.” She twists the thread around her finger until it stings a bit. “Your kids…they were really lucky to have you.”

“I—” Wanda blinks, the compliment seeming to hit her hard. “I was lucky to have them.”

“What were they like?” America asks quietly. “Similar to you?"

Wanda smiles wistfully. “They were so kind. And bubbly and adventurous. Hardworking."

“So yes. Similar to you.”

“I’m glad you think so. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, though,” she adds with a small laugh — one devoid of humor.

"Good thing,” America assures her. “Great thing. Best thing."

“Well…thank you,” Wanda says wrapping an arm around her again.

America leans into the touch, suddenly exhausted — everything catching up to her. It had been a long, emotional day. She almost can’t believe it was just this morning that she had woken up in New York. “Wanda?” she asks, stifling a yawn.

“Yeah?” Wanda asks, tightening her grip a bit as she looks down at her. “What’s up?”

“Do you think maybe we could do our Sokovian feast tomorrow instead? I want to try it,” she quickly assures her. “I’m just…not really hungry anymore."

“Of course.” Wanda nods, standing again. “Let me go put it away.” 

She’s relieved Wanda doesn’t seem disappointed by her wanting to postpone — or pressure her into eating anything. It takes all her energy, but she pushes herself off the floor and manages to crawl into bed, pulling the covers over her.

Wanda peeks her head in a few moments later. “Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you,” she assures her — though it’s not totally true. Wanda’s already turned to leave when she speaks up again. “Well…” she says, so quietly she’s not sure she’s even heard her.

“Hm?” Wanda asks, looking over her shoulder.

“Do you think…do you think maybe you could stay?” she asks, biting her lip. “Until I fall asleep?”

Wanda gives her a soft smile. “Sure thing.” She perches herself on the edge of the bed, squeezing her arm. “I’m here.”

“I know,” she says, giving her a small smile back as she closes her eyes and settles in. “And I’m glad,” she adds through a yawn, not bothering to stifle it this time.

“Goodnight,” Wanda whispers, adjusting the blankets so she’s more tucked in.

“Night,” she mumbles back, already drifting off. The heaviness of the day — as well as the comfort of having Wanda there — helping her to fall asleep quickly.

She sleeps through the night — and most of the morning, too. When she wakes up, it’s almost 10, and the sun is shining through the curtains. She’s confused, for a moment, about where she is — not an unusual occurrence considering how often she moves around. But the pieces quickly fall into place: she’s at Wanda’s cabin. She has training with Agatha in an hour. And her moms are… 

Her heart drops, the realization hitting her hard. She wants to pretend it was all just a bad dream, except the book on the ground — still open to the page on the inverse Raidho — proves it wasn’t. It was real. Her new reality. Part of her wants to never leave her bed; the other part of her is itching to get up and do something, anything, to distract herself. 

The latter eventually wins out, and she drags herself into the kitchen. There’s not a lot in the cabinets, but thankfully, there are some coffee grounds. She puts on a pot and grabs two mugs — she heard the shower turn off a few moments ago. 

Sure enough, Wanda joins her a couple minutes later, a smile on her face. “Morning,” she greets.

“Morning,” America replies, forcing a small smile as well as she pours two cups. She hands one to Wanda — which she takes with a grateful nod — before sipping her own. She likes the slight burn of it in her throat. Better that than the numbness that’s threatening to creep up.

“How are you holding up?” Wanda asks. It’s clear she’s trying to keep her voice casual, but there’s an obvious undercurrent of concern.

“About the same as last night,” America says. She looks down at her mug, swirling the coffee around. “Are we still training today?”

Wanda frowns. “That depends. Do you want to? We’ll need to let Agatha know either way, but it’s up to you.”

“I think…I want to,” she says tentatively. “I think I should.”

Wanda slowly nods, eying her closely. “You’re sure?” she asks after a second.

“Yeah, I’m sure. If I can’t change what happened to them...” America says, voice getting choked up again. Her hand wanders up to fiddle with her necklace — one of the only things she had left of them. She takes a deep breath before clearing her throat. “Then I at least need to make sure I don’t do it again to anyone else. I need to learn to control it — sooner rather than later. I owe them that.”

“Okay,” Wanda relents, giving America’s shoulder a squeeze as she walks to the fridge. “Do you want any breakfast?” 

“Not really,” she admits, scrunching up her nose — even the coffee isn’t sitting great in her stomach. “Do I have to?”

Wanda sighs. “It’s probably a good idea…I’ll eat something with you,” she offers.

“Okay,” America reluctantly agrees. She knows, deep down, she’s right. She hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and doing magic — even the basics — did require a good amount of energy.

Wanda uses magic to pull out bowls, pour cereal, and put some bacon on the stove, shooting worried glances in America’s direction all the while.

America slumps down at the table but does manage a small smile — a genuine one this time — as the bowl lands in front of her via a stream of red light. “That’s still cool.”

“You can learn that eventually,” Wanda promises, sitting across from her with her own dish.

“Looking forward to it,” America mutters, stirring the cereal around. “Nice to know my powers might actually be good for something someday. They don't have such a great track record so far."

Wanda purses her lips, quiet for a moment. “Your powers aren’t evil,” she gently reminds her. “Neither are you.” 

“I know,” America says, though she’s not quite convinced, and she’s sure she’s not hiding it well. She shifts in her seat, forcing herself to take a small bite of the cereal.

Wanda frowns. “That’s what I used to think about myself — and still think about myself sometimes. But I know the difference between evil and good because I’ve been both, and you are not evil,” she says firmly.

“Thanks.” America nods, taking another bite — trying to swallow the emotion down with it. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ve ever really been evil, either. I think…I think things can just be really complicated sometimes.”

Wanda contemplates as she chews, doubt etched into her features. “Things are really complicated,” she finally agrees with a sigh.

They sit in silence for a few moments. She manages a few more spoonfuls of the cereal but can’t stomach more than half the bowl, and the smell of the bacon — usually one of her favorites — isn’t appetizing. She glances at the clock to see it’s nearing 11.

“Should we get going soon?” she asks, going to dump the rest of the contents of the bowl down the drain.

Wanda bites her tongue, clearly wanting to comment on how much food is left, but ultimately decides not to pick this particular battle. She herself has only eaten a little more, after all. “Yeah,” she nods, standing up from the table.

America washes out her dish before going into her room and grabbing the book, taking a deep breath and psyching herself up before rejoining Wanda in the kitchen. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Wanda says, cleaning the kitchen with a flick of her wrist. America can sense a newfound tension in her — something she chalks up to her preparing to spend another day with Agatha. “Shall we?”

America nods. “I guess not having to fly everywhere is another good thing about powers, huh? Faster, cheaper, can bring as much liquid as you want,” she jokes with a tiny grin, trying to relieve some of her stress.

Wanda breathes out a laugh, opening a portal. “That’s one way to think about it. After you,” she says, nodding to the circle.

America steps through, finding herself in Agatha’s living room. She vaguely wonders if they should have portaled to the porch and knocked, but then again, she was the first to admit she didn’t know much about witchcraft etiquette. Plus, she and Wanda clearly had a history — one America still didn’t quite know what to make of.

Just another item on the long list of things she didn’t — and may never — understand. 

Why she was still here when her moms weren’t — well, that was at the very top of it.

Chapter Text

Agatha is sitting on the couch when they enter the room, Señor Scratchy next to her and a cup of tea in her hand. It’s a strangely domestic considering how volatile she could be — how powerful she is.

“Good morning, you two,” she says as she glances up, unfazed by their entrance.

“Morning,” America replies, going to pet the rabbit. “And good morning to you, too,” she tells him.

Agatha chuckles, scratching behind his ears as she looks at America. “How are you this morning?”

America shrugs, keeping her attention firmly fixed on the rabbit. “Fine. How are you?” she asks, deflecting. Telling the truth would open up a whole can of worms, a whole bunch of emotions she’d rather keep locked inside for now.

But she can feel Agatha’s eyes on her — observing her carefully. “That’s not the truth,” she says bluntly, mouth curving into a frown.

At that, America stops petting Señor Scratchy in order to cross her arms — embarrassed and a little irritated. She takes a step backward, putting distance between them as she keeps her eyes downcast. “If it’s so obvious, then why did you ask?” she mumbles.

Agatha sighs, though whether she’s frustrated with America or herself, America can’t tell. “Because I wanted to let you tell me.”

America looks up at her then — there’s no malice in her expression, and it makes her feel a little guilty for snapping. She bites the inside of her cheek. “Hypothetically, if you asked the runes if someone was okay, and hypothetically, you saw a Hagalaz and an inverse Raidho…how would you interpret that?” she asks, voice quiet.

Agatha’s brows knit together. “I’m not sure. It would greatly depend on the context of the situation and question.” She pauses for a minute, searching America’s face for more clues. “What did you ask?”

Her gaze is too much. It’s all too much. She looks away again, fixating on a spot across the room. “I asked if my moms were safe. The context…the situation…they’re not good,” she says, clenching her jaw as she tries to keep her voice as even as possible.

Agatha goes quiet. Whether she’s working out her own interpretation or figuring out how to break the news to America that she was right, she doesn’t know, but she can’t imagine it’s a positive sign. “What did you make of it?” Agatha finally asks.

“That they’re not safe,” she says softly, gaze still distant. “That they’re gone.”

“That is possible. I won’t sugarcoat it,” Agatha says with a slow nod. “It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re gone for sure — an inverse, while you can read it based on context, can always be a little variable...but I don’t think it’s good,” she admits.

“I know it’s not.” Because she did. Even without the runes, she just knew. Maybe a little part of her always had. She doesn’t know how. She doesn’t know why. But she knows. “Beyond the definitions — beyond the readings — I just have this…this feeling.” She looks at Agatha again, almost pleading, though she’s not sure for what. Explanation? Confirmation? Disagreement? “Is that ever part of it, too? Gut instinct?”

Agatha bites her lip. “I think part of it is,” she says softly. “What do you feel like?”

“I feel…” she starts, trying to make sense of all of the thoughts and emotions swirling inside. Her stomach twists painfully as if it’s a literal, physical manifestation of that bad gut feeling. “Nauseous.”

Agatha hesitates before putting a hand on her back — like she’s afraid she might fall over. And honestly, that was a distinct possibility at the moment. She feels unsteady — like the world is collapsing right out from under her. “That’s…not good either,” Agatha says with a sigh.

“No,” she agrees. She doesn’t know what to do, so she just stands there — frozen. She feels like she did at six, watching her moms be sucked away. And last night, reading the runes. And after that, telling Wanda. And this morning, waking up and it hitting her, remembering. She wonders how many times she’ll feel like this — that fresh sting of loss.

Agatha moves her hand to her shoulder, guiding her to sit down. “Breathe,” she orders.

She perches herself on the couch as she sucks in a shaky breath. Then another. And another. “Sorry,” she says, scooting away once she somewhat composes herself. “I came here to train, not have a mental breakdown.”

Agatha shakes her head. “It’s okay. Truly. Working through that sort of stuff is an important part of witchcraft, actually. It’s called shadow work.”

She narrows her eyes. “It is? And there’s a name for it?” she asks, relieved albeit a little skeptical. But then again, they’d established that Agatha isn’t exactly in the habit of lying to protect feelings.

“Yes.” Agatha nods. “Shadow work is hard — it’s an ongoing process for everyone.”

“Everyone?” she asks, sitting up a little straighter. “Even…even you?”

“Even me,” she confirms with a small smile. “Shadow work never ends.” 

America's eyebrows furrow. She can’t picture her struggling with emotions. Well, rage, maybe. Irritation. Frustration. But not, like, sadness and insecurity. “But you’re so strong. And you know everything.”

“Feeling emotions and healing from your traumas doesn’t make you weak, and dear, there’s always more to know.”

America stares down at her lap, letting her words sink in. “Well, I feel weak. And like I don’t know anything,” she admits. But still, there’s something in Agatha’s voice that tells America she doesn’t often speak to people vulnerably like this — speak to people about this. Something that makes her believe what she’s saying, deep down. “But you’re the expert — and like 300 years older than me — so I guess it’d be pretty stupid not to trust you.” 

Agatha is silent for a moment. “There’s a lot to learn,” she finally says. “But a lack of knowledge isn’t always weakness. You have so many strengths.”

“Yeah?” America asks, looking up at her. “You really think so?”

Agatha nods. “I know so,” she says so firmly it sends a jolt of confidence through America.

She looks back down at her lap, a little bashful at the praise. “You do, too. Which I’m sure you already know — it's not like you need someone like me to tell you that — but…but I don’t just mean the magic stuff. You’re good at the…making me not feel like a total crazy person stuff, too." She shakes her head — she's rambling at this point, and she can’t imagine Agatha has much patience for rambling. "What I mean to say is: thanks."

America lifts her gaze again, trying to read Agatha’s expression — make sure she didn’t think she was a total idiot. Luckily, her mouth twitches into a small smile: amused and maybe even a little touched. “Of course, dear.”

She feels herself smile back. “What now? I really do still want to train today." Her smile falls as she bites her lip, shifting in her seat a little. “I haven’t memorized all the runes yet,” she admits. “Sorry. I was going to try last night, but…” she trails off.

“It’s all right,” Agatha assures her with a shake of her head. “We can still train.”

“Good.” America relaxes a bit, glad she wasn’t going to chew her out for not completing the homework — give her detention or whatever the magical homeschool equivalent of that would be. “Should we head down to the cr—” She barely stops herself from saying ‘creepy.’ “—cool basement?”

“Yes.” Agatha rolls her eyes affectionately, clearly catching the near-slip. “Let’s go.”

America pushes herself off the couch and follows her down to the basement. It is still creepy, but it’s significantly less terrifying the second time around. She wonders how much of the stuff is for practical magic purposes and how much is just because Agatha has a flair for the dramatic. 

“I’m telling you: Halloween store,” she whispers to Wanda as they descend the stairs.

Wanda smiles, giving her a wink. “For sure.”

“You keep any candy down here, Auntie Ags?” America asks.

Agatha chuckles, picking up Señor Scratchy with one hand and using the other to flick the lights on. “Afraid not.”

“Bummer. I’ll get you a bowl of it,” she promises. “Or an apple. I guess that’s more traditional for a teacher — and a witch, come to think of it — but it’s also less delicious.”

“It’s also better for you,” Agatha says, walking over to the bookshelf.

“Of course.” America nods. “I guess you would have to eat healthy to make it to 300.”

“The magic also helps,” she says, looking over her shoulder to give her a wink.

America smirks. “So you’re basically saying I can eat as much junk as I want? Good to know.”

“Sure thing.” Agatha breathes out a laugh, selecting two small books from the shelf and bringing them over to America.

She looks at them curiously. “More runes? Or something else?"

“This is runes,” she says, handing her one before setting the other on the table. “But it’s more on rune interpretation and different witches’ takes on it. More modern than the book I gave you yesterday.”

“Oh, cool.” She flips through the pages. Truth be told, she’s relieved that it’s more modern — the antiquated language in the other one could be a little daunting and more than a little difficult to understand. “What do you have to do for your takes to get in the book?”

Agatha crosses her arms, one arm perched atop the other loosely as she watches her skim. “Be recognized among witches, have a community, know someone who’s willing to publish your take.” She shrugs.

“That’d be awesome. Being a…witch author, witch scholar — whatever,” she muses, continuing to leaf through it. “Do you know anyone in here?”

“Several.” Agatha nods. “A few of them were my friends.”

"Were?" America asks, eyebrows furrowing as she looks up. "They're not anymore?"

Agatha sighs. “A couple of them still are. I don’t…tend to keep friends for a long time,” she hesitantly explains.

“Oh,” America says, awkwardly chewing on her lip. She wants to press further — ask why that’s the case — but figures that’d be rude. “Well,” she continues after a moment. “Sorry, but you’re stuck with me for a long time. For forever.”

She raises a brow. “Oh am I?”

"Yup,” America says casually, beginning to scan through the book again. “I mean, just look at Wanda — she tried to kill me, and now I live at her house. It's really hard to get rid of me."

Agatha lets out a chuckle. “That is very true,” she admits. “But I don’t think it’s a bad thing that you’re resilient.”

She shrugs, keeping her eyes focused on the page. “I’ve kinda had to be,” she says quietly.

Agatha slowly nods, lips pursing in what looks like sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice soft.

America shrugs again. “Not your fault.” It’s mine. She shakes her head — she can’t spiral down that train of thought again. Not right now. She clears her throat, going to examine the other book Agatha had placed on the table. “What’s this one about?”

She can tell Agatha wants to push the subject, inquire about the thoughts that she must be able to see flickering behind her eyes, but she doesn’t — a piece of good karma, America supposed, for not drilling her about the failed friendships topic. “Shadow work,” she says simply.

“Ah.” She nods but doesn’t move to touch it, continuing to look from a safe distance. “Emotions. Important.” And utterly terrifying.

Agatha nods. “Yeah, it’s definitely something, but I think you can manage if you feel up for it.”

“I am. I’m up for it,” she says, hoping her voice projects more confidence than she feels.

It clearly does not, as Agatha tilts her head. “Are you sure? I don’t want to push you too far too soon.”

“I’m sure,” she promises, apprehensive but determined. “I mean…nothing’s going to get better unless I try, right? Unless I do the work?”

Agatha shakes her head. “It’ll be worse if you push,” she warns.

This makes her swallow hard. She doesn’t want to know what ‘worse’ could possibly look like. And yet… “I can do it,” she says. “I want to do it.”

Agatha crosses her arms. “You’re absolutely certain?”

She raises her chin — borderline challengingly. “You said I was strong, so let me be strong.” She picks up the shadow work book from the table before anyone can question her further. “What do I do first?”

Agatha’s mouth thins into a straight line, but she relents. “It’s a long process, honestly, and it’s not linear. That book is just an introduction to what it is — some benefits, examples, things like that,” she explains.

“I’ll read it on my own tonight. But since I’m here, I might as well do some kind of shadow work exercise, right?” she presses. “The only way to get better is to practice — that’s what you said yesterday,” she reminds her, setting the book back on the table in order to cross her arms as well. 

She can sense Agatha’s reluctance about whether she’s ready for this. Agatha may have accused Strange of having an ego the size of the house, but that didn’t mean hers was any smaller. Taking advantage of that and using her own words against her, America thinks, might be the key to convincing her.

Agatha looks at her wearily before eventually giving in. “Right,” she says with a sigh. “Shadow work can take any form. It can be through runes, spirit guidance, or tarot. How you approach it is ultimately quite personal to you and your practice.”

She suppresses a smile — victory. “Runes,” she says decisively. “I want to approach mine with runes.” Of course, that’s the only one of those three things she actually knows anything about, so it’s not like she has much of a choice yet.

Agatha nods. “As I said, it’s unique to everyone. The way I approach it is with grounding and centering techniques, then asking what it is I need to know.”

“Okay.” America takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, shaking out her arms and trying to relax her muscles. “And how do I know…what it is I need to know?”

“Take another breath, and just search,” Agatha instructs. “Reach out with your mind.”

She nods, taking another deep inhale and concentrating hard, trying to let it come to her. She can’t pin the question down, but she can see it floating. She can’t quite reach it, but she’s right on the cusp.

“You won’t always know what to ask,” Agatha informs her after a few minutes of silence. “Especially in the beginning. Sometimes you just have to ask whatever you’re communing with for a message.”

America nods but shuts her eyes tighter, focusing harder. She’s not willing to give up just get. She feels so close. And after a few more seconds, it does come to her — though punches her in the stomach is more like it. “No, I know now,” she says softly, opening her eyes again. “I know what to ask.”

“Oh?” Agatha asks, leaning against a table.

“Yes,” America says simply. She leaves out the fact she’s scared to ask it — to know the answer. Afraid of a repeat of last night. She feels panic rise in her chest, it getting harder to stay grounded.

“What is it?” Agatha carefully pushes.

“It’s…it’s…” America stutters out, heart beating faster, breaths getting shallower.

It all happens so fast. 

The all-too-familiar feeling of sparks flying from her hands. 

A star-shaped portal appearing in the corner of the room. It’s bright — blinding, really — and she squeezes her eyes shut instinctively, clenching her fists. 

Preparing to get sucked through. 

Chapter Text

America is greeted with the most unexpected thing when she gathers the courage to open her eyes: familiarity. She used to change after a portal appears — a different universe, different sights. What she’s not used to is seeing the same universe, the same sights.

The portal, it seems, has disappeared from the basement, but she hasn’t. She’s still there. 

Agatha and Wanda are still there, too, seemingly unharmed — at least physically. The only victim, from the looks of it, is a knocked-over shelf. Hundreds of books are splattered across the floor, the energy — the supernatural wind that always accompanies the portal — having toppled it over.

America stands there, shellshocked, unable to move. To process what just happened. To process what didn’t happen. To process what should have happened, came dangerously close to happening.

Agatha looks at her, wide-eyed, while Wanda slowly begins to walk toward her — her palms up as if she’s approaching a wild animal.

“Sorry,” America says, voice shaky. She takes a step backward as Wanda gets closer. Then another. And another. She has to get out of here — now. “Sorry,” she says again before turning on her heel and starting to dart up the stairs. She trips on one in her haste, vaguely registering the sticky feeling of blood on her shin, but she doesn’t let it deter her, throwing open the door as she reaches the top of the staircase.

Unfortunately, it slows her down enough to allow Wanda to catch up. “Hey.” The older woman grabs her arm right as she makes it into the living room. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s really, really not,” she argues, cursing herself for allowing this situation to happen again — it was just like Strange and Wong in the street. She really had to get faster. She frantically looks toward the exit as she attempts to pull her arm away. “Let go.”

“No,” Wanda says, grip tightening as Agatha comes up the stairs and crosses the room to stand in front of the door. “It’s okay. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Because we got lucky. I literally almost just killed both of you, so if you could just—” She tries to yank away again. No dice. “—let me go so I don’t do that again, that would be awesome,” she says through gritted teeth. Her gaze shifts to the front door, and she shoots Agatha a pleading look as if to say, ‘Please reason with her.’

Wanda shakes her head. “Maybe, but both of us are a lot tougher than we look,” she says, looking to Agatha for help, too.

Agatha crosses her arms, raising a brow as she meets America’s gaze. “And it’s going to take a lot to scare us off, buttercup.”

America sighs in frustration as Agatha proves to be a negative amount of help. It was just like her moms — always siding with each other so she couldn’t get away with anything. She looks around for another exit Agatha wasn’t guarding — a window to leap out of perhaps — but she knows it’s no use. She’s trapped.

“Fine,” she relents, relaxing her arm so it’s not resisting Wanda’s hold. “You win,” she mumbles.

Wanda nods. She slightly loosens her grip, but she doesn’t let go, clearly still worried she might try and make a break for it. She wasn’t stupid. Unfortunately. “Can we have a talk? About everything?”

“Okay,” America reluctantly agrees, folding her arms across her chest — more self-conscious than defiant now that she knows she doesn’t really have a choice. “I guess.”

She tries not to wince as Wanda guides her over to the couch, her leg hurting more now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Wanda obviously notices anyway — annoyingly observant as she is — exchanging a look with Agatha, who nods and leaves the room as Wanda turns her attention back to America. “So what happened back there?” she asks.

“I freaked out,” America mutters, looking down at her lap. “Which made me open a portal, which made me freak out more.”

Wanda nods. “Why did you freak out?” she asks softly.

America is quiet for a few moments, playing with a loose string on the bottom of her jacket. She selfishly doesn’t want to tell her, but she knows she needs to hear the truth. Even if it means all of this — magic lessons, having her own room at the cabin, her presence in her life — goes away. “Because I figured out what I needed to ask,” she finally says. “But I didn’t want…I don’t think I’m ready to know the answer.”

She hears Agatha come back into the room and briefly glances up at her, expression shameful. “You warned me not to push.” She drops her chin, fiddling with the string again. “I should’ve listened.”

Agatha sighs, handing her a tissue and band-aid before taking a seat on the other side of her. “Unfortunately, sometimes you have to learn that lesson yourself. If you’re not ready to know, you don’t have to ask.”

“Honestly, it doesn’t even matter now,” America says with a humorless laugh, pulling up her pant leg and dabbing away the blood. It stings, and she’s almost grateful for it — it gives her something to focus on. “The portal answered my question loud and clear — told me more than the runes ever could.”

Agatha tilts her head. “What do you mean, dear?” she asks quietly, sounding much more like a mother than the overbearing witch she met yesterday.

After the cut is sufficiently clean, she grabs the band-aid from her lap, struggling to open it with her shaky hands. “I needed to know if I was selfish for staying with you both. If I was destined to hurt you if I did,” she says as matter-of-factly as she can manage. “Obviously, the answer is yes if the universe tried to take me somewhere else and hurt you at the same time.” She swallows back tears, continuing to fail at unwrapping the stupid thing.

Agatha wordlessly takes it from her hand and removes it from the package. “The portal means you were overwhelmed — it’s not necessarily a sign from the universe.” She hesitates for a moment before leaning over to carefully stick it on the wound. “And we weren’t injured.”

A tear does manage to fall as she helps her with the band-aid — embarrassed, yet comforted, too. She quickly swipes it off her cheek. “It felt like a warning,” she argues, voice cracking on the last word. Her eyes flicker toward the door — itching to try and run again — something that’s immediately met with Wanda wrapping a protective arm around her. “But even if it wasn’t, I don’t understand why you would take that risk. Want me around. It makes no sense.”

“I doubt it was a warning.” Wanda sighs. “And we talked about this. You know what I’m capable of. Would you say the same thing to me?”

“No,” she says with a frown. “But it’s different. You’re letting me live with you. Agatha’s teaching me every single day, even weekends. You guys shouldn’t be spending so much time and energy taking care of me — not when I can’t even control whether I hurt people. Not when I can’t do anything to pay you back. Not when I can’t even unwrap a band-aid.”

She throws her hands up, getting more worked up as she rambles. “Your books aren’t even safe with me," she says, looking at Agatha. "I ripped the one you gave me last night, and there are, like, a thousand of them sitting on the basement floor right now!”

“Hey. Take a breath,” Agatha orders, putting a hand up. She waits for America to suck in a shaky inhale before continuing. “Books are books. They may mean a lot to me, but we both offered to help you and care for you. You come first.”

America looks back down at the floor as she tries to collect herself. This is all just so new — caring about people like this again, having other people care about her. It’s new, and it’s confusing, and it’s hard. “I’m trying,” she quietly promises. “I’m trying really hard to adjust to…all this. But it feels like the harder I try, the more trouble I cause.” She sniffles, wiping another rogue tear. “And it’s scary because I already care about you both, and I’m worried that…that the more I care, the more it’ll hurt if I lose you,” she admits, choking back a sob.

“Hey, hey,” Wanda says, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “I know it’s scary. I wish I had the perfect words, but you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to do your best — something that will look different every day,” she says firmly.

Something about that makes something click in her mind, helps her relax just a little. Takes a little of the pressure off for some reason. “My best,” she repeats. She could do that.

“Yeah, your best.” Wanda nods, reaching up to lightly brush away a tear from her cheek. “Neither of us will be mad if you can’t do something,” she assures her.

She looks up to give her a small, grateful smile — she believes her. Agatha…she’s less sure about. “You won’t be mad?” she asks, glancing over at her. “Even if I don’t listen to your advice and mess up your books and bleed on your staircase?”

Agatha shakes her head with a small sigh. “No, I won’t be mad. Frustrated maybe, but not angry.”

“That’s fair.” America nods. She could live with frustrated. Would probably inevitably be frustrated with them, too, at some point. She fiddles with her jacket string again. “Do you want me to go clean up the mess in the basement?”

“Why don’t we go down there together?” Agatha suggests. “And we can all clean it up?”

“What, are you scared I’m going to try and run away again if I go alone?” She makes sure her tone is teasing so Wanda doesn’t iron-grip her arm at the mere suggestion.

Agatha lets out a small chuckle. “Maybe,” she teases back as she stands.

“Well, I won’t,” America promises, voice softer and more sincere. She leans her head against Wanda’s shoulder for a moment — a silent ‘thank you’ — before standing as well. “Because I’m clearly not very fast and also you don’t have any windows down there. Which is probably a fire hazard, actually.”

“Yes, well, when you’re a witch, fires aren’t too daunting,” Agatha says with a wink.

“That’s also fair.” America laughs, following her to the staircase. “Hey, um…Auntie Ags?” she asks before they walk down.

Agatha pauses, looking over her shoulder with a raised brow. “Yes, dear?”

“Thanks. For the band-aid." She gestures to her leg. “And…everything.” She hovers awkwardly for a moment, fidgeting. “I would hug you, but I don’t know if that’s, like, your thing…”

Agatha blinks as she turns to face her in full, seemingly caught off-guard. “You can hug me,” she says softly after a moment, giving her a small smile and nod.

“Okay,” she says, returning the tiny grin before wrapping her arms around her. Agatha is stiff for a moment — America is going to go out on a limb and say it’s been a while since she’s hugged someone — but she relaxes into it eventually.

A strange sense of calm and safety washes over America as Agatha holds her despite…everything. Agatha and Wanda weren’t her moms — would never replace them — but they cared about her. Wanted to protect her. And she felt pretty lucky that, of all the multiverses out there, she crossed paths with them in this one. 

She pulls away after a few moments, heading down the stairs — nearly tripping over the one that gave her trouble earlier again before narrowly catching herself on the railing. “Okay, there is definitely something wrong with that one,” she accuses. “I’m a little clumsy, but there’s no way I’m that bad.”

“Mhm,” Agatha murmurs skeptically.

“Not all of us can fly yet, you know — someone of us have no choice but to get around the old-fashioned way,” America says, going over to start picking up some of the books. “Just out of curiosity, when do the flying lessons come in?”

Agatha narrows her eyes, considering. “Flying is a manipulation of your energy and the energy around you, so it’s borderline chaos magic. But it’s easier than some kinds, so take that for what you will.”

“So probably awhile then,” she says with a sigh. Honestly, all of her magic felt pretty chaotic, so she wasn’t entirely sure what the difference was. But after what had happened today, she wasn’t going to try and jump into anything she wasn’t ready for anytime soon. “Will I have to learn on a broomstick? Or is that just in the movies?”

Agatha chuckles as she gathers a few books off the ground. “Just in the movies. Nothing like that is quite real.”

“Is any of it even kind of real?” America asks, curious. “I mean, are there potions? Pointy hats? Wands?” She turns to Wanda. “That would be kind of funny, if there were wands, since it’s so close to your name.”

“Potions do exist, but not in the same way — not even close,” Agatha explains. “And wands are a complicated story.”

“Got it.” America nods. “So I’ll take it that’s a ‘no’ on the pointy hats, too,” she says, setting a few more books on the table before attempting to pull the toppled shelf upright. She only gets it about an inch off the ground before she has to drop it again — it's too heavy to lift alone.

“We don’t have to lift the shelf manually,” Agatha reminds her. She flicks her wrist, and the shelf slowly moves back into place — a purple glow surrounding it. 

“Ah. Right.” She wipes some sweat from her forehead. “Forgot about that.”

“It comes in handy when you live alone.”

“I bet,” America says, sliding a few books onto the shelf. “Do you like living by yourself?”

“It’s nice,” Agatha says, voice unconvincing as she busies herself with organizing a higher shelf. “But it can get lonely,” she admits after a moment.

“Yeah, I get that.” America nods, focusing hard on her task to keep her mind from drifting. She’d been lonely for a long time. It wasn’t a good feeling. “You should come over to our house for dinner sometime.”

She cringes as soon as the words leave her mouth, shooting an apologetic look at Wanda for volunteering her to host. “But only if everyone would like that,” she awkwardly backtracks. “Or not. Not’s okay, too.”

Agatha waves her hand, clearly trying to dispel some of the awkwardness. “I wouldn’t mind that should Wanda be okay with it.”

Wanda looks up from her stack of books, suppressing a sigh. “If that’s what everyone wants then I don’t mind hosting,” she says with a tight smile.

“Okay, great!” America says, relieved and with a newfound enthusiasm. “Tonight? We’re having a feast since Wanda made Sokovian food. Have you ever had it?”

“Tonight works for me.” Agatha shrugs. “And no, I never have.”

“It’s really good,” America assures her. “I mean…I’ve never actually had it either, but it at least smelled really good when she was cooking it last night. Do you guys like churros? I can make churros for dessert.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve never actually had one of those either,” Agatha says, slotting a few more books into place. “If you want to make them, be my guest.”

“What?!” America asks, jaw dropping. She nearly drops the stack of books in her hand, too, but she tightens her grip just in time — it wouldn’t be a good look had they taken a tumble on her watch yet again. “Three hundred years and you’ve never had a churro? That’s craziness, Auntie Ags. Now I definitely have to make them.” She shakes her head. “You know what I’ve never had?” she asks with manufactured nonchalance.

“Hm?” Agatha hums without looking back from the shelf.

“Champagne. And I feel like if we’re going to have a dinner party, there should probably be champagne, and you should probably let me have some,” she says with a shrug, attempting to sound both casual and convincing.

Agatha does look back at her then. “You’re 14. Maybe not.”

“Not even a little teeny tiny bit?” she pleads. “Just to see what all the hype is about?”

Agatha sighs, though there’s a glimmer of something in her eyes — amusement? Respect at her boldness? A little of both? “Maybe a sip,” she relents with a wink. “But not any more.” 

“Deal!” America promises with a wide grin, slipping the final few books onto the shelf. She steps back, admiring the progress. “Good as new?” she asks, looking to Agatha for confirmation that nothing is still amiss.

Agatha gives a nod of confirmation. “Good as new.”

“Good.” She lets out a breath, relieved that nothing was irreparably damaged during the portal fiasco. She turns to Wanda. “Should we get going? Start preparing for our dinner party?”

“Perhaps we should.” Wanda nods. “We’ll see you soon, Agatha,” she says with a brief smile in the other woman’s direction before waving her hand to open a portal.

“See you later, Auntie Ags,” America says. “And don’t forget the champagne,” she reminds her with a cheeky smile before stepping through to the cabin.

Nothing was magically fixed, but everything felt just a little better now. A tiny bit easier.

She was still hurting, and the pain might never fully go away, but at least she had two people who would wipe her tears. Two people who would help her with a band-aid.

Two people who wouldn't make her — who wouldn't let her — be alone anymore.

Chapter Text

“So,” Wanda starts as they step into the kitchen, the portal closing behind them. “You can make churros?”

“Yup,” America says confidently. “As long as you have the ingredients. Or, you know, can magic them up.” She was still fuzzy on the specifics of what she could and couldn’t do with that. “I don’t need a lot. Mostly just flour, sugar, cinnamon, and some oil to fry them in.”

Wanda nods. “I’m pretty sure I have all of those things. I’m looking forward to trying them.”

“And I’m looking forward to your Sokovian food,” she replies, easily locating flour, sugar, and oil in the cabinets before pulling cinnamon from the spice rack and lining them all neatly on the counter. It’s nice, being able to organize it — make it all nice and neat — when her life was everything but at the moment. “Thanks, by the way — for letting us do this. It’s just…nice to have a distraction right now,” she says softly.

“Of course.” Wanda leans back against the counter as she assembles it all, observing. Probably making sure she didn’t burn the place down. “I get it. It’s nice to not have to think about it all the time.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, biting her lip. Debating whether to listen to the little voice in her head telling her to ask a question — a big one to her, though no one would know it without context. “Do you want to help me make them?” she finally asks, deciding to listen to it.

Wanda’s face curves into a smile. “If you want help, yeah. I’d love to.” She pushes herself off the counter and comes to stand beside her. “What do we do first?”

“It’s easy,” she promises, mouth curving into a grin, too. She knows she did the right thing inviting her to help. “First, we boil this,” she says, pouring some water, sugar, salt, and vegetable oil into a saucepan and turning the stove on medium-high. “Then you stir in the flour. That’s how you make the dough,” she explains. “Do you want to do that while I make the coating?”

“I’d be happy to.” Wanda nods, moving to stand in front of the saucepan. She uses magic to speed up the boiling process, but she does everything else manually — something America is secretly happy about. It gives her a nostalgic feeling. She works on whisking together some sugar and cinnamon, quiet as they work side-by-side. 

“I used to make these with my moms,” America reveals after a few moments. “I haven’t had them since…” She can’t quite bring herself to say it again. The wound still too fresh. “Well…you know. I thought about making them by myself a few times, but they always made it seem like this special experience — it just didn’t feel right doing it alone, you know?”

“I get it,” Wanda assures her, mixing in the flour. “I’m glad I can maybe give you that experience back.”

“Me, too. I’m glad I found someone to make them with again, and I’m really glad that someone is you,” she says sincerely. She swallows down a few tears threatening to creep up. "And I think — I know — my moms would be, too. They'd like you. A lot." She plays with the pendant of her necklace — the little piece of them still there with her.

Wanda glances over from the pan and gives her a tiny smile, though there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes. Thankfully, she gives America space — had she not, America knows the waterworks would have come faster and harder. “You think they would?” she asks gently.

“Yeah,” America says, sniffling but smiling. She nods, letting her know that she’s okay despite the tears. Because she was. She was okay now. “You guys are similar. Patient and kind but tough, too. Strong.” She goes back to whisking the coating together. “At first, I was worried that by getting close to you I would be…I don’t know…betraying them somehow. But now I think I’d be betraying them if I tried to push you away. I think they’d be really happy that I have someone like you.”

“I’m happy I can be there for you,” Wanda says earnestly. “In whatever capacity you’re comfortable with.”

America considers this. It was hard to summarize their relationship, but she tries anyway. “I feel like you’re sort of like my mentor and sort of like another mom. A momtor,” she says with a little smirk, still whisking her ingredients together. After a moment, she freezes, the gravity of what she’s said sinking in. “Is that...um...okay with you?”

She risks a glance up at Wanda, who seems to be frozen, too. Her expression is unreadable, but America can tell that’s because she’s making it be. Schooling it into something neutral. “Yes,” she says, voice slightly stiff. “That’s absolutely fine.”

“Really? You’re sure?” America asks, apprehensive. Wanda is trying to play it cool, that much is clear, but America gets the impression it’s not that simple. “Because if not, that’s cool!” she quickly blurts. “I mean, if it’s too soon or…or too much. Obviously, you have…had—” She cringes. “—your own kids, and obviously, I’m not one of them, so I didn’t mean to…I mean, I don’t…” She bites her lip to cut herself off from rambling anymore — making it worse.

“It is okay. I promise. It’s just…new. And a little scary. But I promise it’s okay,” she reassures her with a small smile.

America nods, pursing her lips as she begins to get the oil ready so they can start frying the churros. She shouldn’t push any more, but she needs to know. It’s going to drive her crazy if she doesn’t. After a few moments of awkward silence, she gets the courage to ask.

“What part are you scared of?” she asks. “Me?” she adds more quietly.

“No,” Wanda says immediately, firmly shaking her head. “No. I’m…I’m scared to lose you,” she admits. 

“Oh,” America says softly, her words making her feel a strange combination of things. She wants to reassure her that won’t happen, but she can’t. Not really. There’s always a risk of a portal, of other danger. She can’t make that promise. “I’m scared to lose you, too,” she confesses instead.

Wanda stares down at the dough that she’s finishing up. “We…we’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” America agrees — to reassure herself as much as Wanda. “Yeah, we will. We just…have to do our best every day, right?” she asks, recalling Wanda’s words from earlier. The ones that had finally made her feel better.

They don't seem to have quite as strong of an effect on Wanda. “Yeah, we will,” she says, voice a little shaky as she nods slowly. “Day by day,” 

She can sense that Wanda is still feeling uneasy, and as much as she wants to say something to make it better, she’s not sure what. So she settles for the second-best thing: a distraction. “Okay,” America says, handing her a piping bag. “Now you want to put the dough in here and make little sticks about—” She holds her hands around six inches apart. “—this long. And then you drop them in the oil so they can fry.”

“Right.” Wanda dutifully follows instructions, seeming to relax a bit at the methodical nature of the task. “How long do they cook?” she asks after all the dough has been piped.

“Not long. Like two minutes on each side until they’re a golden brown kind of color. And then we roll them in the coating,” she says, gesturing to the cinnamon sugar mixture she’d concocted. “Easy peasy.”

Wanda nods, beginning to put the churros in the oil to fry. “I’m glad we’re having this dinner party,” she says, glancing at her with a smile.

“I’m glad you’re glad.” She smiles back. “Sorry I kind of offered your place without asking. It’s just…I feel like maybe Agatha is lonelier and…” She searches for the right word. “Sadder? Than she admits. And even though she is a little crazy, she is being really nice, agreeing to train me, so I thought it would be good to all do something fun together.”

“She does seem lonelier,” Wanda muses. “Maybe a little sad. We have a…complicated…history, but maybe this will turn out well.”

Complicated, America could tell, was putting it mildly. But she had hope it would turn out more than well. She still planned on making sure of that. She wasn’t exactly sure how or when, but she would be Parent Trapping the two eventually if they couldn’t figure their very obvious feelings out on their own. It was her duty, really.

“It will,” she says confidently. “I mean, there are churros. No one’s ever had a bad time when there were churros involved,” she teases, holding out the bowl of coating.

“Fair enough.” Wanda lightly laughs, using tongs to transfer them from the pan into the bowl.

It doesn’t take long to fry and coat the rest of the churros. They look — and more importantly, smell — delicious. 

“Should we try a little bite now?” America asks hopefully. “Just to make sure they’re okay, of course. Before we serve them for dessert. Wouldn’t want Agatha’s first experience with them to be disappointing,” she justifies.

“I think we can split one. Try it out,” Wanda says with a wink.

America grins, eagerly picking one up from the plate they’ve stacked them on. It’s still hot, burning her fingers a little, but she doesn’t care. She rips it in half, handing a piece to Wanda before biting in. “What do you think?” she asks through a mouthful.

Wanda smartly waits a second, blowing on it a bit before taking a bite. She chews, giving an approving nod. “They’re good.”

“Good,” America says, popping the rest into her mouth before licking the cinnamon from her fingers. “Couldn’t have done it without my sous-chef. Do you need me to be yours?”

“It's mostly reheating, but if you don’t mind, help would be great.” She opens the refrigerator, pulling out a few containers. She scoops one of the dishes onto a platter and hands it to America. “This one can be microwaved for two minutes or so.”

“You got it,” America says, taking it from her and punching in two minutes on the microwave. “Anything else?”

Wanda turns to preheat the oven. “This needs to go in here for a bit. The last one also needs to be microwaved, so once that one is done, can you put the other in?” she asks.

America nods, swapping out the platters once the microwave beeps. “I’ll set the table, too,” she offers, laying out some plates and silverware — just as nicely as she did for lunch at Agatha’s house the previous day. There’s just one thing missing. “Do you have any of those skinny glasses with the thin handle things? What are they called...” she racks her brain. “Flutes! Champagne flutes.”

Wanda nods, magicking two glasses onto the counter with the flick of her wrist.

America looks at them with a small frown. “Do you happen to have another one?” she asks, a little bashful. “I know, I know — I only get a tiny sip,” she promises, raising her arms innocently. “But I want to feel fancy, too,” she says, flashing her a pleading smile. “If possible,” she tacks on.

“I do.” Wanda nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about that to begin with,” she apologizes before waving a hand, a third one floating down.

“Don’t be,” America says, waving her off before carefully carrying the three glasses to the table. “I’m just extra.” A beat. “That means dramatic, in case you’re not up to date on the lingo.”

“I’m not that old, you know." Wanda laughs. "I do know what stuff like that means.”

“Eh.” America shrugs, unconvinced. “I mean…you’re not as old as Agatha, but you’re still kind of old.” Once she sets the glasses at their places, she walks back over to Wanda, patting her arm sympathetically. "But that’s okay — I still think you’re cool."

“I’m in my early thirties.” Wanda rolls her eyes.

“Exactly. Basically ancient,” she quips with a smirk before looking around the kitchen — the food was reheated, the churros made, the table set. They seemed to be in good shape. "Anything else we need to do?"

Wanda takes a glance around before coming to the same conclusion. “I don’t think so.”

Just then, America hears a faint noise outside and glances toward the window. “Perfect timing,” she says with a grin, moving to open the door. “Welcome to our humble abode,” she greets Agatha, stealing Wanda’s phrase.

Agatha smiles back, giving her a small nod as she steps inside — bottle of champagne in tow, just as she promised. “Thank you.”

“Do you want the grand tour?” America offers. “Spoiler alert: there’s no creepy-slash-cool basement, unfortunately.”

“Lead the way,” Agatha says with a small laugh, setting the bottle on the table. “Though that is disappointing.”

“Don’t worry — I’m sure I’ll convince Wanda to add one eventually. I can be very persuasive,” America says with a smirk. “Living room, obviously,” she says, gesturing to the space they’re in before leading her through the hallway. “Wanda’s room,” she says, gesturing at a closed door — she doesn’t feel right opening it without permission. “Bathroom,” she says, nodding to a door on the other side. 

“And most importantly…” she opens the door at the end of the hall. “My room. Do you like it?” She looks over at Agatha eagerly. Her opinion — her approval —  weirdly mattered a lot to her.

“I do.” Agatha nods, a small smile on her face as she steps in and looks around.

“Isn’t it nice? Wanda made sure the bedspread had stars. I didn’t even ask; she just did it,” America says — that little detail meant a lot to her. “And then, watch this.” She turns off the lights, and the stars on the ceiling begin to glow. “They’re kind of babyish, I know, but I still think they’re cool. And it’s nice to have something to look at when you can’t fall asleep, you feel?”

Agatha blinks, clearly still not entirely used to adolescent monologuing. “I think that’s understandable,” she says after a moment. “This was all really thoughtful of Wanda.”

“She’s the best.” America nods in agreement, brushing her fingers over a blank space on the wall. “I think I want to hang pictures here. I have a couple with Wong and one I blackmailed Strange into posing for." She turns back to Agatha. "We have to take some tonight so you and Wanda can be on here, too, okay?”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “You want to take photos with me?” she asks, the question seeming to slip out before she can stop it.

“Well, yeah — obviously. You’re my Auntie Ags.” America tilts her head, looking at her curiously. “Why? You don’t want to take photos with me? Afraid I’m going to out-model you?” she teases.

“No,” Agatha says with a small laugh, mulling over her words. “It’s just that I’m surprised you’d want to is all,” she carefully admits.

America chews on her lip. “Is it because of your friends?” she asks after a moment, voice softer. “The ones you don’t talk to anymore? Were they, like…mean? Did they suck?”

Agatha sighs, glancing down for just a second. “In part, but it’s more complicated than that. Life in general is…complicated when you live for as long as I do.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry they weren’t nice. And about the complicated…ness,” America says awkwardly. It’s a little unnerving — to see Agatha so unsure. Maybe even a little emotional. She fidgets, trying to figure out what to say to make it better. “I haven’t lived very long, obviously,” she says after a minute. “But I do have two ears, and I like you enough to hang your picture on my wall, so you can…you know…like…talk to me. About stuff. If you want to. Sometimes that helps, I think.”

Agatha blinks a few times, taking a deep breath — what she always directs America to do, the younger girl realizes, when she notices she’s getting upset. “You’re welcome to hang a picture of us — that’s very sweet. And I appreciate it, dear.”

“Of course. No problem,” America says, giving her a reassuring smile and stepping back into the hallway. “We should probably go eat dinner before it gets cold. Plus, we don’t want Wanda stealing all the churros and champagne!” she calls, saying the last sentence loudly enough for her to hear from the kitchen.

Wanda rolls her eyes as she sets the last dish on the table but gives them a smile as they sit down. “I do hope you like Sokovian food.”

“I’m sure I will,” America says confidently, beginning to scoop some of the food onto her plate. Just like the TV show Wanda said she would show her, she planned on pretending to like it regardless of whether or not she actually did. Thankfully, from the way the food smells, she doesn’t think lying was going to be necessary. “Now whether it’s better than pizza balls — that still remains to be seen. It’s a high bar,” she teases, passing Agatha the container she’s holding before grabbing another from Wanda. “Did you try the ones we left at your house?”

“I did,” Agatha confirms, scooping some of the food onto her plate. “They were pretty good.” 

“Just pretty good?” America asks with a scoff. “Not life-changing? Not world-altering? Not best thing you’ve ever eaten?”

Agatha lets out a small laugh. “Maybe not. But I do appreciate the inventive take on pizza.”

America considers this for a moment. “I guess I can live with that,” she decides. She picks up her fork, taking her first bite of the Sokovian dish. As promised, it’s hot — both in terms of flavor and temperature — and it’s delicious. She’s never had anything like it, but it somehow feels…familiar, too. Comforting. “Okay,” she says once she swallows. “But this, I think we can agree, is definitely life-changing. What’s in this, Wanda? Magic? Drugs? Magic drugs? Feels like the only explanation for how freaking delicious it is.” 

Wanda seems pleasantly surprised by her reaction, her face breaking into a broad, proud smile. “No drugs,” she promises. “But I’m glad you like it so much.”

“Love,” America corrects, pointing her fork at Wanda before taking another bite. “Love is the word you’re looking for,” she says around a mouthful of food.

Wanda’s smile widens even more. “I’m happy you do. Maybe I can teach you how to cook it sometime?” she asks before taking a bite of her own.

America’s mouth curves upwards, too. “I would really like that. And you kind of owe me after I taught you how to make the churros,” she teases. “Maybe we make it a weekly tradition? Teaching each other how to cook our favorite stuff?”

“I think we can do that.” She nods. “That’s a great idea.” 

“Good.” She turns to Agatha. “And obviously, you should come over and help us eat it. Weekly family dinner.” She immediately freezes, eyes widening with panic as she realizes what she’s said — the word that’s slipped from her mouth. Family.

Wanda freezes, too, but she doesn’t seem upset by her words. It’s almost like she can't quite process them. After a moment, she nods again. “Yeah, just like that.”

America breathes a sigh of relief as Wanda agrees before glancing over at Agatha, trying to read her expression. “Family dinners? You in?” she asks tentatively. “I mean, it is free food,” she jokes, trying to lessen the magnitude of it.

Agatha looks like she’s having trouble digesting it, too — trying to travel into territory she’s unfamiliar with. “Um…yes,” she finally says, blinking out of her daze and forcing a small smile.

“Then it’s settled,” America says with a nod, shoulders relaxing as she hides her growing grin with another bite of food. If she learned anything from her moms, it’s that families came in all shapes and sizes. This one was unique, for sure, but there was love at the root of it, and that’s what mattered. It felt nice. Felt right.

“It is,” Wanda agrees softly as she sits back, looking at her and Agatha. America wonders what she’s thinking about. Her sons? Vision? The fact that she was sitting across from two people she’d once called enemies, agreeing to have weekly family dinners with them?

She can’t know for sure, but her thoughts — they just looked heavy. So she tries to lighten it up.

“On that note, I think it’s time to get lit. To turn up. That’s slang for ‘celebrate,’” America says, reaching for the champagne bottle in the middle of the table. “I’m teaching Wanda all the new lingo,” she tells Agatha. “She says she’s young enough to know what it all means—” she lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “—but I don’t believe her.”

Agatha grins, a short chuckle escaping her lips. “You think I know what it all means?”

“I think you probably know even less than Wanda,” she replies. “No offense. You definitely know more, like, Latin or whatever than either one of us.”

“I am young enough,” Wanda says, reaching over and deftly slipping the bottle from her grasp while she’s distracted by talking to Agatha.

America’s bottom lip juts out into a pout. “Can I at least open it? Please?” she pleads. “That’s the best part. Then you can pour an appropriate amount for my consumption,” she promises diplomatically.

Wanda considers for a moment before playfully rolling her eyes and handing it back. “Go ahead.”

America grins, taking the bottle back. She eagerly pulls on the cork, but it doesn’t budge. She tries again, pulling harder — still nothing. The movies made it look so much easier. She tries a different grip, pushing the cork up with her thumb, and finally, it pops off — and shoots across the room, narrowly avoiding hitting Agatha in the face by mere centimeters. 

America covers her mouth with her hand, which is somehow sticky and wet, some of the champagne having bubbled over and spilled onto it. “Sorryyy,” she says with a cringe.

Mercifully, all she does is give Wanda an amused look before shaking her head. “It’s alright.”

“Here. You do the rest,” America says, hastily handing the bottle back to Wanda before grabbing a napkin and drying off her hand. “I’m really going to need this whole learning magic thing to work out considering it looks like bartending is out of the question for my future career.”

Wanda laughs, taking the bottle back and gracefully pouring glasses for her and Agatha and a tiny amount for America. “You’ll get there.” She winks.

America smiles, relieved at Wanda’s reassurance as she takes the glass. She swirls it around and smells it like she’s seen adults do. “I’m sensing hints of grapes,” she finally declares.

“Oh?” Wanda asks, amused, as she takes a sip.

“Mhm. Definitely.” She nods seriously. She lifts the glass to her lips, taking a small sip — there's really only enough for one gulp, but she wants to savor it. It burns a little, which she wasn’t expecting, but it’s not bad. It’s bubbly, too. And sweet. “It’s…fizzy,” America observes. “Like a soft drink. Is this just grape soda for grown-ups?”

Wanda chuckles. “I mean, that’s one way to put it. What do you think?”

“I like it,” she declares. “Thanks for letting me taste it. Next time, we should do piña coladas. Oh! Or strawberry daiquiris, with the little toothpick umbrellas,” she suggests.

“I think I can manage that,” Agatha chimes in. “There was a phase where I was very interested in drink mixing.”

“Cool.” America grins, finishing the rest of the glass. Her chest feels warm in a way that’s not just from the food or the champagne. This was her first family dinner in a long time — and hopefully far from the last.

Chapter Text

Agatha keeps her promise, making piña coladas at their next dinner, strawberry daiquiris the one after that, and margaritas the next. (All non-alcoholic for America, of course. They’re still delicious, so she doesn’t mind.) It was a tradition they were all getting used to — one it seemed like they were all enjoying, too.

In fact, they were all falling into a routine. Magic lessons in the morning. (America had memorized all the runes now and could cast a basic sigil.) Helping Agatha with random tasks in the afternoon — everything from cleaning Señor Scratchy’s cage to reorganizing the bookshelves in the basement — to earn some money. Watching TV with Wanda at night. The Dick Van Dyke Show, it turned out, was good — America didn’t even have to fake enjoying it.

The weeks pass calmly — a nice change of pace from the better part of the past eight years. She worried at the beginning it might be hard to adjust, but she actually likes the structure this new life provides. There’s a comfort in the consistency. 

The first interruption to the norm comes a few months after that first dinner when Wanda is called away on some top-secret several-day mission that, despite her pleading, America is not under any circumstances allowed to tag along for. It was kind of a bummer — she very much wanted to see some cool superhero stuff — but at least Agatha promised they’d have fun while Wanda was away. 

It’s not like she needed a babysitter, obviously — she was more than capable of spending a few days in the cabin alone, thank you very much — but there wasn’t a whole lot to do out in the middle of nowhere. Agreeing to crash at Agatha’s seemed like a much more convenient, not to mention entertaining, option. (Even if both Agatha and Wanda did seem a little nervous about it. Agatha was maybe not always the most comfortable person around 21st century teenagers, and Wanda was maybe a little overprotective considering…everything. But America thought they were both way overthinking things. On multiple fronts.) 

Which brings her to her next point: Spending the next couple days with Agatha would present the perfect opportunity to start setting her long-brewing plan into motion. One she was determined to bring to fruition. 

A frustrating lack of progress had been made on the romantic front between Wanda and Agatha. The feelings were already there — she knew they were — but if they couldn’t see that, if they refused to do anything about it, well, then America was going to have to make them. Play cupid. Speed things along so the two of them didn’t waste any more time.

So the three of them didn’t waste any more time. She was mostly doing this for the two of them, but there was a small selfish element to it, too. She was happy with their arrangement the way it was, their untraditional little unit, but if the two of them were together — a couple like her moms had been — it would make it all feel more…real in a way.

So while she would miss Wanda while she was gone, she planned to take full advantage of her absence. After she says goodbye to her — something that’s a little more emotional than she thought it’d be; it was a little scary, knowing she was off to do something dangerous, and she tries not to think about it too hard — she steps into Agatha’s living room. She’s, as usual, sitting on the couch with a cup of tea in one hand, book in another.

“Hi, Auntie Ags,” she greets.

Agatha looks up at her presence, closing her book and setting it on the coffee table. “Hello, dear.”

“Should I stash this wherever I’ll be sleeping?” she asks, gesturing to the duffel bag slung over her shoulder filled with her toothbrush, a few changes of clothes, and, yes, a stuffed bear with a little star on its stomach that Wanda had given her — because it was soft, not because she needed it to sleep.

Agatha stands, leading her down the hall. “In here,” she says, opening the door to a guest bedroom that contained a bed, a small dresser, and a couple cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. The bedspread looks brand-new, and part of her wonders if Agatha has ever had guests before. It happens to be her favorite shade of blue, too, and another part of her can’t help but wonder if she’d bought or conjured it especially for her. “I had to organize some extra stuff I’ve been storing in here, so don’t mind the clutter in the corner.” 

“Anything cool in the clutter?” America asks, dropping her bag next to the bed and eying the pile. “Witchy stuff? Vintage clothes? Embarrassing baby pictures? Although…I guess the camera wasn’t invented when you were a baby…”

Agatha shrugs. “A few are clothes, some are old books — nothing particularly related to witchcraft, though.”

“Got it. All the witchy stuff is probably mostly in the cool-creepy basement.” She nods. It’s a little strange how different everything feels without Wanda there. She’d been at Agatha’s house every day for months now for magic lessons, but never by herself, and never overnight. It’s not that she’s uncomfortable — it just feels a little weird. The natural awkwardness that comes with learning to navigate unfamiliar territory. “So…what’s first on our agenda?” she asks after a moment. “I’ve never really been to a sleepover, so I don’t really know how they work,” she admits.

“Well really, I was thinking dinner.” Agatha looks over at her. “That sound okay, hon?”

“Dinner.” America nods. Duh. Her stomach rumbles a bit as if on cue as she follows Agatha back down the stairs. “Perfect. Are we cooking? Ordering? Conjuring it out of thin air by magic?”

“Cooking. Unfortunately, I can’t conjure food like Wanda can.”

“That’s okay,” America reassures her, lowering her voice to a whisper as if letting her in on a secret. “Neither can I," she says, earning her a small smile from Agatha.

Once they make it to the kitchen, America leans against the counter, watching Agatha gather ingredients — for some kind of casserole, it seemed — and awaiting instructions on how to assist. “There is something I think you can help me with, though,” America smoothly segues.

Agatha stops assembling ingredients just long enough to glance toward her with a raised eyebrow. “Hm?”

America forces herself to keep her expression casual, looking down and tracing a pattern on the countertop with her finger. Acting like this wasn’t the first, vital step of her elaborate plan. “Well, Wanda’s birthday is coming up pretty soon, and I was thinking we could do something special. Throw a little surprise party. I could handle getting the cabin ready — make decorations, blow up balloons, bake a cake, all that — and all you would have to do is distract her for a few hours beforehand. Maybe, I don’t know, take her out to dinner or something.” 

She shrugs, busying herself with chopping some zucchini. Agatha was pretty good at reading people, and she did not want her to catch on to the fact she was trying to play matchmaker. “Maybe even, like, a fancy place, with candles and flowers and fancy adult grape juice," she adds. "She likes all that stuff.”

Agatha goes quiet for a few moments — long enough for America to finish cutting all the vegetables and sprinkle them on top of the casserole Agatha had quickly concocted. America tenses a little, worried she’d say no, or worse, catch onto what she was doing. If she does, she doesn’t push the subject, finally giving her a lukewarm agreement. “That could work,” she says, popping the dish into the oven. “I’m not opposed.”

“Great! Then it’s settled,” she says, allowing herself a small grin when Agatha turns to put the casserole into the oven. Victory. “She’ll love it — the dinner and the party.” And you. “Your birthday is on Halloween, right? I remember because it's on a holiday just like mine, and being born on Halloween is, like, super witchy of you."

Agatha grabs a rag, beginning to clean up the mess of preparation, while America takes a seat on a barstool. “Yes, it is Halloween, but a ‘witchier’ and older holiday that corresponds with my birthday is actually Samhain.”

“Wait.” America blinks in surprise, completely derailed from her next point by this new information. They sort of buried the lead in terms of this whole witchcraft thing. I mean, who wouldn’t be excited about more holidays?  “There’s special witch holidays?! Why have you never told me that? What’s it about? Is it fun? Can we celebrate it?”

Agatha laughs — something she often does when America gets, as she puts it, ‘overexcited.’ “There are. They’re called sabbats. I’ll explain more when it comes around, but we can absolutely celebrate.”

“Cool.” America grins. “I can’t wait. We’ll celebrate Samhain, we’ll celebrate your birthday — Scorpio season is going to be very busy,” she says, steering herself back on track to her original point. “Scorpios and Aquarians are super compatible. Did you know that? Maybe that’s why you and Wanda get along.”

Agatha quirks her eyebrow again — higher this time. Suspicious or intrigued, America didn’t know. She sure hoped it was the latter, though. “Are they now?” she asks, voice not giving anything away in terms of which it might be.

“Uh-huh.” America nods. “Some sources even say they’re the most compatible. See?” She says, whipping out her phone and opening a few tabs she’s bookmarked — she’s nothing if not prepared. “This article talks about communication styles between the two,” she says, scrolling on the screen. “This one talks about emotional connection, and this one has romantic tips — just in case you were curious. Knowledge is power — that’s what you always tell me.” 

The oven beeps, signaling the casserole is ready — Agatha might not be able to conjure food out of thin air, but she could still significantly speed up the cooking process. America leaps out of her seat and practically throws the phone at Agatha before darting across the kitchen. Agatha does manage to catch it — just barely. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it while you read those.”

America can practically feel Agatha’s eyes on her — narrowed, no doubt — as she opens the oven door. After she carefully retrieves the casserole and sets it on the stove, however, she glances back at Agatha, who’s reading the article while leaning against the counter — rather intently, too, from the looks of it. Another small smile creeps onto her face as she grabs a spatula from the drawer, scooping some food onto two plates and carrying them to the table.

“Pretty interesting stuff, right?” she asks, plopping into her seat.

Agatha stops skimming the article to look up at her. Seeing that America’s already taken it upon herself to serve them both, she walks over to join her, clicking the phone off and setting it facedown. Phones were a strict no at the dinner table. “It's certainly something.” Agatha folds her hands on the table. “Is there a reason you showed me?” she asks pointedly.

Uh oh. America’s eyes widen slightly, and she keeps her gaze firmly fixed on her plate. “Nope. No reason. Not at all,” she lies — badly. She stuffs a giant bite of casserole into her mouth. “Huh-uh,” she reemphasizes through the mouthful, vehemently shaking her head.

Agatha takes a sip of her drink, raising her eyebrow in the most intimidating arch of the day. “Are you sure?”

“Mhm.” America nods, struggling not to cower under The Look™ as she swallows the casserole.

Almost immediately, her body goes hot and itchy, her stomach churning violently — she knows it’s not just from the discomfort at being questioned. 

“Auntie Ags?” she asks. She hadn’t really been paying attention to the ingredients as they’d cooked, too focused on her plan. “Are there…mushrooms in this?”

Agatha blinks, caught off guard by the quick topic change. “Yes?” she says, the answer sounding like a question.

“Got it." A beat. "Um…well…I’m sort of kind of maybe a little bit severely deathly allergic,” America says. She tries to stay calm, but it’s hard — her throat is closing up and she feels like she might be sick and she doesn’t know what to do. She shoots Agatha a panicked look — help me.

Agatha’s eyes widen in response. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Agatha freezes for a moment before jumping into action. “Get in the car,” she orders as she stands and goes to grab her keys. She waves her hand in America’s direction as she does, muttering a short incantation that makes her muscles relax.

But even though America’s body feels calmer, her mind is still going a million miles a minute. She wants to ask a million questions — tries to — but she can’t get anything coherent out. Her throat feels tight, and it burns along with her eyes, tears threatening to fall. She can’t seem to talk or breathe or even make herself move. All she can do is sit there. At that moment, she’s hit with a feeling that’s all too familiar but one she hasn’t truly felt in a while: powerless.

It seems she’s not the only one panicking either. Agatha fumbles with the keys — she’s never seen her fumble with anything — before realizing America is motionless. Deciding they don’t have time to waste, Agatha comes over and lifts her off the chair, carrying her out to the car. “You’re okay,” she says a bit stiffly, clearly not used to comforting people. “It’s all going to be okay.”

The reassurance works anyway. Agatha has been alive for 300 years, America rationalizes. Surely she was more than qualified to handle something like this. 

America squeezes her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms, trying to ground herself in the moment. The safety of knowing she was in good hands so the fear couldn’t get the better of her and the worst couldn’t happen. She was not going to allow a portal to open. Not again. Not today.

Agatha gently sets her down in the passenger’s seat and helps her get the seatbelt on before going around to the driver's side, taking a deep breath as she backs out of the driveway. If she’s still panicking, she doesn’t show it, keeping her face schooled into an impressively neutral expression.

America, on the other hand — try as she might — isn’t as successful in keeping it together.

The ride to the hospital feels infinite even though, in reality, it probably isn’t that long. America doesn’t know how to drive yet (unfortunately), but she does know that you’re supposed to stop at red lights (something Agatha is not doing) and aren’t supposed to go 20 miles over the speed limit (something Agatha is doing). Her leg shakes all the while, breaths still coming quick as the hospital comes into view. “I’m scared,” she admits, voice weak as she chokes out the words.

Agatha blinks, her composure wavering for a moment as she seems to rack her brain for how to respond. “It’ll be all right,” she finally settles on.

A tear she’d been trying hard to hold in finally falls as Agatha parks (illegally) near the entrance. “Promise?” she asks, voice cracking on the question. 

Agatha sighs as she glances over at her. “I think so.”

America bites her lip to keep it from trembling as Agatha helps her into the hospital. It’s not exactly what she wants to hear, but at least she was honest. Which is more than America could say for herself. A wave of shame washes over her, making her feel even worse — something she didn’t know was possible.

It’s all a bit of a blur as they enter the building. She vaguely registers Agatha telling the receptionist something about anaphylactic shock before being ushered back into a small room and sat down on a bed. She sees a doctor grab a syringe, and she can’t help but flinch — she knows she’s being a baby, but she doesn’t like shots. 

“You’re going to feel a little pinch on your thigh, and then you should feel much better. Just squeeze Mom’s hand — it’ll be over before you know it,” the doctor promises, an assumption that makes Agatha freeze for a beat, discomfort evident on her face. America doesn’t correct him, though. Instead, she just does what he says and takes Agatha’s hand, gripping hard as the needle goes in.

Agatha grips back, seeming to recover from the whole “mom” mixup. She watches the doctor intently all the while, as if ready to jump in and correct him at any moment despite the fact she doesn’t have any extensive medical expertise to America’s knowledge.

Almost instantly after the shot, America’s throat stops feeling as tight, and her breaths even out into a steadier rhythm. “Better?” the doctor asks, and America nods. “Good." He nods back in approval. “We’ll need to keep you here for a while for observation just to make sure you keep feeling better. Lie down, take it easy, and we’ll be back to check on you in a bit.” 

America obliges, still holding onto Agatha’s hand as she rests her head against the pillows.

Agatha watches the doctor go before turning to look at her. “How are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m…okay,” she says softly. “Feel a little sore. A little tired. A lot stupid.” She grimaces, squirming a little. Now that they were alone and the adrenaline and fear had worn off, she was left feeling embarrassed. Guilty. Agatha had signed up for a nice, calm few days — she was doing her a favor — and only a few hours in, she’d roped her into a mess. “I’m sorry you had to do this — it’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” Agatha assures her. “Mistakes happen — it’s okay.”

“But it is my fault, and it’s not okay,” she argues, letting out a frustrated sigh. She lets go of Agatha’s hand, fingers fidgeting on her lap instead. “Yes, eating the mushrooms was a mistake, but I lied to you on purpose right before it happened,” she quietly admits.

“I know you did.” Agatha frowns. “But I was going to let you keep your secret until you wanted to tell me.”

Of course she knew, America thinks. She always does. And now she really had no choice but to come clean — get everything out on the table.

“I just…” She turns her head away, staring out the window. “I had this idea that maybe you and Wanda…that maybe you’d want to be together. Like, together together. And I thought maybe I could help you both realize that and then the three of us…” Her voice cracks again — god, she was sick of crying. “The three of us could be a real family,” she finishes with a whisper, another sob escaping her throat.

“Shh,” Agatha gently hushes her, shifting so they’re lying side-by-side. She reaches over to hold her, but unlike after the portal, unlike in the car, it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels natural, innate — like a long-buried instinct has been unearthed. “I want you to know…” she starts before briefly pausing, as if in disbelief at what she’s about to say. “We are a family — no matter what kind of feelings I have for Wanda.”

As much as America wants to let herself be comforted, lean into her touch, she can’t. She clenches her jaw and gathers up all her strength (which is, after everything that had happened tonight, admittedly not much) and pushes out of Agatha’s grasp, looking at her challengingly. 

“What about your feelings for me?” she confronts. “I overheard you and Wanda when she asked about me staying with you. You hesitated. Said you didn’t know if it was such a good idea. And I saw how you reacted when that doctor thought you were my mom. It’s okay if you just want to be my magic teacher — I understand; I don’t blame you — but you don’t have to pretend you want to be my family if you don’t.”

Agatha flinches. Goes quiet for a long, long moment, carefully choosing her words.

“I had a son once. A long time ago,” Agatha starts quietly. She stares straight ahead, voice wistful, as if caught in a memory. “He was the best thing to come out of my…compulsory heterosexuality. I don’t know what happened to him,” she admits, pursing her lips. “But I loved being a mom. It was one of the few things that brought me joy.” 

America blinks — she hadn’t seen that coming — but forces herself not to ask any questions yet. To give Agatha time to continue. It did sort of make sense if she thought about it: those little hints of mother’s intuition, of nurturing, that popped up when America was in crisis. The way she seemed to know what America needed, however hesitant she had been to act upon it.

Agatha takes a deep breath, turning to look at America. “The reason I hesitated with Wanda is complicated, but simply, I was scared to fu— screw up. And when the doctor called me your mother, it did shock me, but not in a bad way. It’s just been such a long time,” she confesses, dropping her gaze to the blanket, eyes glassy with tears.

It’s always strange, seeing Agatha emotional. But in a way, it’s good, too. America knows Agatha wouldn’t just say all this to anybody — that this proves she does actually care. She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out how to make it better. 

“You already dropped the f-bomb in front of me tonight, you know — you don’t have to censor yourself now,” she teases, which emits a small smile from Agatha. 

“Fair point.”

America scoots back over to her, resting her head on her shoulder. “I didn’t know that — the part about you being scared. I…kind of didn’t think you were scared of anything,” she softly admits.

“Of course I’m scared of things,” Agatha says, wrapping an arm around her. “I don’t like to admit it, but I am.”

America bites her lip, playing with a fuzz on the blanket. “I’m sorry about your son,” she says quietly. “I bet you were a really good mom to him.”

Agatha stiffens a little at the mention, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I hope so. I tried.”

America is curious about her son — about what he was like, what happened to him. She’s tempted to pry but makes herself refrain. Agatha gave her space to hold onto her secrets until she was ready — she owed her the same. Baby steps. 

“I’m positive you were,” she reassures her instead, nestling further into her embrace. “I mean, you saved my life tonight, which I think even makes you a hero,” she reminds her.

“I wouldn’t go as far as hero.” Agatha chuckles, running her hand through America’s hair. “All I did was disobey some traffic laws to get you to a doctor so they could save you.”

“You did disobey a lot of traffic laws.” America giggles. Her eyes flutter shut as Agatha strokes her hair, the action soothing her. “But you also stayed with me the whole time, and you tried to make me feel better. You didn’t have to do that, but you did. I think that makes you a hero.”

Agatha’s hand pauses for a moment at that, seemingly to delicately select her words again. “Of course I stayed,” she replies. “It’s not often I get…attached, shall we say. But when I do, it means something.”

America’s mouth creeps into a smile at that, heart twinging. It means something. She means something. Maybe Agatha was right. Maybe they were family no matter what — even if they didn’t have a piece of paper or share any blood to prove it. 

Blood. 

The thought sparks an idea in her head. “I did a pretty good job with the shot, huh?” she casually asks. “The needle?”

Agatha looks slightly puzzled at the abrupt change in topic, but she gives a small nod anyway. “Yeah, you did.”

America ducks her head, trying to hide the mischievous smirk creeping onto her face. “Since I did such a good job with that, I think I could definitely handle that star tattoo I’ve been talking about. We could go get it before Wanda is back — she’d never even have to know.”

“Mm,” Agatha hums, unconvinced. “I still think you need to wait a while for that.”

She sighs dramatically. “Well, it was worth a shot.” She waits a beat, realizing how that sounds. “Pun not intended,” she clarifies.

Agatha breathes out a laugh. “When you’re older, I’d be happy to take you to get a tattoo,” she promises. “If you want,” she quickly adds, as if afraid she’s being presumptuous.

America peers up at her, touched by the offer. “I do want that. I’ll need to squeeze your hand, obviously.”

Agatha smiles, ruffling her hair. “Then it’s a plan.”

“It’s a plan,” she agrees with a nod, grinning back. “Do you want one, too? A tattoo?”

“I’ve never really considered it,” Agatha admits, contemplating for a moment. “Maybe,” she finally decides.

“You could get a star, too — that way, we could match,” America suggests. “Or Señor Scratchy’s paw print.” She thinks of her necklace — how it comforts her, always having a reminder of her moms with her. Her voice grows softer, and she fiddles with a blanket string. “Or…something that reminds you of your son?”

She immediately regrets it, as she can feel Agatha tense at the mere suggestion. “Perhaps,” she says, voice soft.

“Sorry.” America cringes. The last thing she wants is for Agatha to regret telling her about him. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just know sometimes it’s nice, remembering stuff about my moms — even though it hurts, too. And Wanda says sometimes it helps to talk about…” She shakes her head — stop rambling. “But you don’t have to. It’s none of my business. You can, if you want, because I’d really like to listen sometime. But you don’t have to. Now or ever or...” Rambling again. “I’ll…shut up now. Sorry.”

Agatha shushes her, pulling her closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she reassures her. “Remembering your lost loved ones can be healthy…but it’s also hard.”

“Super hard,” America agrees, blowing out a breath. “Harder than casting runes. Harder than traveling the multiverse. Harder than eating a mushroom and not dying,” she says. She purses her lips to keep her mouth from twitching into a smile, eyes flicking up to gauge Agatha’s reaction. “Too soon to joke about that last one?”

“Maybe,” Agatha says, though she cracks a small smile. “But you’re right — it’s very difficult.”

“It’s a little easier now that I’m not alone anymore,” America admits. “Nothing feels as hard now that I have you and Wanda and Wong and even Strange, even though I know you two aren’t exactly besties.”

Agatha scowls. “What can I say? He’s an egotistical bastard.”

America rolls her eyes. “He’s not that bad. He also saved my life and doesn’t follow traffic laws — that’s already two whole things you have in common.”

Agatha raises a brow curiously. “He doesn’t follow traffic laws? Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Well, to be fair, it wasn’t on purpose. He tried to cross the street on a green light in a universe where you go on red. Broke rule number one of multiversal travel,” she explains.

Agatha keeps her brow raised, her intrigue furthered. “And what might that be?”

“That you don’t know anything,” America says emphatically. “The rules are all completely different everywhere you go, so you can’t make assumptions.”

“That makes a lot of sense.” Agatha nods. “It also makes sense that Strange’s arrogance blinded him from seeing that,” she mumbles.

“Rule number two,” she continues, if only to change the subject — she was making no progress on Operation Make Agatha Not Want to Strangle Strange. “Is to find food,” she says, stomach growling a little as if on cue.

Agatha’s expression softens at that, successfully distracted from thinking of Strange. “So I take it you’re hungry then?”

“Little bit,” America admits. “The one bite of deadly mushroom was delicious but not super filling.” She glances toward the door. “Do you think they’ll let us go soon? Or will we have to ransack the vending machine?”

Agatha follows her gaze. “Hopefully, it won’t be too long before we’re discharged, and we can stop on the way home. If not, I’ll grab you a snack from the vending machine. How does that sound?” 

“Sounds perfect,” she agrees with a grin. “I always ask Wanda if we can stop on the way back, but she’s always, like, ‘We have food at home.’ Which is true, but it’s not McDonald’s chicken nuggets, you know?”

“I suppose so…” Agatha tilts her head, nose crinkled slightly at the idea. She could be a bit of a snob, and America doesn’t really see her as the fast food type. Luckily, she gives in after a moment. “We can stop there if you’d like.”

“Thanks, Auntie Ags,” America says, grin widening at that. “You’re the best.”

After everything they’d been through tonight, she really means it.

Chapter Text

Luckily, the doctor returns a few moments later and, after giving America an EpiPen and showing her how to use it in case something like this happens again, clears them to leave. Soon, they’re walking down the hallway — albeit much less frantically than before. 

“This hospital is nice,” America observes as they head to the parking lot. It was a lot easier to appraise when she wasn’t, you know, having a severe allergic reaction. “Way better than the last one I was at. That was in universe number…34, I think.” 

Agatha raises an eyebrow, looking around. It’s clear she doesn’t necessarily agree with her assessment of this one, but she doesn’t fight her on it. “What was that one like?” she asks instead.

“Dark. Old. Creepy." She shudders, instinctively hovering a little closer to Agatha as they walk, as if to remind herself she wasn’t in that universe — wasn’t alone — anymore. “And not in a cool way like your basement. I told the doctors that I landed on my arm really hard after being sucked through a portal and that I couldn’t give them my address or parents’ contact information because of the whole being in another universe thing, but they, uh, didn’t really believe me," she says with a small frown as she opens the car door and slides into the passenger’s seat.

Agatha nods, slipping into the driver’s side. “I can’t explain away the creepy factor, but most hospitals here wouldn’t believe you on that front either unless you came from some metropolitan area that regularly experiences superhero BS. The healthcare system here is…not great.” She grimaces. 

“Really?” America asks, eyes widening in concern. She had thought maybe this universe would be better considering the state of the hospital — semi-clean, decently lit, no loud screaming — but she, of all people, should have known the two things didn’t necessarily correlate. She curses herself for breaking her very own first rule about assumptions. “Do you have to pay for it here like you do food? Is it going to be expensive?”

Agatha lets out a small sigh. “Yes, we do have to pay for it, in short, though it’s more complicated than that.”

A wave of guilt crashes over America. “I’ll pay you back somehow. More chores or something,” she quickly promises, biting her lip. “And we can not get McDonald’s,” she reluctantly offers after a moment.

“Nonsense, dear,” Agatha tuts. “That’s not for you to worry about. And we’ll get your fast food — I’ve accumulated more money over the years than you think.”

America opens her mouth to argue — say she couldn’t let her do that, that she would figure out how to get the money some way — but she closes it again. Honestly, she doesn’t have the first clue how she would do that, and Agatha seemed to mean it when she told her not to worry. She still wasn’t quite used to other people being there to take care of her; it was hard, sometimes, to remember that it was okay to let them. To depend on someone else. 

She’s flooded with a sense of relief and leans across the center console to throw her arms around Agatha. “I love you,” she says softly. “You don’t have to say it back,” she promises quickly. “I just…wanted you to know.”

Agatha stiffens for a beat before slowly starting to relax. She stays silent, which doesn’t surprise America. It doesn’t hurt her, either. This was all new to both of them, and it was going to take time. Agatha was clearly trying, and that was enough. More than enough. She was saying it back in her own way: staying with her at the hospital, telling her about her son, getting her the food she liked. She even reciprocates the hug after a moment, which says more than words ever could anyway.

America pulls away after a few moments, buckling her seatbelt. “Okay. Let’s get fries,” she says casually.

Agatha nods, clearing her throat as she starts up the car. “Sounds good to me.”

Agatha breaks far fewer traffic laws on the drive back (though it’s clear she’s biting her tongue to keep from swearing at people driving what she deemed “too slow” but was really just the legal limit), and though it takes a little longer to get home without all the speeding, soon, they’re back at the house, food in tow. America had even managed to talk her into ice cream, stating that it was a small miracle the machine wasn’t broken and they had to take advantage of the momentous occasion. 

“Question,” America says, spotting the mostly untouched casserole on the plates and stove as she sets the fast food bag on the table. “Well, two questions.”

Agatha sets her keys down and, with a flick of her hand, begins cleaning up the dinner that had long gone cold. “Hm?”

She blinks as Agatha starts effortlessly tidying up — she always forgot about the little, everyday witch perks. “Well, I was going to ask if you wanted help cleaning up, but it looks like you have it covered. Still so freaking cool. Still so going to make you teach me someday,” she says, sitting at the table and nibbling on a nugget. 

“This comes with years of practice, dear,” Agatha chuckles as the dishes stack themselves in the sink.

“My second question is: We should wait and tell Wanda about all this after she gets back, right? Not, like, interrupt her mission? Or — or — maybe we could just…not tell her at all? Ever?” she suggests as nonchalantly as possible, popping a fry in her mouth.

Agatha takes a seat across from her, pulling out the food she’d ordered herself. She glances at the chicken sandwich for a moment, clearly skeptical, before turning her attention back to America. “We will have to tell her,” she says with a sigh. “But we can wait until she gets back.”

“But I don’t want her to freak out,” America protests. “And I really don’t want her to tell Strange and have him freak out. I just…don’t want anyone freaking out about anything — or at anybody — because of me,” she says, biting her lip and swirling another fry in the pool of ketchup. 

The 'anybody' she’s referring to — that she’s trying to protect, in this case — is Agatha, of course. And although she could usually get Wanda and Strange to be reasonable, they both had some…interesting…history with her. She didn’t want to risk another disastrous misunderstanding.

Agatha lets out another sigh before taking a bite of her sandwich. She considers her words as she chews. “She needs to know,” she says decisively. “And she’d want to know because she cares about you a lot. I can’t control her reaction, or god forbid Stephen’s reaction.” Agatha pauses to roll her eyes. “But she needs to know.”

“I know she cares about me. I care about her, too — which is why I don’t want to add even more stress to her life,” America says quietly. Unfortunately, this point doesn’t seem to sway Agatha, and America lets out a breath. “But she’d probably find out anyway,” she admits. “And then it’d be even worse. I’m pretty bad at lying, as you know.”

Agatha nods, a small smile on her lips. “You are a bad liar, which I think is a good thing.”

“I don’t think so — it means I don’t get away with anything ever,” she groans dramatically.

“In this situation, I think it’s a good thing,” Agatha amends. “Wanda would only stress because she wants to see you safe,” she says firmly.

America takes another bite of her food, mulling Agatha’s words over. She still feels a little bad, worrying Agatha and, inevitably, Wanda. But it does feel a little nice knowing she mattered enough to them that they would. “I’m lucky she cares,” she finally says. “Both of you.” She gives her a small smile, playfully flicking her straw wrapper toward her. “Did I convert you into a McDonald’s fan?”

“Uh-huh.” Agatha playfully rolls her eyes, taking a sip of Dr. Pepper. “It’s not as terrible as I remember,” she concedes.

“I knew it.” America grins, pointing a fry at her. “I knew that you would like it.” She flips her ponytail, popping the fry in her mouth victoriously. 

It’s not long before she finishes the rest of her dinner, the events of the night having made her hungry — hungry and tired. It seems to be taking its toll on Agatha, too, as she rests her eyes for a moment as she sits back in her seat.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed,” America says through a yawn as she goes to toss the wrappers in the trash.

“Oh?” Agatha asks, eyes opening at her voice. “If you need anything, do let me know. Sleep well,” she says, giving her a small smile.

America returns it before she walks up the stairs. “I’ll try,” she promises. 

Chapter Text

America sleeps…okay. Despite traveling to dozens of universes and crashing in hundreds of different places, over the past few months, she’s grown used to her room, her bed, her home in the cabin with Wanda. It was a little strange to be somewhere else. Just because she couldn’t dream, have nightmares like other people, didn’t mean she couldn’t have a restless sleep. 

Dawn is just beginning to break when she finds herself jolting awake, throat tight and body drenched in sweat. It takes her a moment to remember where she is — remind herself she didn’t switch universes overnight. Even after her brain gets the message, her body straggles behind, breath fast and heartbeat rapid. 

She pushes herself out of bed, padding down the hallway to the bathroom. She opens the door to it as quietly as possible — which is to say, not very quietly at all. She cringes as it squeaks loudly enough to wake the neighbors. So much for being discreet.

She quickly splashes some water on her face before filling the glass on the sink, wanting to get in and out as quickly as possible. She breathes a sigh of relief at the lack of noise from Agatha. Maybe she was a heavier sleeper than America had originally thought. 

After a few moments, she flicks the bathroom light off and heads back to her room, shoulders relaxing when she opens the bedroom door. Thankfully, she finds it substantially less squeaky than the bathroom’s. 

The relief, however, is short-lived when she quickly realizes she hasn’t successfully opened the door to her bedroom at all. Because of course she hasn’t. No. In her rushed, tired state, she’s somehow taken a wrong turn down the hallway and successfully opened the door to Agatha’s bedroom. Frick.

“Sorry,” she whispers, mortified and frozen in the doorway as the woman stirs. “Sorry.”

Agatha blinks awake, propping herself on her elbows so she’s sitting halfway up. “No, no — you’re fine,” she assures her, voice thick with sleep. There’s a beat of awkward silence before she speaks again. “Is everything okay?”

“Me?” she asks as if the idea she wouldn’t be is preposterous. “Oh, yeah. I’m great. All good,” she assures her, though there’s a small shakiness to her voice. “I just…usually we’re downstairs in the basement, not upstairs here, and it’s kind of a maze, so I…you know…got a little lost.”

“I understand,” Agatha says through a yawn, lying back down. “If you need anything, do let me know though, okay?”

“Sure. Okay. Will do.” America nods in agreement. “Good night. Or, well, good really early morning, I guess. I’ll just…go back to my room now and let you sleep,” she rambles, though she can’t make herself move from the doorway. The thought of going back to her room and trying to fall back asleep again is not particularly appealing.

Agatha must sense her continued presence because, after a moment, she lifts her head to look at her, raising a prompting eyebrow. America simply bites her lip in response, hands fidgeting with her necklace. Hesitant.

Agatha gets the message, sighing and sitting up again. “You know, I wasn’t sleeping well anyway,” she starts. It’s a lie, and they both know it, but it makes America feel better — less embarrassed about the whole ordeal — so she gratefully plays along, accepting her silent invitation to stay.

“Yeah, me neither,” America says, letting out a small breath of relief and taking a few small steps into the room. She pauses, eyes widening when she spies several doors lining one of the walls. “Whoa, is that whole thing your closet?”

Agatha stacks another pillow behind her, settling her head back against it. The height allows her to lie down while still being propped up enough to keep an eye on America. She gives her a lethargic nod and a small smile. “It is. I had to have quite a large space to store everything.”

“Like what? Dead bodies?” America jokes with a smirk. It quickly drops when she remembers that’s not so far out of the realm of possibility. “You don’t…actually have dead bodies in there, right?”

“Jesus Christ.” Agatha rolls her eyes. “No, no — no dead bodies. Just lots of clothes. Did you forget I’ve been alive for 300 years?”

“Well, sorry — I don’t know your life!” America says, throwing her hands up. She eyes the closet, intrigued. “Clothes, you say? Centuries’ worth?”

“Yes.” Agatha shrugs, as if it’s no big deal she has enough outfits to clothe a small army tucked away in her bedroom. “I was born during the Salem witch trials. Of course, not everything has survived, but I have accumulated a decent amount.”

Decent amount. That was the understatement of the year. The century. All the centuries Agatha had been alive. America is dying to see what’s inside.

“I could organize it for you. You know, as a token of my gratitude for letting me stay here and not letting me die,” she offers. It was the perfect plan, really. A chance to take her time going through all of her no doubt fabulous outfits under the guise of a service. Genius, America. Absolutely genius.

Except…it’s not really because Agatha sees right through it.

“Go for it,” she permits. “You also could have just asked to look, though.” She winks.

America’s mouth curves into a small, sheepish smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she promises. 

She walks over to the closet, pulling open the doors. Her eyes widen yet again at the sight — she knew Agatha was being modest, but she was still fully unprepared to see just how much she was downplaying it. Nothing could have prepared her for the magnitude of what she’s greeted with. There are hundreds — maybe thousands — of items. Everything from more modern, everyday stuff to luxurious pieces from long, long ago that looked more like movie costumes. 

“This is, like, bigger than a mall,” America says, awestruck. “And better — I mean, look at this!” She pulls out a glamorous, 20s-style flapper dress. “Who just owns this?! Did you, I don’t know, smoke cigars and party all night while wearing it?” she asks, taking an imaginary cigarette puff.

“There was a pretty insane nightlife. It was very fun,” Agatha admits with a chuckle, a twinkle in her eye that tells America she’s reminiscing.

“Not going to share any of the wild details, huh? Don’t want to give me any ideas?” she teases, hanging it back up and moving onto another section. “That’s fine, that’s fine — keep your secrets.”

To her surprise, Agatha raises an eyebrow. “What do you want to know?”

America whips her head back around to look at her. “Really?” She grins. Agatha gives her another nonchalant shrug, and America walks over to the bed, plopping herself across from her. “I want to know everything!” she eagerly says, crossing her legs. “Did you go to those cool secret, underground bar places? Did you meet famous people? Did you…” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning forward. “…do drugs? There were a lot of drugs back then, weren’t there? I know stuff,” she explains. “I’ve read things. I’ve spent a lot of time at libraries — safest place in a lot of universes.”

Agatha finally sits up properly, leaning back against the headboard with an amused smile. “No famous people around that era. I did, however, spend a lot of time in speakeasies — the secret bars, as you said — because of prohibition. I won’t deny or admit to drug use, but it was an…interesting time—” Oh, she definitely did drugs. America subconsciously files this information away for later in case she ever got in trouble for doing them. Hypocrisy and all that. “—and there were a lot of fascinating people around.”

“Wow,” America says, mesmerized — a childlike wonder in her eyes. “That’s so cool. Your life is so cool. And these clothes. Are so. Cool.”

Agatha’s smile grows a bit. “I’m glad you think so. You do have to keep yourself entertained when you live for this long.”

“Totally,” she agrees, scooting off the bed and resuming her closet exploration. “This is back in style again, you know,” she says, pulling out an 80s-style leather jacket. “And so is this.” She grabs a neon cardigan. “Influencers would pay, like, a zillion dollars for them at a thrift store.”

“Oh, really?” Agatha asks indifferently, unmoved by the prospect of a zillion dollars. “I don’t pay attention to the trends nowadays.”

“I know all the trends. And the apps,” America seriously assures her. “So if there’s anything in here you don’t want anymore, just let me know, and I’ll help you sell it — and I’ll only take a very small cut of the profit for my services,” she promises, hanging the two pieces back up and flipping through more. “Or, if you’re feeling generous, you could donate it to people in need. Or to your favorite 14-year-old who wears the same denim jacket, like, every single day,” she says, looking back to flash her a smile and bat her eyelashes.

“I have been told I’m quite the hoarder. I haven’t gotten rid of anything in years…” Agatha muses. “But if there’s anything you want, ask, and I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks, Auntie Ags,” she says, smile softening from cheeky to sincere. She returns to her task, continuing to carefully sort through. Every couple minutes, she’ll shuffle a few things around to make good on her promise to “organize” (under the very loosest definition of the word). She gets about halfway through before she gasps, pulling out a purple pantsuit. It’s fabulous. Unique. Exquisite. “This is perfect.”

“Oh?” Agatha quirks a brow, sizing it up. “I think it’s going to be quite big on you.”

“No, not for me.” America rolls her eyes. “For you. For when you take Wanda out to fancy dinner while I decorate the cabin for her surprise party. Remember? The thing we were talking about before we were so rudely interrupted by the whole me almost dying thing?”

“Yes, I remember,” Agatha says with a small sigh. “You think I should wear that?” She eyes it wearily, clearly skeptical. “God, I haven’t worn that since the 90s.” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m sure — you would slay,” America says, walking over to drape the pantsuit on the bed. “Come on. Try it on. Do the whole—” She wiggles her fingers as she waves her hand over her body. “—fancy thing where you change your clothes with magic.”

“Really?” Agatha asks.

“Yeah.”

“Right now?”

“Uh-huh,” America stubbornly insists.

There’s a beat before Agatha acquiesces, reluctantly climbing out of bed with a sigh. She waves her hand, her pajamas replaced with the pantsuit in an instant. 

America grins, nodding appreciatively. “Just as I suspected — it’s an absolute serve.” 

Agatha rolls her eyes but breathes out a laugh. “I’m glad I have your approval.”

America taps her chin, absentmindedly playing with her necklace as she considers the look. After a moment, she looks down at it — the simple but elegant gold pendant — an idea sparking in her head.

“You are going to need jewelry,” America declares. “And while I’m sure you have an entire other closet somewhere full of way more expensive stuff…I think this would look good with it. You can borrow it if you want,” she offers, reaching back to unhook it. She can’t remember the last time she took it off. It was special to her. The most valuable thing she owned, emotionally and probably financially, too. “It was my mom’s, and before that, it belonged to my grandma.”

Agatha opens her mouth to speak before closing it again, pursing her lips for a moment. “Are you sure?” she gently asks, tilting her head. “It seems quite sentimental, and even if I were wearing it just for the night…I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated—” 

“I don’t feel obligated,” America promises, voice earnest. “And it is sentimental — that’s why I want you to wear it.” 

She steps onto the bed, gaining some height so she’s tall enough to drape it around Agatha’s neck. After she clasps it, she hops down and steps in front of her again, nodding in approval. “I don’t want you to feel obligated, but I think it looks really nice.”

Agatha looks down at it with a small smile, reaching up to lightly run her thumb over the pendant. “It’s lovely.”

“Good,” America says, the corner of her mouth curving up to match. “I’m glad you like it.”

Agatha glances back up to look at her. “Can I hug you?” she asks softly.

At first, the question makes America blink in surprise. It’s the last thing she expected to come out of her mouth. Agatha wasn’t usually much for physical affection — certainly not initiating it. There was the hospital, of course, but that was different. A special circumstance. After she’s done being shocked, she feels her throat get tight, her eyes misty. She remembers the way Agatha tensed up when she’d asked her the same thing just months ago. This was a big step. A huge step. “Yeah.” She nods firmly, sniffling through her smile. “Yeah, of course you can.”

Agatha breathes a sigh of relief — as if she was worried she would say no, as if she’d been fully prepared to apologize for suggesting it or shrug off the request — before wrapping her arms around her, so gently and carefully it’s like she’s afraid America might shatter. It reminds her of Wanda that first day they reunited at Kamar-Taj.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” America quietly reassures her. “You’re not.”

She can feel Agatha’s body relax at that before she squeezes her more tightly, holding her close.

America closes her eyes, sinking into her embrace. She feels…safe. Secure. Feelings she’d been having a lot more lately. Feelings that, before a few months ago, she didn’t think she’d ever feel again. 

She thinks — she hopes — she can get used to it.

Chapter Text

The rest of America’s stay with Agatha is relatively uneventful — in comparison to the first part, at least. True to her word, Agatha gives America a few pieces of clothing she’s willing to part with — something that makes her ecstatic. They have their magic lessons during the day, as usual, and America even talks Agatha into ordering takeout a few nights. 

They’re sitting at the dinner table, several cartons of Chinese food spread in front of them, when America sees a small light flash from the living room. 

A portal. 

She perks up, turning in her chair to face it. “Wanda?”

“Yes,” a voice says from the living room, accompanied by footsteps making their way toward the kitchen. “Yes, I’m back.”

America grins, tossing her napkin on the table before jumping up, practically running to greet her. Wanda breathes out an “oof” as America nearly knocks her over with a hug, immediately dropping her duffel bag on the couch and returning the embrace.

“I missed you,” America whispers.

“I missed you, too,” Wanda says, giving her a squeeze. “How have you been?”

“Good,” America says, pulling back after a moment to look at her. She’s wearing loose jogging pants, a cream-colored long-sleeve shirt — no visible injuries, which America takes as a good sign. Her hair’s loose, a little messy, and while there’s definitely exhaustion evident on her face, she doesn’t look like she’s in pain. Seemingly no more traumatized than when she left for the mission. Small victories. 

America feels herself relax, tension releasing in her muscles she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Stress and anxiety that had been building up, nagging at the back of her mind ever since Wanda had gone. As much as she hated to admit it, there was a tiny part of her afraid she might not come back. That something awful might happen. 

She shakes her head a little to push it from her mind, keep herself from spiraling. Nothing terrible had occurred. Wanda was back. They were all together again. Everyone was safe.

“Really good,” America continues. “Auntie Ags let me raid her closet — that’s where I got this,” she says, gesturing at the very cozy, very 70s mustard-yellow sweater she’s wearing.

Wanda smiles, surveying the outfit. “I’m glad. And I do love that sweater. It’s very…vintage. I think that’s in nowadays?”

“It is,” America agrees. “That’s what I told her,” she says, nodding toward where Agatha is sitting at the table as they start making their way into the kitchen. “I said I could make her a billion dollars by selling it to wannabe Instagram baddies online, but she gave it to me for free instead.”

Wanda laughs. “Well, you look great, and I’m glad to see you no matter what you’re wearing.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I doubt she’d sell her clothes, though — from the basement, she seems like a semi-hoarder.”

America giggles a little at that — she wasn’t wrong. Her basement, her closet, the boxes in the guest room…she had a lot of…stuff. 

“I’m glad to see you, too. We ordered a bunch of Chinese food if you’re hungry,” America says, going to grab an extra plate from the cabinet as Wanda takes a seat at the table. “We’ve been eating healthy most nights, though — promise. We only got McDonald’s once the whole time, and that’s only because it was a special occasion,” she swears. She didn’t want Wanda to think Agatha was irresponsible — that she couldn’t be trusted to supervise when she was away.

“Oh? And what special occasion would that be?” Wanda asks curiously.

America freezes, grateful her back is still turned to Wanda so she can’t see her cringe. She’d been back for a grand total of five seconds — America did not want to get into the gory details of that particular subject yet.

“Uh…I actually don’t remember now. Probably killed it during magic kindergarten or something,” she mumbles, walking over to the table and setting the plate in front of Wanda — pointedly avoiding eye contact with both of the women. “But enough about me — how are you? How was the mission?” she asks, eager to change the subject.

“America…” Wanda starts in a warning tone.

“What?” she squeaks, trying to sound innocent. It backfires spectacularly, making her seem even more suspicious.

Agatha shoots America a pointed glance before sighing and looking back at Wanda. “We got McDonald’s after she had an anaphylactic reaction to mushrooms.”

“What?” Wanda’s eyes widen as she drops her fork back onto her plate. “Oh my god.” 

“Auntie Ags!” America whines. “Seriously?”

“You were stalling,” Agatha scolds with an unsympathetic shrug.

“I had two freakin’ minutes,” America defends through gritted teeth. “It couldn’t have waited more than two freakin’ minutes?”

“Why didn’t you tell me when I asked?” Wanda presses, mouth curving into a frown.

“Because you just got back, and I didn’t want you to freak out. And you are,” she accuses Wanda. “You have that little line between your eyebrows that means you’re freaking out.”

“I’m worried — not freaking out,” Wanda corrects with a sigh, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. “Something more serious could have happened if Agatha hadn’t gotten you medical attention.”

“But she did — right away,” America assures her. “And I’m, like, so fine now. It really wasn’t even that big of a deal,” she says, picking up her fork and scooting the food around on her plate.

“Mhm,” Wanda hums skeptically. America can feel her watching her intently. Knows her eyes are narrowed without even having to look up. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. Like, super sure,” America stubbornly insists, stabbing a piece of sesame chicken with a little too much force.

“Okay,” Wanda relents, lightly tucking a stray hair behind America’s ear — one that’s dangerously close to dangling into the wonton soup. “But it’d be okay if you weren’t fine, too, you know. Things like that can be scary, and they’re allowed to be scary,” she says gently.

America bites the inside of her cheek, eyes staying fixed on her plate. “Maybe it was a little scary,” she quietly admits. “But I really am fine.”

Wanda smooths her hair again — just because this time; there’s no danger of it contaminating the soup. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says, sitting back and picking up her fork again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

America looks up at her then. “It’s okay,” she says, voice more sincere. “Auntie Ags was. She knew exactly what to do and stayed with me the whole time,” she says, glancing over at Agatha, giving her a tiny smile.

“I’m so glad,” Wanda says, a small but genuine smile of her own blooming on her face. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” She gives Agatha a quick look — gratitude mixed with…something else. Agatha locks eyes with her, her expression just as hard to interpret.

It was hard to pin down exactly what it is, but there’s definitely a vibe there — one that seemed like it could bode well for Wanda’s birthday dinner. America raises her eyebrows, scooping some rice into her mouth, letting them have their…thing.

“Anyway…” Wanda blinks after a minute, dropping her gaze and turning her attention back to her food. “Did anything else exciting happen while I was gone?”

“Yeah. I learned Auntie Ags could have a career as a race car driver. She’s going to teach me how to drive soon,” she declares despite the fact that Agatha had agreed to no such thing, popping an egg roll into her mouth.

“Oh?” Wanda narrows her eyes at Agatha. “Is that so?”

Agatha holds her hands up, vehemently shaking her head.

“What?” America asks, incredulous. “Why not? Driver’s ed is part of the curriculum at regular school. Why can’t it be part of magic school, too?”

“You’re still about a year off from American driver’s ed age, dear,” Wanda says sympathetically, patting her hand.

“Oh.” She deflates, lip jutting into a small pout. “But if I start learning now, then I’ll be extra prepared for the test and be an even safer driver once I get my license,” she reasons.

Wanda sighs, silently debating this. “Maybe,” she finally decides.

America’s mouth twitches into a small smile — success. “After dinner?” she presses. “Just once around the neighborhood? Remember, I’ve traveled to different universes. Alone. Going, like, a block with one — or both — of you in the car? Very low stakes, in comparison.”

“I said maybe,” Wanda reminds her with a laugh. “I don’t know about tonight.”

“Fiiine,” America relents, figuring it would be wise not to push it for now. “But only because you just got back. How was the mission, anyway? You never said.”

Wanda shrugs. “It was long. Fine other than that and the fact Strange was getting on my nerves a bit toward the end.”

“Don’t comment,” America says sternly, pointing a finger at Agatha. She could feel her itching to say something — she never missed an opportunity to complain about Strange. She turns back to Wanda, searching her face. “Just long? Not scary?” she asks, that apprehensive feeling creeping back up again. “Things are allowed to be scary,” she echoes.

Wanda gives her a soft smile, seemingly happy that she’d been listening earlier. Had taken her words to heart. America wasn’t always the best listener in the world. What teenager was? “At times, yes — it was a little scary,” Wanda admits. “Mainly because I was worried about not coming home to you two.”

“Yeah.” America nods. She can’t help but furrow her brow a bit in concern. She knows Wanda’s job is important, that a little fear is unavoidable — a small price to pay, all things considered. Knows that she maybe/probably/very likely has some separation anxiety, is more terrified to lose a parental figure than most after everything she’s been through. She also knows, logically, that Wanda is strong — that she knows what she’s doing and can hold her own. But that still doesn’t make it easy. “I get that.”

Wanda frowns, sensing the mood shift. “You all right?” She tilts her head, gaze sweeping her.

“Yeah.” America nods again, giving her a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I mean, you’re home now — you did come back,” she says, as if saying it out loud will remind her. Calm her. “And you won’t have to leave again for a while, right?”

Wanda continues eyeing her for a moment. She clearly knows something’s still bothering her, but thankfully, she doesn’t push. “As far as I know, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“Good.” America pops a piece of cashew chicken in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “That's good. Who knows, maybe you won’t get called on another one for a really long time — so long that, by that point, I’ll be out of magic kindergarten, getting my magic Ph.D., and I'll be good enough and old enough to go help, too.”

“Well, I don’t know about all of that,” Wanda says with a playful wink before growing more sincere. “But I do have faith that you’ll keep getting better. You’ve already improved so much.” 

“I have, haven’t I?” America says with a smile, mood brightening as she reflects. Beyond runes and sigils, she’d been practicing control. Shadow work. Identifying and channeling energy. She still couldn’t talk into minds or move objects just by looking at them or levitate, but compared to a few months ago, there was a world of difference. 

It hadn’t always been easy. In fact, it had been really hard more often than not. There was a pretty big learning gap in the more traditional subjects Agatha still annoyingly insisted on — math, especially — due to the lack of real school for most of her life. And certain skills didn’t come naturally, keeping focused and staying still among them. It was easier with Agatha than it had been at Kamar-Taj — a more engaging teaching style, more individualized attention — but it was far from simple. And yet, despite all that, she’d gotten better. A lot better. She sits up straighter, feeling proud. 

“I do have a pretty good teacher.” America gestures over at Agatha, giving credit where it was due. She was tough, for sure, and expected a lot, but she was smart — crazy smart — and surprisingly patient with her. And she obviously enjoyed it — the doing magic part, obviously, but the passing it down to her, too. “And Señor Scratchy is by far the best class pet who’s ever lived.”

“Oh, is he now?” Wanda asks with the raise of her brow. “Have you spent time with him outside of all this?”

“Not without permission,” America says, mostly for Agatha’s sake — she knew she was protective of him. “It’s just nice having him there during lessons. His little nose scrunches are very encouraging.”

“Of course.” Wanda nods. “And I’m glad. You deserve the extra encouragement — though I know you’d do great without it, too.”

America blushes a little at the praise, biting her lip as she looks at Agatha. “What do you think? Straight As on the report card? Be honest. I mean, you always are, but just…be extra honest.” She takes a deep breath. “I can handle it.” As nice as it was to hear Wanda tell her she was doing a good job, Agatha was more hands-on when it came to her education — and a harsher critic in general. Her opinion would be the real moment of truth.

Agatha crosses her hands on the table, giving her a smile. “You’ve been doing well. I like seeing your progress. There’s still work to be done and refinement, but I know you’ve been studying, and it’s paying off.”

“Sure. Of course.” She nods, listening intently. This was a high compliment coming from her. America’s mouth threatens to twitch into a smile, but she forces her expression to remain serious as she poses the next question. “Do you think, all things considered, maybe I could be promoted from magic kindergarten to magic first grade?"

Agatha chuckles, humoring her despite the fact she’d reiterated time and time again the levels of learning magic didn’t correlate to a normal school system. “I suppose you could say that.”

At that, America allows herself to break into a wide grin. “Did you hear that?” she asks Wanda, lightly nudging her with her elbow. “You’re looking at a magic kindergarten graduate. I wish I had one of those square hats with the little tassel.”

Wanda laughs lightly, though the smile she gives her is genuine. “I did, and I’m proud of you. You’ve been working hard.”

“I like it. It’s fun for the most part.” She shrugs, twirling some chow mein around her fork. “Plus, I don’t want to disappoint you guys.”

She doesn’t say it to be dramatic. It’s just a casual comment — one she doesn’t anticipate pushback on. She thought they were all on the same page: that there were certain rules she needed to follow, expectations she needed to meet, in order for this to work.

But the vibe in the air seems to shift as soon as it passes her lips, immediately growing more serious. Wanda and Agatha share a quick look. Wanda opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, Agatha cuts her off. “You won’t disappoint us,” she assures her, soft but stern — a maternal tone that seems to surprise even her. “Ever.”

America can’t help but squirm a little in her seat. Her voice isn’t scary exactly, but it’s...firm. Leaving no room for discussion. 

And yet. 

She drops her eyes down to her plate, scooting her food around. Because Agatha could talk like a mother all she wanted, but she wasn’t hers. And neither was Wanda. The two of them were under no obligation — biologically, legally, whatever — to help her at all, much less if she started to become more trouble than she was worth. “I feel like that can’t possibly be true,” she says quietly.

Agatha shakes her head. “I know so. At least in regards to magic. You’re trying so hard, and you’re learning so quickly. Any ‘failure’ so to speak isn’t a disappointment.”

“But what about not in regards to magic?” she challenges. Because there was a big difference between struggling with some homework and doing something really bad. Surely there were lines and limits — things she could never come back from. She reaches for an extreme example. “What if I, I don’t know, steal the car? Take it for a joyride? Crash it into a tree?” She lifts her palms. “I’m not actually going to do that,” she promises. “I just…” she trails off, sighing in frustration, struggling to find the words to express what she means.

Agatha reaches over, gently taking one of her hands. “I can’t promise it won’t ever happen,” she says honestly. “Things like that do happen, but they’re temporary emotions. We would be disappointed in your actions — not you as a person — and we will always care about you more than we’ll ever be upset. I promise.”

America swallows hard, eyes getting misty. She forces herself to search Agatha’s own for any sign she didn’t mean it, but all she finds is a fierce earnestness that makes her believe her. Still, it’s hard to comprehend — almost too much to take in — that kind of unconditional care. That vow that they weren’t going to change their minds, give up on her. “Okay,” she says softly.

“She’s right,” Wanda chimes in, taking her other hand. “We care about you, and that’s not going to change. You’re…very special to us.”

A tear sneaks out at that, and she swipes it away with her shoulder. “Well…ditto,” she says. “That means ‘same,’ in case that's more lingo you don't know,” she teases, sniffling through a laugh.

“I know what it means,” Wanda says with a laugh and roll of her eyes. “I’m glad to know that you’re happy here.”

“I am,” America says sincerely. “A few months ago, I would have said my favorite universe was my home one — the one where I was born. But…I think this one may be tied now. It kind of…feels like this one is my home, too.”

Wanda’s smile grows, and she gives her hand a squeeze. “I’m glad. It’s what you deserve.”

She squeezes back, doing the same to Agatha’s with the other. It’s not exactly an ideal position for eating, with no free hands with which to pick up her fork, but she doesn’t care. She suddenly feels full — not just with food, but with love, too. Warmth. Peace at all of them being together again.

The rest of the meal is calm — a nice, light change from the heaviness they had as an appetizer. But she still has one last thing she has to do. A little emotional breakdown was not going to stop her from her crucial task.

“Dinner was really good — we’ll have to order from there again sometime,” America says as she begins to clear the table. “Speaking of dinner — Auntie Ags, didn’t you want to ask Wanda something about a dinner? For her…what was it…birthday or something?” she prompts, keeping her voice innocent and nonchalant, though she shoots Agatha a little smirk. If she wasn’t ready to ask, too bad — this was payback for blabbing about the mushroom situation so early in the night.

Agatha shoots America a sideways glance before clearing her throat and looking at Wanda. “Yes. Actually. I know your birthday is coming up, and I was wondering if you wanted to make an evening of it. Dinner and drinks?”

Wanda blinks in surprise, and America can practically see the wheels turning in her head, trying to read Agatha’s intentions, no doubt. She tries to read them for about three awkward, silent seconds before she snaps out of it. “Oh. Yes.” She shakes her head. “Sorry. I’d love to.”

“Great,” Agatha says.

“Great,” Wanda repeats.

“Great.” America turns, walking to put the dishes in the sink. She’s glad they can’t see the expression on her face — a big, satisfied smile creeping onto it. 

Phase two of her plan: complete.

Chapter Text

America spends the next few weeks painstakingly preparing for the surprise party portion of Wanda’s birthday celebration: staying up late crafting decorations in her room, enlisting Agatha’s help to buy the things she couldn’t make, finding creative ways to sneak them back to and hide them in the cabin.

One perk of being upgraded to magic first grade was that she had a bit more free time to do those kinds of things now, no longer going to school on weekends. She had the control part of her power down pretty well, so there was a little less urgency. Plus, Wanda and Agatha were adamant that she not burn out — that she get time to be a kid.

The big day gets there before they know it. America wakes up early, cooking breakfast as quietly as possible and assembling it on a tray — a handmade birthday card folded on the corner — before softly knocking on Wanda’s bedroom door. She hears a groggy “come in” and half-smiles, half-grimaces as she opens the door to see Wanda sitting up and yawning.

“Sorry,” she says softly, hovering by the door. “Thought you’d already be awake. Figured since Auntie Ags was taking you to dinner, I’d treat you to breakfast, but I can reheat it later,” she offers.

Wanda rubs her eyes, a small smile spreading across her face. “No, no — come in. This is really, really sweet. I’m happy to eat now,” she assures her, patting the spot on the bed next to her.

“Please, it’s your birthday — it’s the least I could do,” America says, carefully setting the tray down on the bed before crawling in beside her. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Wanda’s smile grows, wrapping her arms around her tightly. “Thank you,” she says, kissing her forehead. “And thank you for this.”

America smiles back, snuggling into her. “You’re welcome. And I mean, it wasn’t completely selfless — I ate far more pancake batter than you would ever approve of,” she teases. 

“I’m sure.” Wanda rolls her eyes, still keeping an around half wrapped around her as she moves the tray onto her lap and picks up her fork.

“Hey, I get a pass — it’s a special day,” America justifies. “A really special day.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” Wanda shrugs.

America scoffs. “Well, I disagree.” She absentmindedly plays with a string on the quilt, silent for a few moments as Wanda eats. “What’s the best birthday you ever had?” she asks once Wanda has made a decent dent in her pancakes. “In your whole life?”

Wanda pauses, seemingly caught off guard by the question. After a moment, her face curves into a bittersweet smile — reminiscing. “In Sokovia. When I was younger. I don’t remember the year, but my whole family was still alive. My parents…Pietro…”

“Will you tell me about it?” America asks, caught up in trying to picture it before realizing Wanda may not want to share. “You don’t have to,” she quickly assures her. The last thing she wants to do is push or make her uncomfortable — especially today of all days. “I just…I want to know if you want to tell me.”

Wanda considers for a minute, pursing her lips before giving her a brief nod. “It was fun. We didn’t even have a party or anything — it was just…us. Together. We ate dinner and watched smuggled movies all day.”

“That sounds nice,” America says with a small smile. “I wish I could have met them. Because you’re kind of like my family, which means they’d be kind of like…” she trails off — worried, again, about overstepping, especially on this topic.

But Wanda finishes the sentence anyway, eyes fixed on a spot across the room. “They’d be kind of like your family, too,” she says softly. Her voice, her gaze — they both seem…distant. Contemplative. Far away somehow.

“Y-Yeah. Sort of. I-In a way,” America stammers, unable to read her expression. “Is that…um…weird? I mean, of course it’s weird — this whole thing is kind of weird — but is it…I don’t know…bad weird?”

Wanda shakes her head slowly, her eyes appearing to come back into focus. “No. It’s overwhelming, but not in a bad way, you know?”

“Definitely.” America nods. And she did know. 

She was still mourning her moms, grieving them every day. But sometimes, she found herself feeling okay. Sometimes, she did forget — just for a moment — and would be flooded with guilt the minute she remembered. Sometimes, she felt like she might be betraying them, letting Wanda and Agatha into her life in this way — allowing them to take on this role. 

She knows, deep down in her heart, her moms would want her to have people who cared about her. People to look after her when they couldn’t. She knows accepting new people into her heart, into her family, didn’t mean she loved her other one any less.

But it was still…overwhelming. Even hard sometimes.

Wanda must see the conflict flash across her face because she tightens her hold, thumb rubbing gentle circles on her arm as if to say: Come back. Stay with me. I’ve got you.

It works, her touch snapping her from her thoughts. America shakes her head, forcing herself back on track. “Well, enough about all that — today isn’t supposed to be overwhelming. Overwhelmingly fun maybe, but that’s it,” she firmly declares, changing the subject. “Do you know what you’re going to wear to dinner?”

Wanda gives her another small squeeze even as she pushes forward to the lighter topic, as if determined to let her know she’s welcome with her. “Oh, no — I don’t, actually. Truth be told, I don’t know how fancy it’s going to be or really what…vibe Agatha is trying to go for.”

“It’s fancy. There are white tablecloths and bottles of wine that cost, like, two thousand dollars. I Yelped it,” she explains. She also helped Agatha choose it, but she was going to keep her involvement in the whole thing as hush-hush as possible for a myriad of reasons.

“Formal.” Wanda nods. “Good to know.”

“As for what vibe she’s going for…you really don’t know?” She looks at her, narrowing her eyes and searching Wanda’s face.

“No?” Wanda raises a brow. “Not entirely. I’ve been trying to figure it out since she asked me.”

America shakes her head and sighs. Hopeless — the both of them. “You know, for being really smart, you two can be really clueless when it comes to each other. Like, it’s actually kind of insane.”

“What?!” Wanda asks with a surprised laugh.

“Her nickname for you is ‘hot stuff.’ She sneaks little glances at you constantly. You have the most compatible signs in the whole zodiac,” she lists. “I mean, I’ve known what was up since the first day we went to her house — do I have to spell it out for you?”

America can practically see the gears turning in Wanda’s head — tick, tick, tick, tick — and then finally: it clicks into place, realization dawning on her face. “You think she’s into me?” she practically whispers, as if saying it too loud will jinx it. “Like you actually think she’s into me?”

“No, I don’t think it, Wanda — I know it.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s the most obvious thing maybe ever.” Was she being dramatic? Sure. But that was her right as a teenager.

“Well…” Wanda starts, pushing her food around on her plate. “I hope you’re right,” she finally admits.

“I’m always right,” America says, giving her a playful nudge before scooting herself off the bed. It was tempting to stay there all cozy, but there were more important things to do. She goes to Wanda’s closet and throws open the door — it’s not as impressive as Agatha’s, but it’s not too shabby either. She could work with it. “Operation: Dress to Impress is a go.”

Wanda gives her another eye roll, continuing to nibble on her breakfast as America sifts through the hangers, rejecting things for various reasons. “Too casual,” she says of a sweatshirt. She deems a button-down “vintage but not in a trendy way.” There’s a red leotard that had to have been for a Halloween costume or something — definitely not going to work. 

Finally, she hits the jackpot, pulling out a simple but classy scarlet cocktail dress. “This is the one,” she states definitively.

“Really?” Wanda raises an eyebrow. “You think that’ll look good?”

“Only one way to find out.” America tosses the dress onto the bed. “Magic changy thingy,” she orders, having a sense of deja vu. She was getting good at this whole date prep thing.

Unfortunately, Wanda’s not as compliant as Agatha. She simply stares at her, making no move to get up. “It’s still morning — what’s the rush? Can I at least finish breakfast first?”

“Fine, fine,” America reluctantly agrees, retaking her place next to her on the bed. “But only because it’s your birthday.”

Wanda breathes out a small laugh. “Thank you, dear. But I will ask your opinion — what should I do with my hair on this apparent birthday date?”

“Hmm…” America considers, taking a few strands between her fingers, examining the locks seriously. “Curls,” she decides. “But loose ones. What the magazines would call ‘beachy waves.’”

Wanda nods as she considers the suggestion, squinting as if to picture it in her head. “I think I can do that. That’ll look nice,” she finally agrees. She looks down at her plate again, hesitating before asking, a little embarrassed: “And you’re sure Agatha has romantic feelings?”

America lets go of her hair, sticking out her pinky instead. She didn’t know a lot of things, but this she was certain about. “Pinky promise. And if I’m wrong, I’ll…I don’t know…bring you breakfast in bed for a week. No, a month. A year. That’s how confident I am.”

“Deal,” Wanda says, locking her pinky with her own. “And for the record, I am excited about this.”

“Good,” America says with a smile. She figured as much — Wanda wasn’t the most subtle either — but it’s a relief to hear it confirmed. Everyone was on the same page. “It’s an exciting night."

“It is.” Wanda nods. She finishes her last bite of breakfast, reflecting as she chews. “This is the first birthday in a while I’ve been excited for,” she admits.

It was a sad thought — and a relatable one. Birthdays weren’t much fun alone. They were even worse than normal days, sometimes — a reminder of all the people who couldn’t be there to celebrate with you. “Well, then I guess we have to make this one extra epic to make up for all the not-exciting ones.”

Wanda gives her a small smile. “I suppose so,” she agrees, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Honestly, I’m just excited to spend this birthday with people I care about.”

“What do you want to do?” America asks, sitting up straighter as she goes into planning mode. “Like you said, you still have…awhile before dinner, and since Auntie Ags gave me the day off from magic first grade, the world is our oyster.”

“I’m not quite sure.” Wanda shrugs. “I know I’ll have to take about an hour or so to get ready, but otherwise, we could really do anything,” she muses, taking a moment to ponder. “What if we find a movie to watch first and then go out for lunch? Somewhere nice but not super filling so I’m hungry for dinner?” she proposes.

It’s not lost on America that the suggestion is the same thing she said she did on her favorite birthday. It makes her feel warm inside — like she was part of some kind of tradition now. “Sure. That sounds perfect. What movie are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure. What do you want to watch?”

“I’m not supposed to choose — it’s your birthday.” America laughs. “Come on. There has to be something you have in mind.”

Wanda sighs. “I’d suggest something funny in honor of my family, but in a way, I feel like I’m turning over a new leaf.” 

America bites her lip, growing more serious at the sensitive topic resurfacing. “Just because you’re turning over a new leaf doesn’t mean you have to get rid of the old leaf completely,” she says softly. “I think there’s room for more than one leaf to…coexist…on your tree…of life…okay, I’m not that good at metaphors, but you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Wanda says, her mouth twitching into a tiny grin at the convoluted analogy. “Okay, we can do a comedy, but let’s change the type. Instead of slapstick, let’s go a more dramatic route. What’s the horror one Agatha was talking about?” She squints as she attempts to recall it. “Jessica’s Body?”

“Jennifer’s,” America corrects with a nod. “It sounded kind of spooky.” Her face breaks out into a grin. “I’m in.”

The movie is funny. And spooky. And…queer. 

It’s always just been part of her life — her moms, now Wanda and Agatha — and while she’s always suspected she herself might fit into that camp, too, it seems to make something click with more certainty. It’s not that she’s scared to bring it up with Wanda, but now doesn’t feel like the right time. It’s her birthday, after all — the day’s supposed to be about her. The last thing she wants to do is make it about herself.

After the movie, they grab lunch at a nice cafe, and by the time they get back, it’s time for Wanda to start getting ready for the night. The red dress is perfect, just as America suspected, and America pulls up a YouTube video to help her do her hair while Wanda puts some finishing touches on her makeup.

“So Agatha’s coming here to pick you up, and then you’re both coming back here after dinner, right?” she checks, carefully twisting a few locks of hair around the curling iron.

“Yes, as far as I know,” Wanda says with a barely visible nod, considerately trying not to disrupt her work on the curls.

In the mirror, America can see Wanda’s hand shake ever so slightly as she applies her lipstick — first-date jitters, no doubt. “Relax,” she says with a small laugh. “It’s going to be great. The scariest thing is the fact there are snails on the menu. Auntie Ags was adamant it's a 'delicacy' or whatever, but I think it's messed up." She wrinkles her nose.

Wanda raises an eyebrow, it arching in a way that feels like she might be a little impressed. “Interesting choice. I don’t hate them, but it’s…curious, nonetheless.”

“They have other stuff, too,” America assures her. “Fish and steak and even French fries. Except they call them pomme frites to make them sound fancier.”

Wanda nods. “I assumed so. I’m not too picky of an eater, but it’ll be interesting to see what’s there — especially if it’s as fancy as you’re hyping it up to be.”

“Well, if it’s fancy in a stuffy, pretentious way that sucks, then you just stop at McDonald’s on the way home.” America shrugs. “But I doubt it’ll suck — not the food, not the company, not any of it.”

“I don’t think it’ll suck either. I think it’ll be great. Everything,” she says, giving America a smile.

America smiles back as she finishes another curl, hearing a faint noise outside: Agatha arriving. “Time to find out for sure.” She sets the curling iron on the sink, giving her shoulder a small, encouraging squeeze. “You finish getting ready — I’ll go stall her.”

America crosses the house, making her way to the front door. “Right on time,” she says as she opens it, inviting Agatha inside. She nods in admiration as she notes she is, in fact, wearing the purple pantsuit they (okay, mostly she) had selected. “Come in, come in — Wanda will be out in a few.”

“Lovely.” Agatha nods, following her inside. She had a better poker face than Wanda, but America can sense an undercurrent of nerves in her voice. She’s tempted to tease her but ultimately doesn’t draw attention to it. Honestly, she was kind of sweet, and she wanted her on her A-game for dinner. Didn’t want to risk psyching her out. “How has your day been with her?” Agatha asks.

“Good,” America says, flopping onto the couch. “I made her breakfast in bed, helped her pick out an outfit for tonight, we watched that Jennifer’s Body movie you recommended, and then we grabbed lunch at a cafe,” she lists. “Oh, and also I think I might be gay,” she blurts, without really thinking.

As soon as it sinks in that it’s left her mouth, her eyes widen — more in surprise than regret. She looks over at Agatha, biting her lip.

But all the other woman does is blink, seemingly more caught off-guard by the impulsive style of the admission than the admission itself. Did she know already? She probably knew already. She and Wanda knew everything. It was so annoying sometimes. Right now, though, she was kind of grateful for it. She didn’t want to make it some big to-do. 

“Oh?” Agatha finally says, taking a seat next to her on the couch. “Thank you for telling me. Trusting me.” She nods slowly.

“You’re welcome.” America smiles. Even though it wasn’t a huge deal, it did feel nice to say it out loud. Her smile drops a little as a terrifying realization crosses her mind. “You’re not going to, like, give me The Talk now, are you?” she asks, face getting red from embarrassment.

Agatha laughs. “No. Not today at least. But if you date any girls, I will have to approve them.” She playfully narrows her eyes and pokes her arm. She was enjoying this way too much.

America groans, dramatically throwing her head back and covering her face with her hands. Agatha could be a harsh critic, especially when she was feeling protective. America already pitied her hypothetical future girlfriend. 

“Fine,” she finally relents, uncovering her face. “But you have to be nice to them. No, like, threatening to put a curse on them if they wrong me.”

Agatha puts her hands up. “No curses, but they have to treat you right. You deserve someone who’s only going to treat you well — someone who’s going to make you happy.” Her smile softens just a bit.

America returns it, giving her a small nod. “That sounds fair,” she agrees. “You deserve that, too.” As if on cue, she hears footsteps in the hallway — Wanda coming to join them. “Speaking of which…”

“Hi,” Wanda greets as she walks into the room, voice a little sheepish.

America swears Agatha forgets to breathe for a second. America gives her a subtle little nudge with her elbow — speak. “Hi,” Agatha says once she recovers, standing from the couch. “You look beautiful.” 

“You both do,” America concurs. And it’s true. She gives herself a mental pat on the back for serving as the stylist for the duo. They looked great separately, but side-by-side? They were perfect. Like two puzzle pieces that had spent way too long in separate corners of the box. It was time to snap them together.

There’s just one little thing she still needs to do first. She steps onto the couch, unclasping the necklace from her neck to once again hook it around Agatha’s — just like she promised. “It’s good luck,” she whispers.

Agatha looks back at her with a warm smile, reaching up to touch the pendant. “Thank you,” she whispers back. Then she glances at Wanda — as if she can’t take her eyes off her. “Shall we?” she asks, holding her hand out.

 “Let’s go,” Wanda replies as she takes it.

“Have fun!” America calls after them. She wonders if this is how people feel sending their kids off to prom. She thinks it might be.

She doesn’t ruminate on it for long, though. There’s still a lot to do for the surprise party part of the night before they get back.

It’s time to get to work.

Chapter Text

The second Wanda and Agatha leave, America gets to work preparing everything. The restaurant is fancy, and though she figures it’ll probably take at least two hours for them to get through all five courses — maybe three, if things go really well — she has a lot to do before they get back. 

First on the agenda: the cake. There was probably dessert at the restaurant, but a surprise party without cake felt wrong. While that’s in the oven, she works on decorations. She hangs streamers and blows up so many balloons she worries, for a second, she might pass out. Luckily, the lightheaded feeling passes. 

By the time that’s done, the cake is cool enough to be decorated, so she spreads icing on it and painstakingly writes a message in her neatest handwriting. Finally, she wraps the gift she’d been working on assembling for weeks now, even tying some ribbon around it and topping it off with a bow.

She sets the wrapped gift on the coffee table and looks around to examine her handiwork. The air smells nice from the cake on the counter, and the living room looks appropriately festive. She smiles and nods, satisfied, before lying on the couch and flipping on the TV to wait for them to return. Part of her was impatient — keeping this a surprise had been hard — but the other part of her hopes they’re not back until late. Enjoying each other’s company so much they lose track of time.

It's closer to three hours than two by the time she sees a light flash — a portal opening in the living room. That was a good sign. A very good sign. She grins, standing. “Sur—!” She starts enthusiastically, immediately freezing when she sees the two stumble through. 

They’re…close. Very close. Making out. And while that is also a very good sign, it is not one America wants to see. “—prise,” she finishes awkwardly, slapping her hands over her eyes. “Oh, god. Sorry. I— sorry. We can do this later. I’ll just, uh…go hang out in my room.” She scrambles to scurry to her bedroom, which proves difficult with her eyes still covered. “Ow,” she hisses as her leg hits the corner of the coffee table.

“Shit,” she can hear Wanda mumble, as well as the sound of her dress brushing against Agatha’s jacket, frantically pulling away from her. “No, America, it’s okay. We can hold off. Thank you for the surprise.” 

“You sure?” America asks, separating two of her fingers so she can peek through them while still keeping her hand over her eyes. There’s a blush in Wanda’s cheeks. She’s holding Agatha’s hand, but at least their lips aren’t locked anymore. “Because I’m only staying if you promise not to scar me for life.”

“We promise,” Agatha speaks up, quickly trying to swipe off the lipstick — Wanda’s shade of lipstick — that’s smeared across her jaw.

“Okay, good,” America says, uncovering her eyes and handing Agatha a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “You still have a little…right there,” she says, gesturing near the corner of her mouth.

“Thank you, dear.” Agatha grimaces, taking the tissue from her and scrubbing at her cheek. Once she’s gotten rid of it, she leads Wanda to the couch, the two taking a seat.

“So.” America clears her throat, desperate to change the subject. What was that phrase — careful what you wish for? She wished for this — and don't get her wrong, she’s still happy about the two of them finding love, finally finding each other — but she did not want a front-row seat to what that entailed. “Cake first? Or present?”

Wanda raises an eyebrow in surprise. “There’s both?”

“Of course there’s both,” America says with a scoff, almost insulted.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Wanda reassures her for what must be the hundredth time that day, her heart seeming to melt a bit more with each new surprise. “But that’s really sweet of you.”

“I know.” America rolls her eyes, though there’s a playful grin on her face. “I wanted to. Cake doesn’t count as a present, and spoiler alert: You can’t eat whatever’s in there,” she says, nodding to the gift wrapped on the coffee table. “So what’ll it be?”

Wanda shrugs. “Present? I guess?” She bites her lip, clearly feeling a bit awkward with all the attention on her.

“As you wish.” America nods, handing her the present before sitting next to her on the couch, fidgeting a bit — she was a little self-conscious, too. "Don't get too excited," she warns. "It's not anything big."

Wanda takes the package from her and starts to carefully unwrap it — if it wasn’t her birthday, America would tease her for how delicate she’s being. Her breath seems to catch when she’s finally opened it to reveal a photo album. Well, the start of one, at least. The three of them didn’t have enough pictures to fill a whole one yet, but they were off to a good start, and hopefully, they could keep adding to it for years and years. For forever. “Oh,” Wanda says, a soft smile forming on her lips as she flips through the filled pages. “This…it’s so lovely.”

“Yeah?” America asks, mouth curving into a small smile, too. “You like it? Because if you don’t…well, actually, they probably won’t let you return it, so…you’re out of luck.”

Wanda pulls her into a hug. “I love it,” she says, voice cracking on the words. “It’s so thoughtful.”

“I’m glad.” America hugs back, squeezing tighter when she hears her get choked up. “Should we take one now? So we can add it to the album later?”

Wanda holds her for another moment before pulling away, nodding and wiping at her eyes. “Yeah, I think we should.”

America pulls out her phone, shifting and angling it so she can get all three of them in a selfie. “Say cheese,” she orders. “Actually, no — say snails,” she corrects, which elicits a half-laugh from Wanda and a smirk from Agatha. America admires them in the frame — they all look so…happy. Like they belong together. Like a family. She’s glad she’s capturing this moment so she can look back on it.

After America snaps the picture, Wanda gives Agatha a kiss on the cheek before wrapping her arms around America again. America clicks her phone off and puts it on the coffee table, easily snuggling into Wanda’s embrace. “So you had fun tonight then?” she asks as she gets comfortable. “The restaurant was a good choice?”

“Yeah, it was great.” Wanda nods. “We had a nice time just being able to chat and…be together,” she finally settles on, sneaking a glance at Agatha.

America clocks it right away — as well as the suggestive vagueness of the statement. “I don’t need the details about…that,” she quickly assures her with the wave of her hand. “But I do need the details about the food. Did you eat the snails?”

Wanda breathes out an amused chuckle. “I did not. Neither of us did.”

“Okay, good.” America sighs in relief. “I’ve already been grossed out enough tonight.” Wanda playfully clicks her tongue at the comment, earning her a shrug from America. If she had to witness them being all gooey, they were going to have to deal with her commenting on it — it was only fair. “What did you have instead?”

 “A chicken and pesto dish.”

“Oh, yum.” America nods in approval, mouth watering at the thought. “Way better than ex-cargo.”

“Escargot,” Agatha corrects with an eye roll.

“Oh, whatever. It’s not like I’m ever going to order it,” she says, giving her an eye roll of her own. “What’d you get?”

“Steak. It was quite good.”

“Thank god,” she replies. That’d been a popular recommendation in the copious research she did making sure this would be the perfect place. “I’d hate to have to fight with people raving in the Yelp comments.”

“Thank you for helping pick out the restaurant,” Agatha says, giving her a wink. 

“Any time,” she promises with a smile. “But if it was so good, does that mean you guys are too full for cake? Because, I mean, I could eat all of it by myself if you are…” she teases.

“Oh, I think we can both manage some cake,” Wanda assures her. “Besides, you don’t need all of it to yourself.”

“Probably true," America admits, standing and walking into the kitchen. "It’s possible I already ate some while I was baking it. The pancake batter in my stomach was getting lonely — it needed a friend.” She shrugs.

“Ah, I see.” Wanda gives her a serious nod. “Completely fair. But I still hope you’re having some with us?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Well, obviously. What else is going to keep the cake batter company?” America smirks. She opens a drawer, pulling out a candle and sticking it in the middle of the cake. Since there are only three of them, the cake is on the smaller side, so it’s not hard to carry it — plus a couple plates and some silverware — over to the coffee table. 

She bites her lip as she sets it down in front of Wanda, trying to gauge her reaction as she reads the words she’s written: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY WANDA + PIETRO.” She’d debated whether to add that last part or not, but he had been her twin, after all. It was his birthday, too, so it only felt right to try and include his memory in this one tiny way. It was risky, but she thought — hoped, at least — that Wanda would appreciate it. “I just…I wanted to include him, too, somehow,” she says softly. “I hope that’s okay."

Wanda stares at it for a moment, eyes immediately getting glassy. “No, no — it’s fine…it’s sweet. It’s just…hard to think about him sometimes,” she whispers, a few tears falling down her cheeks. “I miss him a lot.”

“I know,” America says, swallowing hard as she hands her the tissue box. Maybe it had been a mistake. “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to make you upset. I can…take it back into the kitchen. Or throw it away. Or we can eat that part first so you don’t have to look at it. Just…whatever you want,” she rambles, scrambling to take it from the table.

Wanda stops her, grabbing her hand. “America, it’s okay. We both know that sometimes emotions are just…intense. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong,” she says, voice gentle but firm.

She relaxes a little — she does know how intense and complicated emotions can be, especially when it came to loss. How the lines between happy and sad could blur. She nods, retaking her seat on the couch.

Wanda gives her a teary smile of reassurance. “I mean it when I say I appreciate how thoughtful this is.”

She calms even more at that. “I’m glad,” she says, returning the small smile. She looks at the coffee table. “Oh, shoot — I forgot a match for the candle.” She stands to rectify this before immediately freezing. “Actually, wait — we're witches. Can one of you light it with a…snap or a spell or something?”

Agatha lazily waves her hand, immediately igniting a flame. “There we go.” 

“So convenient. So can’t wait to learn that,” America marvels, sitting back down and turning to Wanda. “Okay, now make a wish.” Wanda complies, closing her eyes for a moment and blowing out the flame. 

America takes the knife and begins to cut into the cake. “I'm tempted to ask what you wished for, but that would be nosy.”

“And bad luck,” Wanda states, sitting back.

“It is?” America raises her eyebrows. “Yikes. Well, good thing I stopped myself then.”

Wanda shrugs, breathing out a laugh. “I think it’ll come true. I hope so.”

“Me too,” America says softly. She doesn’t know what she wished for, but she hopes it’s the same thing that she wishes for on every eyelash, dandelion, and shooting star: that what the three of them have can last. 

“You get the first piece, obviously,” she says, handing Wanda a slice of cake. “And you get the second because seniority,” she declares, giving one to Agatha before cutting one for herself.

Wanda smiles, taking a bite. America eyes her expression, awaiting the verdict. “Good?” she asks.

Wanda nods as she chews. “Very,” she says once her mouth is no longer full. “You’re quite the pastry chef.”

“Thanks.” She smiles proudly, taking a bite of her own piece. She’s right — it’s not bad. 

“That could be a possible career, you know,” Wanda states, scooping another bite onto her fork.

“Maybe,” America considers. It was a nice thought. Staying in one place. Wearing Agatha down until she told her how to fabricate money so she could give whatever she baked away for free because she still thought it was insane people paid for food in this universe. A simple life (when she wasn’t joining Wanda and Strange on missions, of course) — maybe even with a wife. “I do like desserts,” she reasons. “And baking. Oh, and also I think I like girls. Just so you know,” she slips in — a little awkwardly — before taking another big bite. Might as well get it out of the way.

“Oh?” Wanda blinks, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as she swallows. “That’s great. Is this new?”

“Mm…kinda. The thinking it part’s not completely new, but I have been thinking it more lately. The saying it part is — I just told Auntie Ags earlier today,” she says, fork freezing halfway between her plate and her mouth. “Not because I trust her more than you! I trust you guys equally,” she quickly assures her. “It just…kind of slipped out, and you were still in the bathroom.”

“Ah, I see.” Wanda nods. “Don’t worry — I wasn’t going to question your trust. Thank you for telling me,” she reiterates.

“You’re welcome,” she says with a small smile. “Thanks for being cool and not, like, making it a big thing. Both of you,” she says, giving Agatha a grateful glance, too. “Auntie Ags already promised not to threaten to curse my hypothetical future girlfriend if they hurt me, and while I think you’re probably less likely to do this — no offense, Auntie Ags, but you know it’s true — I would also like a verbal agreement from you to cover my bases.”

Wanda holds up a defensive hand. “Look, I promise I won’t hex or curse your future girlfriend — that’s not my style. She will have to sit through a brief discussion about treating you well, though,” she says with a pointed look.

America’s face drops at that. She could not be serious. "A brief discussion?" she whines. "That's, like, worse."

“How is that worse?” Wanda asks with a laugh. “She wouldn't be harmed in any way.”

“Yeah, but it’d be embarrassing,” she groans, sounding more like a typical, petulant teenager than she…well, ever has.

Wanda’s expression grows more serious as she lets out a small sigh. “It might be, but you’re my—” She stops herself before she can say it, hesitation hanging in the air before she realizes there’s no real way to back out now. “You’re my family,” she finally finishes, voice shaky. Uncertain.

The word hits America hard. It’s the first time Wanda has ever said it in this context. Said it referring to her. Sure, she’s alluded to it, tiptoed around it, not argued with America when she had used it to include her, but this was different. 

America sets her plate on the coffee table, the cake all but forgotten, before lying down on her side, resting her head in Wanda’s lap. “Okay, fine,” she says, voice quivering with emotion. “You can have your brief discussion. You can even have a lengthy discussion if you think it warrants it.” She sniffles.

Wanda lets out a quiet breath of relief, absentmindedly running her fingers through America’s hair. “Of course. I hope you know it comes from a place of care.”

“I do,” she promises, curling in closer. “I hope you know that fighting you on it comes from a place of being comfortable with you. Of feeling safe enough to.”

“I know. And I’m glad you feel safe,” she says, fingernails softly scratching her scalp with her hand. She carefully reaches across her to put her plate down on the coffee table so the other is free to take Agatha’s.

“You guys are mushy,” America accuses, though there’s a smile on her face.

Agatha scoffs, reaching over to lightly flick her forehead. “We are not.”

“Are too.” She giggles, batting her hand away. “The Mushiest of All Time. The MOAT.”

Agatha shakes her head. “You just keep on believing that. Wait until you get a girlfriend.”

“I doubt we'll ever beat you in the mush department, but I guess we’ll see,” America playfully retorts through a yawn. It’s getting late, and she’s cozy, lying there. She feels her eyelids start to droop closed.

“Mhm,” Wanda hums, lightly brushing her bangs from her face. “Do you wanna head to bed? You look tired,” she asks gently.

“Mm,” America mumbles. “Probably a good idea,” she admits with another yawn.

“There you go,” Wanda says, rubbing her back as she helps her sit up. “Thank you for spending most of today with me. It’s been so amazing.” She smiles.

“You’re welcome.” America returns the smile. “I’m glad I got to spend today with you. Every day with you. Happy birthday again,” she says, giving her a hug before turning and giving Agatha one, too. “Well, good night,” she says through yet another yawn — she really was beat. 

She walks to her room and tries very hard not to think about what might be going on in Wanda’s that night. Hopefully, for her sake, they’d at least be quiet. They really were so gross. And so mushy. And so in love.

And as much as America teased them, she really couldn’t be happier.

Chapter Text

America falls asleep quickly and sleeps through the night, thankfully blissfully unaware of any noises that Wanda and Agatha were maybe/probably/definitely making in the other room. 

She wakes up a little later than usual the next morning, stretching her arms as she walks into the kitchen. “Oh.” She blinks, surprised to see Agatha having coffee and reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. “You’re still here," she observes.

Agatha winces a little as she lowers the paper. In a way, she supposed this was sort of its own strange version of the walk of shame. “Yes,” she says, clearly trying to keep her voice casual — almost diplomatic. “I am.”

“It’s cool.” She shrugs. “Sleep over as much as you want as long as you leave enough coffee for me,” she says, going over to the pot to pour herself a mug.

“Always enough coffee for you,” Agatha promises with a nod, breathing out a sigh of relief at her lack of additional questions or comments.

“Good,” America replies as she stirs in some cream and sugar. To be honest, she was a little amused at Agatha’s obvious discomfort — she was so quick and assertive, it was hard to make her squirm. And while she would rather die than directly think or talk about the cause of said awkwardness, that didn't mean she couldn't have a little fun. “What’d you guys get up to after I went to bed? Paint each other’s nails? Have a pillow fight? Play spin the bottle? Although...I guess you kind of already did that last one at dinner,” she notes, hiding a cheeky grin behind a sip of coffee.

Agatha gives her a hard stare as she takes a long drink of her own coffee. “Do you really want an answer to that?” She raises a challenging eyebrow. “Because I’ll tell you. We—”

“No!” America cuts her off, nearly choking on her drink. She doesn’t know if she’s bluffing, but she does not want to find out. “No, that’s really okay.”

Agatha nods with a satisfied smirk, taking another sip from her mug. “That’s what I thought.”

America gives her a sarcastic smile — which Agatha promptly returns — before throwing a couple Pop-Tarts into the toaster. She leans against the counter, scrolling through her phone as she waits for them to heat up. 

Her eyes are still glued to the screen as hears Wanda walk through the hall to join them in the kitchen. “Good mo—” She stops when she looks up and sees her — and the half dozen or so hickeys prominently displayed on her neck. She gives them both an unamused look. “Seriously, you guys?” she whines.

“What?” Wanda asks innocently. 

“Invest in a turtleneck.”

“Oh.” Wanda touches the bruised skin in realization. “Sorry.”

“The ‘no scarring me for life’ rule carries over from last night — it’s a rule that lasts for eternity. And when you have marks right here—“ America gestures to her own neck. “—I get marks up here,” she complains, tapping her forehead. “I will literally learn a spell to erase my own memory,” she threatens.

Wanda sighs, shuffling to the fridge to start making her breakfast.

“I forgot how dramatic teenagers are,” Agatha mumbles, flipping a page of the newspaper — though her voice is clearly loud enough for America to hear on purpose.

“I’m dramatic?” She scoffs, taking the Pop-Tarts from the toaster and tossing them onto a plate. “I’m sorry, have you met yourself?”

“Oh?” Agatha snorts, raising an expectant brow. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“Well, let’s see — your basement looks like the set of a horror movie, you go on a 10-minute rant whenever Strange’s name is so much as mentioned, and you have a very impressive eye roll. Face it, Auntie Ags: you’re kind of a drama queen.” She shrugs, sitting down at the table.

“Mhm. Mhm.” Agatha nods. “But I’m not fueled by adolescent hormones,” she snarks with said impressive eye roll.

“Well, maybe I’m not either. Maybe I’m just learning from you,” America rebuts without missing a beat, popping a piece of Pop-Tart in her mouth.

“You were like this when I met you, darling,” she dryly retorts.

America considers. She wasn’t wrong. “Fine. That might be a little true,” she relents with a tiny scowl. “But you know one thing I can learn from you?” she segues. “Well, besides magic. That’s kind of a given.”

“What’s that?”

“How to drive.” America looks over at Wanda, who’s busy cooking eggs on the stove — her back is turned to her, so she can’t see her face, but she can already sense she’s about to argue. “Wanda, before you say no again, consider this: I already checked the weather in New Jersey today, and it’s perfect; the road conditions are great; and also I’ll be super careful and really want to.”

Wanda sighs, looking over her shoulder. “Give me some time to consider it, okay?”

“But that’s what you said yesterday. And the day before that. And all the days before that,” she protests. “At this rate, I won’t be driving until I’m 300 years old.”

“America…” Wanda warns.

America shoots Agatha a pleading look — maybe she could help speed up the approval process. Or give her own approval that Wanda didn’t necessarily need to know about…

Agatha holds up a palm as if to say, ‘We’ll see.’ She glances over to make sure Wanda isn’t watching before mouthing, ‘Talk to me later.’

She stuffs another piece of Pop-Tart in her mouth to hide the smile threatening to creep up, trying to play it cool — that wasn’t a guarantee, but it was promising. “Fine,” she tells Wanda. “You can think about it.”

“Thank you,” Wanda replies, satisfied, as Agatha pushes herself up from the table. She pops a few pieces of bread into the toaster, leaning over to kiss Wanda as she waits for them to toast.

America bites her tongue, it taking everything in her not to comment on how this was really not helping them beat the Mushiest of All Time allegations. She knows Agatha is trying to get a rise out of her, and unfortunately, she needs to stay on her good side at least until she’s behind the wheel. 

So she shuts up and finishes her first Pop-Tart, only a tiny bit sulky, as Wanda takes her seat at the table.

“So what’s gotten you wanting to drive so badly?” Wanda asks, taking a sip of her orange juice.

“I don’t know.” America breaks off a piece of her second Pop-Tart. “I mean, it is really convenient to be able to portal everywhere, and don’t get me wrong, I’d much rather keep being homeschooled and learning magic stuff than attend public school.” She wrinkles her nose at the thought. “But…I also think it would be nice to learn something…normal.” Nothing in her life had been normal thus far — in good ways, and in really, really not-so-good ones. It would be nice to feel like a regular teenager for once.

“Plus, when you can drive, you have independence,” she adds. She was always trying to grow up — from her desire for a tattoo to her curiosity about trying champagne. She was very glad not to be lonely anymore. Grateful she had people looking after and taking care of her, letting her be a kid. But it was a big change to not have total control. To have to ask permission. There was a strange sense of restlessness that could come hand-in-hand with security, and driving seemed like it could be a good outlet to regain that sense of freedom.

Wanda nods. “That makes sense. Again, I’m thinking about how to best approach this safely. I don’t want anyone getting hurt,” she reiterates.

“I know, I know — because you care,” America recites with a sigh. Which she knows is true, and it’s nice, but it’s also very inconvenient sometimes.

“Yeah, I do,” Wanda says with a soft smile. “You mean a lot to me.”

“Back at you,” she says, forcing a tiny smile on her face as well as an idea sparks in her head. “Speaking of…you don’t have to come with me today. I know you usually sit in on magic school, but you look kind of tired. It’s cool if you want to chill here, rest some more instead."

“Oh?” Wanda raises a brow.

America clocks her suspicion. Not good. She needs to backpedal ASAP. “Just a suggestion." She plays it off, putting her hands up. “I mean, it’s still your birthday week. You’re entitled to celebration and relaxation during that.”

Wanda tilts her head, narrowing her eyes a bit as she chews a bite of her egg — no doubt trying to figure out her motive. She hopes she has a passable poker face. “All right,” Wanda agrees, albeit reluctantly, after she swallows. “I guess that could be nice.”

“You’re always so busy dealing with my ‘teenage dramatics.’” She air quotes, rolling her eyes. “You deserve ‘me time.’ Take a bubble bath. Do a face mask. Treat yourself,” she encourages, playfully flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Mhm. Mhm.” Wanda nods, taking a long drink of coffee. “What’s brought you to this revelation?”

“Tik Tok,” America says seriously without missing a beat. “Lot of videos about the importance of self-care on there. Also: a ton of cute cats.”

“So next you’ll want a kitten?” Wanda teases.

She gasps — she hadn’t even thought of that, but now that Wanda mentioned it… “Could we get one? A black one, maybe. Witches and black cats are, like, historically besties, aren’t they?”

She can practically see Wanda internally kicking herself for putting the idea in her head. “Maybe,” she says, noncommittal. “I do like cats, but we’re busy people.” 

“True,” America agrees. “But they don’t mind some alone time. Plus, I already have practice caring for an animal with Señor Scratchy,” she points out.

Wanda sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’ll think about it.”

America’s mouth twitches into a grin as she finishes her second Pop-Tart and takes her plate to the sink. “Well, it sounds like you have a lot to think about today. Should we leave you to it?”

“I suppose,” Wanda says, blinking in surprise. America internally curses herself — she wasn’t usually this eager to leave the house. She really hopes she’s not onto her. Thankfully, Wanda recovers after a moment, giving her a smile. “I’ll see you later. Stay safe. Have fun.”

“You too.” America smiles back, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes — she’s starting to feel a little guilty, honestly, but she tries to push it aside and focus on the end goal. 

She goes to stand next to Agatha but closes her eyes. She anticipates at least one more mushy moment before she would actually open the portal. “Tell me when you’re done…doing what you need to do so we can go."

She can hear a little scoff, then the light clang of dishes being put in the sink, then the unmistakable sound of a kiss before feeling a pat on her shoulder. “All clear,” Agatha assures her. “Let’s go, dear.”

America opens her eyes, giving Wanda one last wave before stepping through the portal into Agatha’s living room. She waits until it closes behind them — until she’s sure it’s just the two of them — before she speaks. “So…” she starts, fidgeting with the bottom of her jacket.

Agatha goes over to the couch to pick up Señor Scratchy, scritching between his ears as she turns to face America. “I’m considering.”

“Okay. Sure thing.” America nods. She decides to wait quietly — patiently — until she’s done considering. 

Well, she tries to at least. It lasts approximately 10 seconds. 

“It’s just she’s never, ever going to say yes, and this way, she would never, ever even have to know,” she blurts.

“Look — I get it,” Agatha says with a sigh. “How about this: we compromise. No driving on the actual road, but I’ll take you out to a deserted area with open space, and you can learn there,” she offers.

“Really?” America asks, a little shocked her plan actually worked. “I mean, yes,” she quickly corrects. “Yes, that sounds perfect. Thank you. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome,” Agatha says with a slow nod. “But you can’t tell Wanda.”

“I won’t,” America promises, innocently raising her palms.

“I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“She can’t know,” Agatha reiterates, fixing her with a serious look.

“These lips?” America mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key. “Sealed.”

After a moment, Agatha nods, sufficiently convinced. “Good. Now give me two minutes to take care of Señor Scratchy here, and then we’ll get going,” she says with a short sigh before disappearing down the hall with her rabbit in tow.

“Take your time!” America calls after her, perching herself on the couch. She doesn’t really mean that, of course — she’s antsy with anticipation, leg shaking restlessly as she waits.

It’s closer to five minutes than the promised two by the time Agatha finally returns, but America decides to let it slide without comment. “Ready?” Agatha asks.

“Ready,” America says, practically jumping up from the couch.

“Then let’s go,” Agatha says, grabbing her keys before pointing a stern finger at her. “Remember: not a word to Wanda.”

“Hey, I can keep a secret. You’re the one who told her about mushroomgate,” she reminds her, following her out to the car.

“Yes, and for a good reason.” Agatha raises her brow as she gets into the driver’s seat. “That was something she needed to know.”

“I know, I know,” America admits with a sigh, sliding into the passenger side and buckling her seatbelt. She can’t help but wonder if the whole scare had made Wanda more cautious, though — if it was a contributing factor in her not being keen on the driving thing.

Agatha pointedly looks at her for another moment before starting the car and turning on a playlist, beginning their trek.

America bites her cheek to keep from smiling. This was really happening. In just a few minutes, she’d be the one behind the wheel. 

Victory.

Chapter Text

America nods her head along to the song playing from Agatha’s phone, looking out the window as they drive to a more rural area. In addition to movies, she actually had pretty good taste in music, too. It’s pretty eccentric — some older tunes, more modern ones — but it all has a pretty alternative sound.

“I bet you were like my age when you learned to drive, weren’t you?” she asks after a few minutes, immediately realizing the flaw in her logic. “Or…well, I guess probably not because the car wouldn’t have been invented for another 200 years…but I bet you were like my age when you learned to drive a…horse…or something, right?"

“You can't drive a horse," Agatha corrects. “You can ride it, which I learned to do in the late 1680s. I started driving in the early 1920s.”

“Who taught you?” America asks.

“To ride a horse or drive a car?”

“Both.” America shrugs. She didn’t know much about Agatha’s history, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask. They had a whole drive to kill.

“An ex-girlfriend actually taught me how to drive,” Agatha answers easily. “I have no idea who taught her.” 

“Ohh, romantic — maybe I’ll teach my hypothetical future girlfriend how to drive,” America teases.

Agatha goes silent for a minute, considering how to answer the other question. “My mother taught me to ride,” she finally says, voice quiet and stilted. Holding back emotions.

“Oh yeah?” America doesn’t pick up on her strained tone, still obliviously jamming to the music while looking out the window. “What was she like?” When Agatha doesn’t answer, America glances over to see her looking…not great. Her eyes widen. “Oh god — sorry,” she apologizes. “We so do not have to talk about it if you don’t want,” she assures her.

Agatha stiffens, gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles go as white as her pale face. “I’d prefer not to go into detail, but it’s a complicated situation.”

“Sure. Of course. No details needed,” America promises, fidgeting a little at the heaviness that seems to encompass the car in mere seconds.

“She was not a good person,” Agatha says coldly. “At all. She never should have been a mother.”

“Oh,” America whispers, looking down at her lap, unsure of what to say — how to make this better. She gets, now, why she doesn’t talk much about her past — it gets sadder, more tragic, with every detail she learns. 

It doesn’t seem fair that Agatha had such a terrible mother when she herself was lucky enough to have…well, four if you counted Wanda and Agatha, which America did. Maybe not officially or out loud — she wasn’t sure how they’d react, wasn’t sure how she’d even begin to broach the subject with them — but in her heart. 

“I’m really sorry she was so awful," America says quietly after a few moments. “And I’m really glad you didn’t turn out like her.”

Agatha takes a deep breath. America can tell it’s hard for her — that even after all these years, the memory of whatever her mother did remains vivid as if it were yesterday. “I’m glad you don’t think we sound alike.”

“I don’t just think it — it’s objectively true,” America says firmly. “It sounds like she sucked, and I know for a fact you’re, like, insanely awesome. Total opposites.” She shrugs.

Agatha lets out a quiet laugh. “Thank you, dear. I know I have what people consider horrible traits, but I never want to be like her.”

“I don’t think there’s anything horrible about you,” America disagrees with a frown. It was weird to hear Agatha, with all her confidence, talk so badly about herself — and it felt especially wrong considering how much America idolized her. “I mean, yeah, we’ve established you’re dramatic, but I like that about you — it makes life fun. And yeah, you’re all gross with Wanda now, but that’s only because you have heart eyes for her. And yeah, you don’t always let me do what I want to do, but that’s only because you’re looking out for me."

Agatha purses her lips, seemingly having an internal debate with herself. “I’m happy you see all that in me, but people aren’t black and white. There’s a lot you haven’t seen about me — a lot of things I hope you never see,” she finally settles on.

“Grey area. That makes sense.” America nods slowly. It’s a little ominous, the vagueness of her words, but then again, she’d gotten over Wanda trying to literally kill her once upon a time. Mistakes, even big ones, could be worked through — that she was certain of. “Well, no matter what I see, we’ll figure it out. You promised you wouldn’t stop caring about me no matter what, so I’m promising the same. I can be just as stubborn as you,” she vows, squaring her shoulders.

A small smile creeps onto Agatha’s face at that. “You’re a sweet kid. I’m glad you and Wanda came into my life.”

“Ditto,” America replies. “Again, that means ‘same’ in case you’ve forgotten,” she teases, looking back out the window. “Are we close? We seem to be getting pretty far from civilization.”

“Soon,” Agatha promises. “Should be there in five minutes.”

America nods, absentmindedly bouncing her leg again. She was so close. It was so exciting — and a tiny bit nerve-wracking, as all new things tended to be.

Sure enough, five minutes later, Agatha pulls into a large abandoned parking lot. “Okay,” she says as she puts the car in park. “Let’s go over some rules.”

America eagerly unbuckles, turning to face Agatha. “Driving kindergarten,” she says seriously. “I’m all ears.

“No going above 25 miles an hour. Two hands on the wheel at all times. And we’re staying in this parking lot,” she says firmly, raising an eyebrow to see if she’s listening — really listening.

“Copy that.” America nods. “Can we roll the windows down? And have the music on?” she asks, hopeful.

Agatha sighs. “Windows down, yes. Music, no, for right now. I don’t want you getting distracted.”

“But—” America starts to argue. One look from Agatha puts an end to that immediately. “Okay.” She puts her hands up. “No music. Very reasonable.”

“So we’re in agreement?” she checks, brow arching higher.

“Yes, ma’am,” America grumbles, chastised from The Look™ alone.

Agatha nods in a way that says, ‘Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.’ “Good. And you go slow at first.”

“The slowest. The snails that weren’t eaten at your fancy restaurant will be passing us — that’s how slow,” America swears.

Agatha nods, satisfied. “And if something goes wrong?”

“I'll stop right away. I promise. But nothing’s going to go wrong,” she assures her.

Agatha pauses for a moment, racking her brain to see if she’s forgotten anything. “All right,” she says, unbuckling after a beat. “Switch seats. Let’s go.”

America grins, throwing open the door and practically skipping around to the other side. She slides into the driver’s seat, hands eagerly gripping the steering wheel. It all looked so different from this side.

Agatha sighs to herself as she slides into the passenger’s side. If America didn’t know any better, it almost looked like she was praying. That, or having some serious regrets. Well, that was too bad — America was in the driver’s seat now, and she refused to let her back out. 

Luckily, Agatha doesn’t attempt to put an end to it. “You ready?” she asks, glancing over at her.

“Yes,” America says confidently. “Wait, no.” She briefly takes her hands off the steering wheel to buckle her seatbelt before quickly returning them to ten and two. “Okay. Now yes.”

“Great. Now slowly shift the car out of park with your foot still on the brake,” Agatha instructs.

“Got it.” America looks down, being met with two pedals. “Uh…which one is the brake again? The…left, right? The bigger one?”

“Bigger one,” Agatha nods, rubbing her forehead. “Sorry I didn’t specify before.”

“All good. Just making sure.” America takes a deep breath, focusing, before pushing down hard on the brake — just in case; she did not want to mess up — and shifting the gear.

“Good.” Agatha nods, watching her intently. “Now gently let up on the brake — don’t take your foot all the way off, just let up a little — and put your foot on the gas just a little bit, too”

America lets her foot off the brake a tiny bit. Nothing. A tiny bit more. Still nothing. A tiny bit more, and the car starts inching forward — very, very slowly. She presses down on the gas just a little, and they move marginally faster. 

A turtle would still absolutely smoke them in a race, but America doesn’t care — she’s driving. She’s actually doing it. “Like that?” she checks, just to make sure. She’s tempted to look over to gauge Agatha’s reaction, but she doesn’t dare take her eyes off the road. Or, well, parking lot.

Agatha breathes out a sigh of relief. “Yes, just like that. For now, just worry about heading straight down the line, and when we get to the edge, rotate the wheel so we can turn. Take it as slow as you need, and watch your surroundings.”

She nods, continuing straight at the same pace. It’s calm. Easy. 

And after the initial excitement wears off, extremely tedious. 

When they’re about a quarter of the way down the parking lot, America glances at the speedometer to see they’re only going seven miles an hour. “Can I press the gas a teeny tiny bit harder?” she asks.

“Yes, go ahead and speed up a little. As far as you’re comfortable. As I said, the limit’s 25.”

America pushes down a little too hard before immediately letting up a bit again. This happens a few times — it’s trial and error, feeling what pressure correlates to what speed — but after some jerkiness, she evens out at 20, saving that final five for when she felt impatient again. 

They successfully make it near the end of the parking lot, and she slows down again as she turns the wheel — a little more sharply than she needs, which causes Agatha to grip the ceiling handle. She turns it the other way, overcorrecting. Finally, she finds a middle ground, straightening out. 

“Any notes?” she asks as they start the long, straight stretch down this side. “I’m not making you too carsick, am I?” she asks with a small laugh — though she’s a little serious. It wasn’t exactly the epitome of smoothness.

“That was a very sharp turn,” Agatha says, letting go of the handle. “Otherwise, not bad.”

“For sure.” America nods — she figured as much. “I’ll do better on the next one,” she vows. 

And she does. The next turn is much smoother, and the turn after that is even better. Agatha doesn’t reach for the ceiling handle even once. She finds the confidence to get up to 25, and soon, they’re back to the spot they started. “Another lap?” she asks eagerly.

“Okay.” Agatha nods in approval. “This time, try to keep a steady pace.”

“Steady,” she repeats. “I can do steady.” 

They make their way around the parking lot again, America dutifully staying 25 the whole time. Honestly, this was easy. Bordering on boring. She wanted a challenge. 

“So…about those rules — how strict are they?” she asks, testing the waters. “I mean, are they set in stone or more, like, written in pencil and able to be edited?”

“Why are you asking?” Agatha asks suspiciously.

“Why are you assuming the worst?” America retorts.

“Because I can see the mischief behind your eyes,” Agatha accuses. “What do you want to do?”

“35?” she proposes with a pleading smile. “On the actual road? Pleeease?”

Agatha massages her templates. “30,” she compromises. “Not on the road,” she says sternly.

“Ugh, fine — I’ll keep to parking lot prison,” America mumbles, increasing the speed. The five miles does make a difference, the wind blowing faster in her hair. It’s more exciting.

She’s enjoying the second lap. She’s more relaxed now, loosening her hands on the wheel ever so slightly so she’s holding it firmly instead of in a white-knuckle death grip. It feels natural. Exhilarating. 

Until a small orange cat comes darting in front of the car out of nowhere. 

Her heart jolts in her chest, her breath catching in her throat. She slams on the brakes — hard — seatbelt digging into her as they stop just short of hitting it, narrowly avoiding disaster.

She’s frozen in panic for a moment before something — an odd sort of instinct she’s never felt before — compels her to jump into action. Her hand trembles, the near-tragedy having shaken her up, but she manages to put the car in park before unbuckling and throwing open the door. “What is wrong with you?!” she asks the cat as she runs over to it, eyes filling with tears when she kneels to make sure it’s indeed all right. The cat simply tilts its head before walking over to her, rubbing its head against her leg.

Agatha joins her a moment later, crouching down next to the kitten. “Hey, buddy,” she says softly, gently rubbing its head and giving it a once-over to make sure it’s not hurt. Once she’s sufficiently sure it’s not injured, she switches her attention to America. “You okay?”

America doesn’t know how to answer that. She doesn’t exactly know how she’s doing, what she’s feeling, or what’s even going on. Even when Agatha speaks to her, she doesn’t take her eyes off the cat. Aside from the fear, the frustration, there’s a strange feeling in her chest, almost like a magnetic pull. A powerful connection she doesn’t understand. 

And then it hits her. Snaps into place as she recalls one of the first lessons she learned.

“The very first day of magic kindergarten, you were talking about how you got Señor Scratchy,” she says slowly. “You said that familiars picked you. You told me that if it ever happened, I would just know.” She looks up at Agatha then, eyes still a little teary, but wide now, too. “I think…I think I just know," she finishes quietly.

Agatha blinks as she stands, glancing between her and the cat. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” she says softly, biting her lip.

Agatha tilts her head, considering. “My intuition says you’re probably right,” she admits after a moment. “We are in the middle of nowhere — it’s odd for a cat to just appear.”

The cat paws at America’s leg, demanding her attention again, and meows until she gently picks it up. The cat — a her, she realizes — stops meowing, immediately switching to purrs as America softly pets her head. 

She was just talking about how she wanted a cat, and she did say she hoped she got a familiar all those months ago, but now that it was actually happening? And so unexpectedly? It was a little daunting. “What do I…do?” she asks, looking to Agatha again.

“First, let’s start by taking her home, I suppose, and finding a way to explain this to Wanda.” Agatha sighs.

“Can I drive?” America asks, pushing herself off the ground — a little challenging while still holding the cat. “Kidding, kidding,” she says, walking over to the passenger’s side.

They sit in silence for the first stretch of the trip, America staring out the window while Agatha shoots her not-so-subtle concerned glances every couple of minutes. There are a million emotions swirling within her — the aftershock of the near-accident, the overwhelming sense of responsibility and uncertainty at now having a familiar, and, of course, the Wanda of it all. 

The cat seems to sense this, nestling further in her arms, and while it helps a little, the nerves remain. “What are we going to tell her?” America finally asks, voice soft.

Agatha groans. “I’m still figuring that one out, honestly. I’ll take suggestions,” she says, voice only half-joking.

“I don’t know,” America quietly admits, looking down at her lap. The cat stares up at her — almost expectantly. “Just like I don’t know why this cat picked me even though I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing. Even though she would probably be better off with literally anyone else. Even though I almost hurt her just like I always do,” she says, voice cracking on the last word.

“You’ll learn what you’re doing,” Agatha gently reassures her. “And she ran in front of you — you couldn’t have predicted it. You aren’t someone who tries to hurt things.”

“No, but I still do — time and time again.” America sighs in frustration. She sounds like a broken record — she’d said this after she found out about her moms, after she’d accidentally opened the portal, even after the mushroom. 

But it wasn’t the same. She hadn’t been in control those times, and now, she had nothing but control — over another creature, even — and it was scary. “I know we’ve already had this conversation, like, a million times, but it’s different now,” America insists. “She’s my responsibility — what happens to her is on me. I can’t afford to not know or screw up, even if it’s on accident.”

Agatha purses her lips, searching for the right words. “You’re allowed to mess up,” she finally says. “Every action isn’t black or white, just like people. Sure, some things you’ll want to try and avoid, but I know you. You don’t try and cause harm.”

It’s America’s turn to be silent now, letting her words — letting everything — sink in as she runs her fingers over the cat’s back. 

She remembers Agatha’s words in the hospital about how she was hesitant to let America stay with her because she didn’t want to mess things up. She thinks maybe she sort of understands how that feels now. But if she hadn’t eventually said yes, they would have missed out on so much — so many great things. 

She has to say yes now. Not let the fear make her risk missing out on the good. 

She takes a deep breath. “You’ll help me, right? You’ll help me avoid those things I need to avoid?”

“Yes.” Agatha nods. “You’re new to this, and I said I’d teach you, so of course I’m willing to help.”

“Okay, good. Add it to the magic first grade syllabus,” America says, relaxing a little bit. “I guess I should probably figure out what I’m going to call her. Where’d the name Señor Scratchy come from?”

Agatha stiffens at the question. “Well, it was always Señor — I was learning Spanish at the time I got him. And then Scratch was my son’s last name, so he tacked that part on later.”

“Oh," America whispers. She had expected a story about the rabbit scratching a chunk of skin off someone or something — not that. “That’s a really good name,” she says softly, resisting the urge to pry further. 

America looks down at the cat again. “I think I’m going to call her Carla. Get it? Since she decided to be a dummy and run in front of the car? Just as long as it’s okay with her. You cool with being called Carla?” The cat meows — America thinks in the affirmative. “Good. Carla it is.”

Agatha’s mouth curves into a small smile. “She’s a cute cat.”

“The Cutest of All Time. The COAT,” America agrees. 

The rest of the ride is thankfully uneventful, and soon, they’re pulling into Agatha’s garage. 

“Okay, so we figured out kitty’s name,” America says, carrying Carla into the house. “Now we should probably start seriously thinking about what we’re going to tell—" Her eyes widen when she sees a familiar redhead sitting on the couch. “—Wanda,” she finishes more quietly.

Chapter Text

Wanda cranes her neck back to look at them, eyes widening as she spots the cat in America’s arms. She looks from Carla to America to Agatha, trying to piece everything together — a task she gives up on rather quickly considering the next words out of her mouth are, “What the hell?”

“Okay, so I realize this looks…not great,” America admits. “But we can totally explain!” She pauses — for a suspiciously long amount of time — at a loss for how exactly to do that. She glances at Agatha, hoping the panic she’s feeling isn’t evident on her face. “Auntie Ags, do you want to maybe, uh…start?”

Agatha sighs, glancing between the two of them for a beat, clearly just as stumped as America. “Wanda, why don’t the two of us chat in the kitchen?” she finally suggests. Wanda slowly nods, standing and following her in

America winces as they disappear into the other room — one that seems so far, so out of reach that it might as well be another universe entirely. She’s tempted to try and eavesdrop, but they’d almost certainly find out somehow, and she doesn’t want to make things worse. Instead, she slumps down on the couch, head in her hands. 

This was such a mess, and it was all her fault. Each minute they’re in there, her mind goes to worse and worse places. What if Wanda never trusts her again? What if she doesn’t let her keep Carla? And worst of all — what if they break up because of this? Sure, they’re gross, but they’re happy, and that’s why she concocted her big plan in the first place.

They’re not yelling, which she supposes she could take as a good sign, but she knows whispers could be just as terrifying — just as dangerous — and plus, who’s to say one of them didn’t do a spell to soundproof the room somehow? It was entirely possible they were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs at this very moment. The thought makes her heart sink.

She doesn’t know how much time passes — it feels like forever — until she can’t stand it anymore. She has to at least try and gauge the tone of the room — how bad it is. 

She slowly creeps her way into the kitchen, their hushed conversation immediately coming to a halt as they spy her. The two turn to face her, and she uses the opportunity to take in their expressions: Wanda looks pissed off in a restrained sort of way, and Agatha just looks tired. Defeated, almost.

“Sorry,” America says quietly, opening the cabinet with the cups. “Just grabbing some water.”

The anxiety must be radiating off her because they clearly don’t buy it for a millisecond. “Nobody’s mad at you,” Agatha assures her, rubbing her temples.

The vibe in the room, plus the added ‘at you,’ confirm that Agatha’s annoyingly gone with the truth about the day. She was really hoping she’d be able to whip up some elaborate lie. Seeing as she hadn’t, America had no choice but to throw herself on the grenade. “Well, why not?” she asks, forcefully closing the cabinet without even retrieving a glass. “You should be mad at me. It was all my idea.” She turns to Wanda. “Look, you can lecture me, or ground me forever, or whatever, but you can’t be mad at Agatha because it wasn’t her fault. And you can’t break up because of this. Okay? I won't allow it."

It’s Wanda’s turn to sigh now, and she shifts in her chair to look at America directly. She’s silent for a moment, seemingly collecting herself and her thoughts. Carefully choosing her words. “Agatha is the adult in the situation — that’s why I’m mad at her. We will have a discussion about going behind my back, America, but I’m not angry with you. And we won’t break up or stop feeling how we may feel about each other because of one bump in the road.” Her voice grows softer as she glances back at Agatha. “At least on my end, I won’t. That’s not how these things work.”

That reassures her a little, but she still looks between both of them a few times just to make sure it wasn’t worse than they were letting on. She gets no indication that it is, but she has to double-check. Needs to hear it. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Wanda nods. “Now, can you let us finish this in private, then we’ll have a chat?” she asks, her eyebrow raise making it clear it’s not really a suggestion.

America hovers there for a moment, biting her lip. She doesn’t want to leave, but she also doesn’t want to find herself in more hot water. She tries to think of some excuse but comes up empty — they’d see through it anyway. 

“Yeah,” she reluctantly agrees before going to wait in the living room. She drops down on the couch again, blowing out a breath. She was not looking forward to the inevitable chat, facing the inevitable consequences of everything.

After what feels like another eternity, Wanda exits the kitchen. “Hey, why don’t we head home?” she asks — another question that wasn’t really a question. She was fond of those today.

America swallows hard. She might not be mad, but she definitely wasn’t happy. “Okay,” she says softly, obediently rising from the couch. She hesitates for a moment before picking up the cat. “Carla, too?” she checks. She’s not sure if Agatha explained the whole familiar aspect — if that would even matter to Wanda right now.

Wanda lets out a breath. “Yes, her too. Agatha mentioned that…situation.” She waves her hand to open a portal, motioning for America to step through.

She nods, holding Carla a little tighter. “Bye, Auntie Ags,” she says quietly, throwing one last apologetic glance back at her before stepping into the cabin.

Wanda follows close behind, immediately taking a seat on the couch and patting the space next to her. Wasting no time, evidently. Great. “Come sit,” she says, nodding to America. “Let’s talk.” 

She’s never really been in trouble like this before, and she can’t say she likes the feeling. Even more unpleasant, though, is the guilt twisting in her stomach. “I’m really sorry,” she says, gently setting Carla on the floor before stiffly perching herself on the couch. She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on her lap, playing with a loose thread on her jacket. “I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Wanda agrees. “But thank you for the apology. I just don’t like you going behind my back like that — it betrays my trust.”

“I know,” America admits, her voice as small as she feels. “I’ll earn it back somehow — I promise.”

“I know you will, but it still hurt me,” Wanda says, which somehow manages to make America feel even worse. That’s the last thing she wanted. “And it wasn’t a great thing to do when you’re trying to convince me you're responsible enough to take care of a cat.”

“I didn’t think about that. About how it would make you feel or about how seriously stupid the timing of it would be,” she confesses, shaking her head. “All I was thinking about was how badly I wanted to do it.”

“And that was careless of you, among other things,” Wanda says firmly before sighing and softening the tiniest bit. “Like I said, I’m not mad at you. I’m more disappointed in your choices than anything.”

She cringes — that was way worse. “I’d rather you just be mad,” she mumbles.

Wanda rubs a hand down her face, seemingly trying to figure out how to navigate the conversation. This was uncharted territory for her, too, America realizes. “This isn’t a forever feeling,” she finally says. “None of this is a forever situation. We just build back up from here. Things happen.”

America nods, hands fidgeting. “How long do you think?” She can’t help but ask after a moment. “If you had to guess. A week? A month? A year?”

Wanda tilts her head. “How long until what?”

“Until you don’t feel disappointed anymore,” she clarifies softly. “Until the situation is over. You said it wouldn’t be forever, so…how long?”

“I can’t tell you,” Wanda says, reaching out to wrap an arm around her, though she can’t let herself fully relax into it. She didn’t deserve the comfort right now — especially not from her. “The feeling will probably dissipate soon, but we’ll work on rebuilding that trust, okay?”

She doesn’t like the lack of a specific timeline. She was impatient — that’s what got her into this mess in the first place. But if Wanda couldn’t tell her the ‘when,’ maybe she could tell her something else. “How?” she asks, looking up at her. “How do I rebuild it? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” She was desperate. Imagines she’d do just about anything to wipe the slate clean.

Wanda bites her lip, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on her arm. “I don’t know,” she admits. “And I know you hate that, and I’m sorry.”

“I do hate that. A lot,” America groans, picking at the thread of her jacket again. “But I guess that’s part of the punishment.”

“It’s not all punishment,” Wanda gently assures her. “Some of it is just how these things work. Trust doesn’t automatically get rebuilt.”

“No, I know. It takes time,” she says as if she’s reciting the words. And in a way, she is. It seems like that’s all she ever hears sometimes — it takes time to search the multiverse, it takes time to learn how to control her powers, it takes time until she’s old enough to do everything she wants to do. “It feels like everything takes so much time.” She frowns.

“I know,” Wanda says sympathetically. “But unfortunately, that’s just how life is. It sucks, but some things can’t be rushed.”

America slumps her head against the back of the couch, moping. “Well, I want a fast-forward button.”

“I know.” Wanda pulls her in closer, and she finally lets herself fully sink into the embrace. She didn’t deserve comfort, maybe, but Wanda was offering it, and she wasn’t strong enough to keep resisting the urge to accept it. “I know what that feels like, and I’m sorry.”

“Did you manage to get any self-caring done today, at least? Before, well…you know.” It seemed unnecessary — and embarrassing — to rehash the subsequent events.

Wanda runs a hand up and down her arm. “A bit. I took a nap and a long shower.”

“That’s good.” She nods. “I meant it when I said you deserved to relax. I mean, there were obviously some ulterior motives at play, too, but that part wasn’t a lie.” 

“I know you did,” Wanda promises. “I’m trying to take care of myself.”

“You better.” She can’t help but think back to when she first saw her again at Kamar-Taj all those months ago — how weak and fragile she looked. It scared her then, and it scares her even more now in retrospect. She never wants her to get to that point again. “You’ll have to if you want any chance of keeping up with me,” she lightly teases, trying to shake that image from her mind. She bites her lip, another thought coming to take its place. “How did you know anyway? To come to the house, I mean. Did I seem sus at breakfast?”

Wanda grimaces. “Yeah, you did. You were too eager to get rid of me.”

“Figures. I’ve always been a bad actress.” She sulks, crossing her arms. She’d thought maybe she’d gotten better at the whole lying thing, but evidently, she hadn’t. She figures it’s probably time to throw in the towel. “Don’t worry — I have no plans on trying to become a good one. No Oscars in my future.”

Wanda breathes out a laugh. “And that’s okay. You’re becoming a great witch. And Agatha and I will love you no matter what,” she says, the last sentence seeming to leave her mouth without her vetting it first. She blinks a few times, eying her closely — and maybe a bit nervously — to gauge if she’s comfortable with it.

America gets that strange pang in her chest again — the same one she’d gotten when Wanda had referred to her as family last night. She’d said she cared about her plenty of times, loved things about her even, but love her — and unconditionally — it’s new, and it’s a lot. She takes a deep breath. “I love you guys no matter what, too,” she whispers.

She can feel Wanda stiffen ever so slightly — it’s new and a lot for her, too, probably — and nestles in a little closer to her. Reassuring her, hopefully.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments before America speaks again, curiosity getting the better of her. “So…” she tentatively starts. “I know it’s, like, so not the point right now, but…did Auntie Ags mention how she thought I did driving?” She chews on her lip again, looking up at Wanda.

Wanda lets out something between a scoff and a chuckle. “She didn’t mention it. Sorry, Star Girl.”

“Oh,” she says, a little disappointed. “Because not to brag, but I think maybe I’m kind of a natural.”

“Well, I’m glad. You can show me when you’re a bit older,” Wanda says, giving her a pointed look.

She nods. “Sure. Yeah. I’d love to. In the future. The distant future, of course," she says, though thinking about how long that might be pains her. It was almost worse to wait now that she knew what it was like — had gotten a taste. “I mean, or the near future. If you want,” she throws out there with a shrug, trying to come off casual.

“Mhm,” Wanda hums, noncommittal. “We’ll see. You need to learn some patience,” she says gently.

“I know, I know — I’m about as good at being patient as I am at acting. But learning patience,” she says, putting one palm out. “Learning to drive.” She puts out the other and pretends to weigh her options. “Don’t you see how one is a lot more appealing?”

“I understand.” Wanda nods. “I really do. But trust me, patience will serve you much more than driving will.”

“I guess you have a point,” she admits with a sigh. “I’ll work on it.”

“Good. You can do it,” Wanda says with an encouraging smile. She forces a small smile back — she hopes she’s right. “Maybe we talk about the cat situation next?” Wanda suggests.

“Oh, right. That situation.” America cringes. She’d forgotten, for a moment, there was a whole part two to this discussion. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel, not realizing that — once she got out — there was a whole other tunnel to go through.

“Uh-huh.” Wanda nods again. “So tell me how this all happened.”

“Carla was a total accident — I swear I didn’t go looking for her.” She holds up her hands innocently. “She literally just bolted in front of the car out of nowhere. It was, like, fate or something.”

“That’s what Agatha said,” Wanda muses, as if corroborating their stories. “Can I ask: why Carla?” Wanda questions, tilting her head.

“Well, because she ran in front of the car. It’s a pun. Carla,” she explains. Carla meows. “She seems to like it.”

“Riiight,” Wanda says, drawing out the word in a way that makes it clear she’s still uncertain about it. “Well, if you two are in agreement, then that’s something. We will have to deal with supplies to keep her, though.”

“I know,” America says, perking up a little — her talking about keeping her was a good sign. “Luckily, I have some money saved from helping Auntie Ags with stuff — enough to get Carla what she needs for now — and if I need more, then I am totally open to doing extra chores to afford it. Plus, I’ll feed her and clean her litter box, and she can sleep in my room. You won’t have to do a thing. I will be fully responsible,” she promises.

“I know you say that, and I believe you will be more responsible, but I also know what teenagers are like,” Wanda says, leveling with her. “Not all of it will fall on you because you’re still developing and figuring everything out. But if you’re serious about at least helping, we’ll figure it out, okay?”

“I’m so serious. The most serious,” America swears, shifting to wrap her arms around her in a hug. “Thank you,” she says, giving her a grateful squeeze.

Wanda seems surprised for a moment but recovers quickly, hugging her back. “You’re welcome. I can tell this means a lot.”

“It does,” America softly confirms. “It means the world.” 

She’s talking about Carla, of course, but she means Wanda and Agatha, too. This whole life she was living now. 

Having a real family again.

Chapter Text

The tension is palpable between Wanda and Agatha for a few days after the driving incident, but after a couple weeks, they’re back to their gross, mushy selves. 

They fall into a normal routine over the next several months. Agatha starts sleeping over more frequently, but she and Wanda are quiet and always leave enough coffee for America in the morning, so she doesn’t mind. Both of them keep their promise to help her learn to take care of Carla, and she keeps hers — staying on her best behavior, trying to be more patient, not bringing up driving again. 

Well, the last one wasn’t exactly true, but it had nothing to do with her getting behind the wheel. 

Agatha had started integrating more history into their lessons, and it turned out it was all pretty interesting. America had the habit of getting distracted easily, but it happened substantially less often during the history portions. America had eventually convinced her and Wanda to agree to a field-trip-slash-vacation of sorts to Salem: Agatha’s hometown and the witchy capital of the world. (Or at least the United States.) 

While they could just portal there, America wanted to make it feel like a real getaway. Considering it was only around a five-hour drive from Westview, it was the perfect distance for a short road trip. They’d get to take the scenic route, stay in a cute inn for a few nights, and try new restaurants in between learning witch history — and maybe even some of Agatha’s history, too. It was the perfect plan. 

Which is how she finds herself walking down Agatha’s driveway with luggage on a Friday afternoon.

“You ready?” Agatha asks when she sees her, casually leaning against the car.

“Yup. Clothes and stuff are in here, so it can go in the back,” she says, lifting her suitcase into the trunk. “Snacks are in here, so I’ll keep it with me.” She nods to the backpack slung on her shoulder. “We have Cheez-Its, Goldfish, Cheetos, and pretzels in the main pocket, Oreos, fruit snacks, M&Ms, and sour gummy worms in the front pocket,” she lists. She very carefully curated the selection, taking the task very seriously. “Oh, and some apples and grapes in the side. Wanda made me put those in there, too,” she reluctantly adds, rolling her eyes.

“Sounds great.” Agatha nods. “And don’t make that face — fruit is good for you.”

“Um, exactly,” she says, cheekily adding another eye-roll. “Healthy road trip snacks are, like, so lame. Completely defeats the purpose.”

“Mhm.” It’s Agatha’s turn to roll her eyes. “Have you ever actually been on a road trip before?”

“Well…no,” she admits. “But I can only assume proper nutrition isn’t a big aspect of it!”

“That’s what I thought,” Agatha says, walking over and putting an arm around her. “Junk food is part of a vacation, but it can’t be all of it,” she states, kissing the top of her head.

“Well, duh — blasting music in the car and shopping for tacky souvenirs is part of it, too,” America teases with a smirk.

Agatha sighs. “Well, you won’t be buying tacky witchcraft-related souvenirs on my watch,” she firmly declares.

“Got it. Shoplifting on your watch only,” she jokes, peering up. Agatha does not look amused. “Kidding. You’ve made it very clear there is to be no associating with the tacky witchcraft paraphernalia in any capacity,” she recites.

“And you brought headphones, right?” Agatha raises her brow.

“Yeah…” America says slowly. “Why? Are you not giving me aux cord privileges?”

“We’re all sharing the aux cord — keyword sharing,” Agatha clarifies.

America shrugs. “I can live with that. You have good taste. Not as good as my taste, of course, but still. Very solid.”

“Oh? And what is your taste?” Agatha challenges, looking down at her.

“I guess you’ll just have to grace me with the aux cord to find out.” America smiles up at her in reply.

“Come on. Not one hint?” Agatha teases with a playful pout.

“Okay, fine," she relents. “TikTok. It’s where I discover most music. But also, if any of the songs on my playlist happen to overlap with songs on your playlist, it’s a total coincidence. It’s definitely not because I secretly Shazamed them because I liked them or anything. So, like, don’t get a big head about it,” she says, ducking her head bashfully. Agatha did have immaculate taste — honestly, maybe better than her own, though America would never give her the satisfaction of admitting that.

“Mhm — don’t think I don’t know that you love my music,” Agatha says with a smug smile, giving her arm a squeeze.

“Oh my god, whatever.” America scoffs, wriggling out of her hold to go open the door to the backseat — Wanda, unfortunately, still got shotgun even though America had called it first. She had a pretty unfair advantage considering she was dating the driver. “I’m getting in the car before your head literally explodes from getting so huge.”

“Okay, whatever you say,” Agatha replies, going to help Wanda with her bags as she makes her way down the driveway. “Just go through the packing list in your head and double-check that you have everything. And use the bathroom if you need!” she calls back to America.

“I will!” she promises as she slides in and shuts the door, though she has no intention of doing either. She didn’t need to pee, and she’d already, like, quadruple-checked her packing list. She was positive she had more than enough for a few days. Wanda had even made her pack a hat and gloves just in case despite it only being October.

After what feels like an agonizingly long amount of time but is really probably only a few minutes, Agatha slides into the driver’s side while Wanda buckles into the passenger’s. America leans forward, resting one arm on each seat. “You guys ready or what?”

Wanda glances back. “We are. You seem very ready,” she teases with a smile.

“I am,” she says, returning her grin. She stealthily snags the aux cord from the front cupholder before flopping back in her seat. “I’ve traveled a lot of places, obviously, but not on purpose like this. It’s gonna be so fun.”

“It will be.” Wanda nods. “I’ve never been around the United States unless it was for work. This is the closest thing to a vacation I’ve been on,” she admits.

“Aww, we’re going on our first vacay together? That’s so cute of us. We’re goals,” America declares, flicking on her sunglasses and plugging in her phone.

Wanda breathes out a laugh as she settles into her seat. “Oh, are we now?”

“Ultimate goals,” America says, pushing play on Saweetie’s “Best Friend” — a TikTok song, just as she promised — for effect as Agatha starts the car.

“What is this?” Agatha asks as she pulls out of the driveway. “And you get the aux for an hour, then we switch.”

“It’s a bop is what it is,” America says, doing the corresponding dance in her seat. “Hour and a half? she negotiates. “It’s about a five-hour drive, which means the three of us should each get around an hour and a half,” she reasons.

“No.” Agatha shakes her head. “We’ll start with an hour,” she asserts, raising an eyebrow in the rearview.

“Fine,” America relents, shrinking into her seat a little — The Look ™ was just as effective through the mirror. “I guess that's fair.”

“Mhm. It’s plenty fair.” Agatha nods. “We’ll figure out the last two hours when we get there,” she promises.

“Deal,” she agrees. 

A few more songs pass without much fanfare — no one comments on her selections, but she can see them nod their heads along to the beats, which she counts as a success. And then, when they’re about 15 minutes from home, a small disaster strikes — one that gets more urgent at minute 20 and forces her to speak up around minute 25. “Uh…I have to tell you guys something. But you have to promise not to get mad,” she says, biting her lip.

Wanda and Agatha exchange a look. “What is it?” Wanda asks warily.

“I have to pee,” she admits. “I’m sorry — I know you told me to go before we left, but I didn’t have to then.”

“It’s fine.” Wanda sighs. “We’ll stop at an exit.”

“I’ll be super fast,” she promises. “In and out.”

After around four agonizing minutes, Agatha pulls into a gas station parking lot. “Be quick,” she reminds her.

“Back in a sec,” America swears, jogging in — both to make it evident she was hurrying and also because she really did have to go. 

The whole experience is pretty harrowing. The bathroom is disgusting — there’s pee on the seat, toilet paper on the floor, and it smells like a barn. But the way the cashier leers at her the entire walk there and back — looks her up and down slowly, lets out a whistle that attracts the attention of every person in the building, and tells her to “have a good day, little lady” — is somehow even grosser, so she makes her way back to the car just as quickly. 

It’s not like she’s never encountered men like this before, never had similar things happen. She’s even had to allow certain things — had to do certain things — in order to survive. In order to eat and find a decent place to sleep in the less accommodating universes. It was never anything so bad, thankfully. She knows it could have been worse — so much worse. And this right now? Was really nothing, in the grand scheme of things. 

But it still makes her stomach turn. Her skin crawl. And she hates it. Hates how a few seconds can ruin her day. How a single moment can make her feel so…powerless. So dirty. Like nothing.

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” she says, shuddering as she slams the door and hastily buckles her seatbelt.

Agatha starts the car but raises an eyebrow. “Everything good?”

“Everything’s fine,” she mumbles. “Can we please just go?” she asks, anxious to get as far away from this place as possible. She’s shaken, figuratively and literally, and she crosses her arms to try and stop herself from trembling.

Luckily, Agatha pulls out of the parking lot and merges back onto the country road. America stares out the window, trying to distract herself with the passing trees and farms. She hopes this is the end of it — that they’ll drop it, that she’ll calm down — but it feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the car, the mood having done an abrupt 180. It’s impossible to ignore.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Wanda asks after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” America says, voice coming out weaker than she wants.

“It’s okay if you’re not, remember?” Wanda gently pushes. “You can talk to us.”

America bites the inside of her cheek, conflicted. Part of her wants to tell them everything, and part of her wants to scream. Wants to never talk about it at all. Wants to never even think about it again. “It’s just…some things never change no matter what universe you’re in, and guys being pigs is one of them,” she says — a compromise. Hopefully enough to make herself feel better and get them off her back.

No dice.

Agatha nods in agreement. “You’re right about that.” She waits a beat before speaking again, lips pursing in concern. “Anything happen?”

“No,” she says, an edge to her voice. Because nothing did happen — not really. But it still made her feel small. And embarrassed. And angry. And she knows, deep down, it's not fair to take it out on her, but she doesn't know how else to deal with it. “Obviously not. I know how to take care of myself — I did it for eight years,” she reminds her — reminds herself — feeling oddly defensive as she crosses her arms more tightly. “Can we be done with the interrogation now?”

“America…” Agatha starts.

“What?” she snaps.

It’s quiet for a moment — palpably tense — and she instantly regrets her tone before Agatha even responds. “America,” she repeats, voice calm yet stern, and somehow, it makes her regret it a thousand times more. She wants to crawl into a hole or, at the very least, cover her face with her hands — something Agatha must sense. Refuses to let happen just to torture her more. “Look at me, please,” she orders with that same firm tone. She waits until America reluctantly meets her eyes in the rearview mirror before continuing. “Take a deep breath.”

She does as she’s told — slow inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth, just like she was taught to do to ground herself during magic lessons. Annoyingly, it does help.

“We’re not trying to demean you or hurt you — we’re just worried,” Agatha explains with an impressive amount of patience. “And just because you took care of yourself alone before doesn’t mean you have to now. You know this,” she gently chides.

She does know this. Just like she knows she was out of line. “Sorry,” she says softly, dropping her gaze to her lap. “You don’t have to worry. I’m, like, way overreacting. I just…some dude made me feel weird is all. I didn’t like it.”

Agatha nods, her fears suitably alleviated. “It’s okay — no one’s angry with you. And you’re still allowed to be upset even if he didn’t actually do anything.”

“I guess,” America mutters, noncommittal. It seemed silly to be this worked up over a look and a sentence — especially after everything she’d been through.

“Hey,” Agatha says, directing America’s attention back to the mirror. “I mean that,” she firmly reiterates.

America sighs, playing with the hem of her jacket. “I kind of wanted to cast a sigil or something, just to freak him out a little,” she admits. “But I figured that probably wouldn’t go over so well.”

She hadn’t given it serious consideration — it was more a tiny, subconscious thought in the back of her mind. A last resort. The equivalent of having a metaphorical set of keys wedged between her fingers while walking home alone at night. If it got bad — really bad — she could fight back. She had new weapons. Weapons that she didn’t quite know the rules of yet. Weapons that still scared her a little, the consequences unpredictable and unnerving. It’s not like she wanted to kill the guy — a result that’s unlikely but not impossible if something went wrong — and she really didn’t want to kill anyone around him by accident. Didn’t want to land herself in trouble or cause any for Wanda and Agatha. 

“That’s probably good,” Agatha concedes.

“When is it okay?” she asks. “To do magic, I mean.” She’d mostly been existing in their comfortable little bubble for the past several months — she didn’t quite know what being a witch in the real world looked like. Especially when situations like this arose.

Agatha and Wanda exchange a look, silent for a moment before Wanda speaks up. “That’s a complicated question. Honestly…I don’t know where to begin.”

America sighs. She knows the codes. ‘We’ll see’ means ‘no.’ ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ means ‘don’t do that.’ And ‘I don’t know where to begin’ means: “‘Never.’ I’m going to take that as a ‘never.’”

“No, it’s just…as I said, it’s very complicated,” Wanda explains. “We’ve both had a lot of…unsavory experiences with it.” She and Agatha glance at each other again. Have a whole conversation with their eyes. She knows there’s stuff they’re not telling her, and frankly, it’s annoying. The vagueness frustrates her further. 

“So it’s just as dangerous to use it as it is not to use it?” she huffs. “What’s even the point?” she mumbles.

“No matter the century, there are always people waiting to burn those like us at the stake,” Agatha says, shooting her a pointed look. “We can talk about this, but you’ll have to put aside whatever attitude you’ve got going.”

“I don’t have an—” America starts to argue before cutting herself off. She purses her lips, forcing herself to take a few more deep breaths. “I don’t have an attitude,” she says more calmly. “Anymore,” she clarifies before Agatha can call her out on that fact. “It’s been put aside.”

Agatha nods, raising her brow in a small warning before continuing. “Good. Now if you want, we can have this conversation.”

Want is maybe a strong word — it’s not exactly a quintessentially light, fun road trip discussion — but she probably needs to, all things considered. Especially considering where they’re going. “We probably should, right? It feels…important.”

“It is,” Wanda agrees. “You have to understand: It’s difficult to articulate everything relevant — to talk about some of these experiences — but we’ll try.”

“I get it,” America says quietly, staring out the window again, watching the world — beautiful in ways, terrifying in others — pass by as they drive. “When you say there are people who want to burn us at the stake…you don’t just mean metaphorically, do you?” she asks, swallowing hard.

“No, unfortunately.” Wanda shakes her head. “I’ve been criticized my whole life for unintentionally causing harm. Granted, I did cause harm, but I have been demonized for it beyond belief.”

“So people want to hurt you on purpose because of something you did by accident? They hate you because of something you can’t even control? That’s…scary,” she says, thinking of how they’d react if they knew what she’d done to her moms with the portal. “And stupid," she adds. 

She’d experienced firsthand the harm Wanda could cause — been the primary target of it. But she knew it was more complicated than that. And if she, of all people could, then everyone else should be able to, too.

“Yes.” Wanda nods, shivering slightly — clearly affected by some of these memories but trying her best to hide it. “People are scared of what they don’t understand. It’s a tale as old as time, but unfortunately, it’s very real in some of the most detrimental ways.”

“What is the point of it all then?” America repeats, though it’s more deflated than irritated this time. “I mean, why learn how to do magic at all if it’s just going to make you even more of a target?”

“Because of talent,” Agatha cuts in, a hint of haughtiness in her tone. “Because the world will always need the people it tries to get rid of.”

“But does the world deserve us?” she counters.

“No, it doesn’t,” Agatha replies, bitterness creeping into her voice. “The world doesn’t deserve any population it continually abuses then expects help from.” 

“Then why should we waste our talent on people who don’t appreciate it? Even if we use it for good, even if we try to help, if we make a mistake — if something goes wrong…” America trails off, shaking her head. It feels like an impossible situation. A lose-lose. “Is it even worth it to try?”

“I’ll admit, I’m more…jaded toward the idea of trying than Wanda,” Agatha replies, taking a deep breath. “But sometimes there is good in it, I suppose.”

“Like what? What’s the good in it?” she pushes. “I’m not…trying to be difficult. I’m just…I’m having a really hard time understanding why I'm doing all this work with my powers if I can’t even use them to get back at creepy men in gas stations without the world hating me for it. I mean, look at me — the world already hates me enough for who I am. I really don’t need to give them another reason.”

Agatha sucks in a breath, at a loss, while Wanda’s hand rubs at her chest. Rubs right over her heart, like maybe America’s words have broken it a little. Like she’s trying to piece it back together.

“The world can be undeniably cruel to people who are different. And I can’t fix that for you,” Wanda starts, twisting in her seat to look at America face-to-face. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could. I wish I could make the world better so you didn’t have to experience that.” She reaches across the console to take her hand, and it makes America’s eyes burn with tears. She sees Wanda’s get glassy, too. “But on the same front, despite my own poor experiences with people’s reactions to magic, it has the ability to help people. People who are marginalized, too. Or caught in traumatic situations,” she says softly, giving her hand a squeeze.

America’s silent for a few moments, turning to stare out the window and let Wanda’s words soak in. It was going to be hard, going through life with yet another thing that made her different. Yet another thing that people felt threatened by. 

But she wasn’t the only person who was different, and it would be harder to live with herself if she didn’t try to help them — people who didn’t have the power she did. “That is a pretty good thing,” she finally admits. “I’d want someone to be brave enough to help me if I needed it.” She shakes her head, eyes flicking to the two women in the front seat. The two women who helped her — saved her, in a way. Gave her the closest thing she has to family. “People have been brave enough to help me when I needed it. I guess…I kind of owe it to them to do the same.”

“You don’t necessarily owe the world anything — not after how the world has treated you,” Wanda says. “But I do think it’s extremely kind to do that. To help people,” she adds more softly.

“I want to be kind,” America says quietly. “I really do.”

“Good.” Wanda gives her a small smile. “The world deserves a little more kindness.”

“You deserve kindness, too,” she says gently. She unhooks the aux cord from her phone, handing it up to her. “And this. You guys can split my 10 remaining minutes. For being kind to me,” she explains. “Even when I have an attitude.”

Wanda breathes out a laugh. “Thank you. I promise my music taste isn’t bad,” she teases, hooking up her own playlist.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” America jokes back, starting to feel a little lighter. She settles back in her seat, relaxing as Wanda’s music begins to play. She relaxes so hard, in fact, that she eventually dozes off. She hadn’t slept a lot last night, too excited for the trip, and their conversation had been intense. A little emotionally exhausting.

There were bad people in the world who would never understand, but there were good people who would, too. She had two in the car with her right now. 

She was unlucky in some ways, but she was pretty lucky for that.

Chapter Text

It’s definitely later when America blinks awake. It’s not quite dark yet, but the sun is significantly lower in the sky — on the verge of setting. She yawns, rubbing her eyes and wiping a little bit of drool from the corner of her mouth.

Agatha glances at her in the rearview. “How was your nap?”

“Good,” she says, stretching her arms. “How far away are we now?”

Agatha’s eyes flit to the GPS. “A little under two hours. You slept a good chunk of this trip.”

“I was out for three hours?” she asks, some of the grogginess fading. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You looked like you needed the sleep.” Agatha shrugs. And, like, maybe she’s right — she was a little cranky, and she hadn’t slept a lot the night before — but she’s still kind of incredulous. She didn’t want to sleep — she wanted to have the full road trip experience.

“Yeah, well, I can sleep when I’m dead,” America says, unzipping her backpack. “Now we’re way behind schedule with all the snacks we have to eat and games we have to play.”

“Games?” Wanda speaks up, interest piqued. “What kind of games?”

“You know — classic road trip games. I spy, license plates, alphabet categories…” she lists. “I did a lot of research.”

“I see.” Wanda slowly nods.

“Since it’s your first real vacation, too, you get to choose what we play first,” America says, grabbing the Oreos from her backpack and stuffing two in her mouth. “Cookie?” she asks, voice muffled as she holds the container up to offer her some.

Wanda grabs one — albeit much more daintily than America. “No, that’s okay — you can pick.”

America swallows her cookies before immediately shoving two more into her mouth, a few crumbs falling onto her lap. “Auntie Ags? Oreo? Game preference? You gotta have a game preference.”

“I’m good on food.” Agatha shakes her head. A little sus. America wonders if this has anything to do with her nerves about going back to her hometown. She’s never come out and explicitly said she was wary, but America’s not stupid. She knows a little about Agatha’s past, and she’s more observant than most people give her credit for. 

But if it is anxiety, she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, so America wasn’t going to push. Not yet, at least. 

“As far as games go,” Agatha continues, “I’m curious as to how many of my songs you could name. The songs on my playlist, that is.”

Maybe it’s a ploy to listen to more of her music instead of taking turns, but America doesn’t care. She’s competitive. And, as she’s already reluctantly established, she happens to like most of Agatha’s music.

“Oh, making a new game.” America grins. “Love the creativity. And the challenge. I’m down.”

“All right.” Agatha smiles. “I’ll hit shuffle, and you get 30 seconds to name the title and artist.”

“You’re on!” America rips open a pack of gummy worms, tossing a few into her mouth as she waits to hear the opening notes.

The game makes the time go by fast, over an hour flying by in the blink of an eye. She’s pretty good at guessing, getting a solid 70% of them right. She likes the 80s, it turns out. A couple of those she even recognizes from TikTok. Just like fashion, music went back into style, too, she supposed. 

She’s absolutely hopeless at the musical theater category, though. Like, really bad.

“Okay, in my defense,” she says as she misses another one. “I’ve never actually seen a musical.”

“Never?” Agatha blinks in shock, turning the volume down — deeming that this conversation required more of her attention, it seemed. “In all of the universes you’ve been in?”

“Hey, you had never had churros until a few months ago — you have no room to talk,” America teases. “But no, I haven’t. Well, not a whole one. They’re usually expensive. I snuck into Cats once, but an usher kicked me out after, like, 10 minutes, so I don't think it really counts."

"Cats? Really?” Agatha makes a face. “That’s a terrible show.”

“Well, I didn’t know! Cats are cool, so I thought the musical would be, too,” she justifies. The poster looked nice enough.

“We have to find a show somewhere for you to see,” Agatha declares. “One that’s not…that.”

“I would like that.” America nods. “To see a good one, I mean. And to not be forcibly removed after two songs.”

“Do you have any idea what you might be interested in? Have you seen any you like on that video app?” Agatha asks.

America purses her lips to suppress a laugh at her referring to TikTok as ‘that video app.’ “Yeah, a couple. I mean, I know I like ABBA because of your playlist, so that’s a plus for Mamma Mia!. And there’s one about witches, too, isn’t there? Wicked? That could be fun. Probably not accurate, obviously,” she says before Agatha can start ranting about the inauthenticity, as she is known to do. Practical Magic, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Hocus Pocus — they’d all led to lectures. “But fun.”

“Both good options.” Agatha nods.

“You can pick whatever one you think would be best.” America shrugs. “Wanda’s the TV expert, and it sounds like you’re the theater one, so I trust you. I know I joke, but I really do like being introduced to your guys’ favorite stuff.”

A genuine smile washes over Agatha’s features as she looks at her in the mirror again. “That’s really sweet of you. I’ve experienced theater grow over the years — in good ways and bad — but for the most part, it’s been quite enjoyable. You can’t go wrong with Cabaret, and Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 is a nice modern one.”

“I want to see one of those then,” America says quickly. “Or both of them, if we can swing it. Maybe our next field trip can be to New York,” she suggests.

“They’re both very intense stories — one is about a club during the Holocaust; the other is based on a section of War and Peace — but I think they’re beautiful. You might like Six. It’s another historical one but with pop music,” Agatha muses.

“Those all sound really good. We should do, like, a whole Broadway tour,” she says eagerly, mentally writing down the titles Agatha had thrown out, the wheels already turning in her brain. “And we could get pizza balls and stay at The Plaza again, too."

“Again?” Agatha asks curiously.

“Wanda and I were there for a night post-reuniting at Kamar-Taj but pre-coming to see you,” America explains. It’s strange to think back to that day. It feels like forever ago when in reality it was only a few months. A lot had changed since then.

“I see.” Agatha nods. “Though I’m not sure we’ll spend that kind of money on lodging if we go back. There are plenty of other nice places.”

“That’s okay.” America shrugs — she does remember it being expensive the first time. “It’d be cool to stay somewhere new, too.” She looks out the window as they pull into the parking lot of a quaint inn. “Speaking of lodging…are we here?”

“We are. This place is just on the outer edge of downtown, if I remember…” Agatha says, trailing off for a minute before shaking her head. “Anyway, it should be a decent location.”

“Way more than just decent." America scoffs. "It’s so cute!” she exclaims, grabbing her backpack and opening the door once they’ve parked. And it is. The building is painted a dark red — a nice contrast to its white pillars. Several trees surround it, the leaves a vibrant orange. It was very fall.

Agatha laughs a little, going around to the trunk. “I’m glad you like it.”

America retrieves her suitcase and begins to wheel it toward the door, the leaves crunching satisfyingly under her feet as she makes her way through the parking lot. Once inside, she dings the bell sitting on the front desk (also very satisfying), and a woman comes out from the back, asking how she can help them. 

Once Agatha gives her their names and confirms their reservation, she takes the key and leads them to the room. America’s jaw drops when she unlocks it and opens the door. It’s huge, more like a suite: there’s one bedroom with a king bed on one side, one with a queen on the other, and a small common room in the middle separating the two.

The decorations aren’t fancy like The Plaza — it’s almost…better in a way. Cozy and warm.

Agatha sets her bag on the sofa. “You like?”

“I love,” America confirms, smiling and dramatically draping herself onto the couch. “And I get my own room? That’s, like, crazy.” Were there ulterior motives at play so Wanda and Agatha could be all gross together during their vacation? Probably. But she didn’t really care when it benefitted her like this.

“Well, we figured you’d want a little space but still be close enough to have some time with us if you wanted it,” Agatha says with a wink, taking a seat beside her.

“It’s perfect. Already the best vacation ever,” America claims. “And I’m sure it’s only going to get better. What's on the itinerary for tonight?”

Wanda sets her stuff down before sitting on the other side. “Dinner first. Then we thought we might take a walk around downtown and get a feel for the place? See if anything catches our eye?”

“Sounds great.” She nods. “Where are we eating?”

“It looked like there was a good comfort food place around the corner. Sound okay?”

“Totally,” America agrees. “Comfy room, comfort food — comfy vibes all around. Can I ask a tiny little favor?”

“Of course,” Wanda says, voice soft but serious. Her expression is a mixture of touched and concerned. It was no secret it was still hard, unnatural, for America to ask for help, so when she did, Wanda always seemed a little flattered — and a little nervous about the severity of the thing that had pushed her to do so. “What’s up?”

“Will you do my hair for me?” she asks, a little bashful. It’s not a big, pressing request, and that’s on purpose. She was trying to get better at getting comfortable reaching out, and the only way was to practice. She runs her hand through the back of her hair, fingers catching on a knot. “It got all tangled when I slept in the car, and I can never make it look as good as when you do it.”

Wanda seems to relax at that, giving her a gentle smile. “Of course,” she repeats with a nod. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“I don’t know. Surprise me.” She shrugs, holding a piece out to examine it. “Straighten it, curl it, dye it blue. Oh my god, wait — can I actually dye it blue? That would be so cool.”

Wanda lets out a short laugh. “We’ll talk about dyeing it when we get back. For now, go grab your hairbrush for me,” she says, patting her leg.

It’s not a no, which is good enough for her. She fetches the brush from her suitcase and hands it to Wanda before plopping herself on the floor in front of her. “It doesn’t have to be blue,” she muses as Wanda begins to gently brush it out. “I could dye it pink or purple — or even red to look more like yours.”

“We’ll see,” Wanda promises. “Like I said, I’m not against it. Dyeing your hair can be fun — we’ll just have to look into the logistics of everything.”

She leans back against Wanda’s legs. It was true that it did always look better when she did it, but it also felt nice. Comforting. She needed that after the gas station incident. “What colors has yours been?”

Wanda hums, working her way through a particularly challenging section. “It’s mostly been natural colors. I’m a natural brunette. Red has been the only real variation.”

“Really?” She tilts her head back so she’s looking at Wanda upside-down, narrowing her eyes. “I can’t picture you with brown hair. Red is so…you.”

Wanda smiles. “Well, thank you. Red is a good color on me, I think,” she agrees. “I don’t really have pictures of me with the brown hair or I’d show you.” 

“Ugh, that’s so unfair.” America lowers her chin, facing forward again so Wanda can keep working through her hair. “I don’t get to see what you or Auntie Ags looked like when you were my age. I mean, how am I supposed to make fun of your fashion and makeup choices without evidence? That’s, like, my job.”

“You’ve seen most of my wardrobe through the decades,” Agatha reminds her. “And we are in my town of origin, even if there are no photos,” she offers as a consolation.

“That’s true,” she admits, playing with the hair tie on her wrist. “Sometimes I just wonder…” She trails off, shaking her head — losing her nerve. “Never mind.”

“No.” Agatha readjusts herself so she’s leaning forward — enough to see the side of America’s face — clearly not giving a shit about the amount of nerve she does or doesn’t possess at this moment. “What is it?”

“You’ll think it’s stupid,” she says softly, turning away from Agatha’s gaze as much as she can — which is not much considering Wanda was still working on brushing her hair out. She was sort of stuck. “It is stupid.”

“I won’t think it’s stupid.” Agatha frowns. “I don’t think you’d say anything stupid.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to figure out how to put it into words. In addition to stupid, it was sort of complicated, too. She drops her gaze to the floor, moving to pick at a fiber of the rug. “This woman at the hotel in New York assumed Wanda was my mom, and that other lady at the hospital thought you were my mother, so sometimes I wonder if I do look like you guys a little bit in some way…somehow,” America starts, fidgeting with the hair tie, pulling it tight against her wrist.

“Not because of DNA, clearly,” she continues. “But in the way that, like, dogs sometimes look like their owners or adopted kids can resemble their adoptive parents because of, like, the way they learn mannerisms and facial expressions and stuff. But, like, obviously I’m not a dog or your adopted kid, so it’s not the same — it’s more just…I don’t know…wishful thinking. Or whatever. And I know it doesn’t matter, really — we’re a family regardless — I just…I think it would be cool. To share…traits like that. I guess,” she rambles, the hair tie leaving a small red mark as she lets go. She sighs, feeling weirdly self-conscious at the admission. “See? I told you it was dumb.”

America keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the carpet, but after a beat, she can hear the couch shift slightly — Agatha getting up. A moment later, in her peripheral vision, she can see her sit on the floor in front of her.

America can’t help but squirm a little. It’s still weird, suppressing the instinct to run when she gets nervous — or not being sucked through a portal and made to leave when she feels uncomfortable. It’s still difficult, learning to deal with things head-on. Face-to-face.

Quite literally, in this case. Agatha cups her chin, gently tilting it up so she’s forced to meet her gaze. “It’s not dumb,” she assures her. “I understand where that feeling might come from — to want to share traits with your family. And in a way, you are adopted, because what else would you be?” she says, lightly running a thumb over her cheek. “I think you’re similar to Wanda in how thoughtful you are and the way you love so hard. Whether it’s good or bad, I think both of us are impulsive and stubborn and eager to learn. Perhaps it’s not exactly the same as what you were talking about, but you aren’t unlike us.”

America purses her lips, overwhelmed by the feelings flooding through her. And by the fact that she seems to…get it on some level. This thing she finds so difficult to express. It hits her hard — the way she says exactly what America didn’t realize she needed to hear.

She tries to swallow down her emotion before she speaks, but her voice comes out a little shaky anyway. “You really think so?” she asks, a tear falling as soon as she gets the words out.

“I do.” Agatha nods, brushing the tear away. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”

“Yeah, good point,” she says, giving her a small smile as she sniffles — proof that they’re happy tears.

“See?” Agatha says, letting go of her face. “It wasn’t a stupid question.”

“No,” she agrees, smile growing a little wider. “I guess it wasn’t.” She clears her throat, tilting her head back again to look at Wanda. “How’s it going back there? Almost done?”

Wanda hums. “Sort of. I’m trying to do something new I saw on Instagram. I think it’s going well.”

“Oh, I see — you can try a new hairstyle you find on Instagram, but when I want to try a TikTok hack involving an egg and an ironing board, I’m ‘making a mess’ and ‘going to burn the house down,’” she says, doing air quotes.

Wanda playfully rolls her eyes. “There’s a large discrepancy between those two, Star Girl.”

“It was one tiny little flame — barely even a spark,” she says, unable to resist defending herself. It had genuinely seemed like a good idea…at the time. It only smoked a little, and the egg did look like it was cooking — or it would have if Wanda hadn’t immediately shut it down once she got a (literal) whiff of what she was doing.

Wanda breathes out a laugh. “I know, I know — but you still need to ask before you do these things. And apply some common sense when fire could be involved,” she says gently.

“First you want me to have patience and now common sense? You’re kind of expecting a lot here,” she says with a huff, flicking her shin so she knows she’s joking.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage,” she says with a fond shake of her head. “You’re very capable.”

The corner of her mouth twitches up into a tiny smile despite herself. “Your belief in me — so flattering but so misguided,” she teases as Wanda finishes up. 

“I disagree,” she says, affectionately tugging on the end of her hair. “Now here — look,” she takes a picture of the finished product with her phone.

America pushes herself off the floor and onto the couch next to Wanda to get a better look. “Whoa. That’s so cool,” she says, seeing the intricate braid she’s somehow twisted it into. “Thanks — I love it.” She reaches her hand back, running her fingers over her hair to feel the elaborate pattern.

“You’re welcome.” Wanda grins. “I’m glad th—”

“And you,” America blurts before she can finish, throwing her arms around her.

“Oh.” She blinks in surprise before quickly returning the hug. “I love you, too. So much.”

America squeezes a little tighter, not letting go quite yet. She’s been wondering something else, too — for a while now — and this moment…for some reason, it feels like the right time to ask. “Hey, Wanda?” she starts softly. “Random, but uh…you know how a long time ago — the day you first called me Star Girl — I promised I’d give you a nickname, too, but I was never able to come up with a good one?”

“Yeah,” Wanda says, lightly rubbing her back. “Did you come up with one?”

“Maybe. I was thinking…what about, um…” She almost chickens out. Makes a joke — says Personal Hairstylist or Instagram Queen. But she’d already taken a big risk with her heart today, poured out vulnerable emotions, and it had turned out okay. What was one more giant leap…right? She takes a deep breath. “How would you feel about Mom?” she asks, so quietly it's practically a whisper.

Wanda’s body freezes up — just briefly, just for a second — but to America, it feels like an eternity. She wonders if she’s thinking about her twins. If she’s ever thought of her as a daughter. If she’s tried to push the idea down, just as America has with thinking of Wanda as a mother.

America can feel her taking a deep breath in and out, can feel a few tears drip down onto her shoulder. After an agonizing moment, Wanda finally answers. “I think I’d like that.”

It’s only then that America is able to exhale. Just like Agatha, Wanda wasn’t in the habit of saying things she didn’t mean, but America pulls away slightly to search her face anyway. “You’re sure?” she checks.

Wanda nods, as if she’s afraid if she speaks she’ll start crying more. It’s futile, and she begins to cry harder anyway, quickly giving up on trying to stop the waterworks. “Good tears,” she clarifies with a sniffle. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

“I get it,” America promises, reaching to snag the tissue box from the coffee table. “That was me literally five minutes ago,” she says, handing Wanda a Kleenex before feeling a few more unexpected tears creep out of her own eyes. She grabs one for herself as well, dabbing at her cheeks. “And now, I guess. Wow, we’re a mess,” she says with a watery laugh.

Wanda nods as she wipes her eyes, taking another deep breath. “We are,” she agrees. “But it’s not a bad thing.”

“No,” America concurs. “Being part of this mess is the best thing that’s happened to me in…well, ever maybe.”

Wanda gives America a small but genuine smile. “I’m glad you think that. You deserve good things in your life.”

“We all do,” she says gently, because sometimes she thinks Wanda and Agatha need a reminder of that. That they deserve happiness, too. America stands from the couch, looking at Agatha. “But speaking of good things — Auntie Ags…” She glances back at Wanda. “Mom,” she says, trying out the name. One she hasn’t been able to use in years. It sends a little flutter through her chest, but it feels nice. Right. “Should we go get some food?”

It takes Wanda a beat to process the question — at being called ‘mom’ again — but after a second, she stands. “Yeah,” she says, reaching out to grip America’s hand, taking Agatha’s with the other. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

It only takes about 10 minutes to get to the restaurant. Its ambiance is similar to the inn’s — lowkey yet warm and inviting — and though it’s relatively busy, they manage to get a table right away. 

“Have you been here before, Auntie Ags?” America asks as they sit and open their menus.

Agatha shakes her head. “No. I haven’t been back here in…a long time,” she settles on. “I’m not even sure how old or historic the building is.”

“That’s okay,” America assures her. “I was just curious.” 

She glances up from her menu to see Agatha’s eyes scanning the room. The logical reason would be that she’s trying to gauge its age, but the way her glance is darting around, it almost looks as if she’s checking it for ghosts. Agatha’s good at keeping her expression fairly unreadable, but there always seems to be some palpable discomfort surrounding her hometown — and for good reason, with what little America does know of her past. 

“Thank you, by the way,” America continues, voice softer. “For coming back here for the first time in a while? I know it’s, like, really complicated for you, so it means a lot that you would so I can learn more about witch history. And, you know…your history. They’re both super important to me.”

Agatha nods, the motion a bit rigid. “I just hope you find it worthwhile and interesting,” she says — a thinly veiled attempt to mask her emotions with nonchalance.

“I’m sure I will,” America assures her, giving her a small smile.

Agatha takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders before looking back down at her menu. “If you say so, dearie. It’s certainly an…interesting town.”

“Good. I like interesting.” America shrugs. “Well, usually,” she amends. “The universe with the snake-crocodiles that could fly and had feet that looked like swords was interesting but also pretty terrifying. I didn’t like that one so much. Or last very long in it.”

Agatha blinks, looking up at her. “Come again?”

“Is that all that was there?” Wanda asks.

“Mm, not all there was, but they were a pretty prominent part of the ecosystem,” America says, casually fiddling with her napkin. She forgets sometimes how bizarre, even disturbing, some of this could sound to people who hadn’t seen what she had. “There were also bees who shot poison darts from their stingers and polar bears with rollerblades for feet. A snakodile did this, though,” she says, pulling down her shirt and jacket to show them a small scar on her shoulder. "Jerk."

Agatha frowns, reaching out to lightly trace the mark. “That sounds…disastrous, honestly. I wouldn’t want to be there.”

“Yeah, it sucked,” America admits. “But then I got sucked through a portal after, like, two weeks, so whatevs.” She shrugs. “Anyway, what are you guys getting to eat?”

Agatha blinks again, as if to recalibrate after the abrupt change in subject. It’s taking less and less time to adjust to the constant topical whiplash the longer America is in her life. “Oh. I was planning on the chicken pot pie.”

“Solid. I was considering that, too.” She nods before looking to the other end of the table. “Wan—” She starts before stopping herself, shaking her head slightly. “Mom,” she says instead. It was going to take some getting used to, this change, but she wanted to get used to it. Make it second nature. “What about you?”

A flicker of a smile appears on Wanda’s face at the ‘m’ word before she looks up with a contemplative hum. “I’m not sure. There are a lot of options.”

“So many options,” America agrees. “We could split a couple things, if you want? Family style.” It’s dorky, but even saying the word in that context still makes her feel a little warm inside.

It appears to do the same to Wanda, her mouth quirking upward again, too. “I’d be okay with that. What were you thinking?” 

“Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and mac and cheese?” America suggests. “And green beans, I guess, since I know you’re going to insist we ingest a vegetable, too.” She rolls her eyes.

Wanda laughs. “We do need a vegetable, yes,” she concurs. “And I’m fine with that — though you’ll be eating most of it because that’s a whole lot of food.”

“Fine by me. I’m a bottomless pit,” she says, voice serious — maybe even a little proud.

“Oh, trust me — I know.” Wanda shakes her head affectionately. “I do live with you.”

“Well, you have to be when you’re a growing witch,” America says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus, it’s another thing that bonds Carla and me. She loves licking up all the crumbs.” She smirks. 

It doesn’t take long for the waiter to come get their order and the food to arrive, and it takes even less time for them to eat. As promised, America does inhale a good portion of what she and Wanda split — and convinces Agatha to let her steal a few bites of pot pie as well.

She’s too full to inquire about dessert — for now, at least; that could very well change in about an hour or so — so after they finish their meals and pay the bill, America stands from her chair and slides on her coat. “Exploring time?” she asks eagerly.

Agatha takes a deep breath, following her and Wanda outside. “Sure,” she agrees, albeit with a hint of reluctance. “Why not? I’ll leave it in your hands for tonight. Do you want to walk around the area we’re in for a little while, or has anywhere else already piqued your interest?”

“Hmm…” America considers, glancing around as they begin to slowly stroll. The area looked nice, and there seemed to be plenty to do. Still, she wanted to come here for a reason. Wanted to be more than just the average tourist and dig deeper — into the town’s history, into Agatha’s. She knew that was easier said than done, but she also didn’t waste time. Patience: never her strong suit. “Are there any cool places you used to hang out? Even if the area’s changed since then, I still think it’d be neat to see.” She bites her lip, trying to gauge a reaction.

Agatha stiffens a bit, shaking her head — trying to snap herself out of it — as Wanda gently takes her hand. “Well, as I said, the area has changed a lot,” she starts. “And truth be told, I didn’t spend a lot of time in the city center or downtown,” she admits, gaze dropping to the ground as they walk aimlessly down the sidewalk.

“How come?” America presses. Maybe she shouldn’t, but she’s curious — trying to get a sense of everything.

Agatha clenches her free hand — the one buried deep in her jacket pocket — into a tight fist, her jaw tightening with it. “Mainly because my mother forbade it.”

“Oh.” America says, eyebrows furrowing. That seemed like a strange rule — one even someone as overprotective as Wanda wouldn’t put in place. Unless… “Why? Was it really dangerous or something?”

Agatha goes silent, as if she can’t find the words — to explain her mother, her upbringing, any of it. Her eyes stay firmly downcast as she simply shakes her head. 

America stops walking to look at her directly then. “I don’t get it,” she says, eyebrows knitting together even further, head tilting in confusion. Agatha has only alluded to her mother once before now — very briefly, very vaguely, very negatively. America’s trying to put the pieces together, but she doesn’t have a lot to work with. “What was the reason then?”

“It’s all right,” Wanda whispers as she gives Agatha’s hand a squeeze, clearly trying to comfort her, but it doesn’t seem to register. 

“My mother loathed me with every fiber of her being,” Agatha says, voice almost robotic. Rote. Her eyes, her voice — they both seem distant. Far away. “She never wanted me — never treated me well. I was only allowed to do what she said when she said it.”

America’s eyes widen, horrified by this new information. Horrified by seeing Agatha like this: a shell of herself. She’d said her mother wasn’t a good person, but this…this was even worse than she’d expected. “And what if you didn’t?” she asks quietly. It was against her better judgment, probably inconsiderate, but she feels like she has to know. Her mind was sure to try to fill in the gaps anyway.

Agatha is clearly on another plane now, mentally in another universe — or another time, maybe. Caught in a memory. The present blurring with the past. Her breath catches in her throat, and she flinches, eyes squeezing shut as if there’s a loud noise. As if the sounds of the city have been replaced by her mother’s voice ringing in her ears.

There’s fear. Fear like America’s never seen on her — on anyone — before.

“Auntie Ags?” America asks after a long moment of silence. “Auntie Ags? Are you okay?” she asks, growing more concerned. 

But Agatha doesn’t seem to hear her, simply letting go of Wanda’s hand to grip onto the broach around her neck as if it’s a lifeline.

She doesn’t seem to be breathing, either. Until she is — breathing too hard, too fast, almost hyperventilating. America freezes, panicked at seeing her so distressed.

“I can’t,” Agatha whispers in between gasps of air, vehemently shaking her head. “I need a minute,” she finally requests, heaving out short, uneven breaths as she turns toward the road.

It takes America a few moments to register that she’s started to walk away, already a fair distance between them, before she manages to snap into action. “Auntie Ags, wait!” she says, running after her. 

“America!” Wanda calls, but America keeps sprinting. A car slams on the brakes, angrily laying on the horn as she darts across the street, but America doesn’t care. She’s determined to catch up.

Despite her hunched posture, Agatha’s walking fast — almost on autopilot, it seems. Muscle memory. On a mission to get…somewhere. It doesn’t help that she has significantly longer legs and got a substantial head start, either. 

America had assumed she was going back to the inn, but the fact Agatha veers off the path there and enters a forest instead makes her head spin and her heart drop. Maybe America had taken it too far. Maybe she had messed everything up. Maybe she was leaving her — for good. 

The thought ups her adrenaline, allowing her to move her legs a little faster. She eventually manages to catch up — but not until Agatha has stopped in front of a clearing deep in the dark, dark woods. It’d be scary…if she wasn’t already infinitely more terrified of something else: the thought of losing her forever. Just like her other moms. 

“Auntie Ags, please stop,” she pleads, reaching out to touch her arm. Initiating any kind of physical contact was iffy with her on a good day, so it was a risk. She didn’t know how she was going to react. She knows Agatha would never hurt her on purpose, but she was in a vulnerable headspace right now, and there was no telling what she could do by accident. 

But America doesn’t care about that either. She's desperate. She braces herself for her to turn and face her, hoping for the best. 

But preparing for the worst.

Chapter Text

Agatha flinches as America touches her arm, and America immediately puts her hands up, not wanting to freak her out more. Once Agatha has whipped around to face her, it takes a moment for her eyes, somehow both blank and haunted, to flicker with recognition. For the fog to lift and Agatha to see — really see — and register her presence. Once she does, she opens her mouth to say something, but it’s like she can’t get the words out. A strangled wince escapes instead, tears flowing down her cheeks.

America’s eyes flit over to the area Agatha seemed to be staring intently at to make sure there was no immediate danger. It doesn’t look like much — just a clearing, an open space — but it makes her shudder a little anyway. She can feel something ominous about it in her bones.

After a moment, she looks back at Agatha, frantically racking her brain on what to say, what to do. She tries to remember what Agatha had said to her in her most painful moments — after she’d opened the portal and on the way to the hospital. “It’s okay,” she assures her, trying to project confidence and certainty, though her voice shakes a little. “It’s okay. Just…just take a deep breath. Just breathe.”

Agatha looks at her, eyes wide and glassy. Her hand goes to her chest for a moment before it moves to her mouth, muffling a sob that escapes her throat. She grips onto America’s hand with the other. 

America takes that as a good sign, at least. She clutches back hard, hoping to act as a grounding force. She was here. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, quickly swiping away a tear she feels on her own cheek. What exactly she’s apologizing for, she’s not sure. Bringing up bad memories? The fact the bad memories happened at all? That she’s not strong enough to hold it together right now? Maybe some combination of all three. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Agatha shakes her head. “You,” she starts, words firm even as she gasps them out between sobs, “have nothing to apologize for.”

It’s not true. She’s the one who pushed, the one who wanted to come here, the reason this is all happening. She almost rips her hand away as Agatha begins running her thumb over the top of her hand — she doesn’t deserve the comfort — but she doesn’t dare let go. It seems to be helping Agatha, and that’s what matters.

Agatha closes her eyes, trying to get ahold of herself. Whatever technique she’s using seems to work. After a few moments, her breaths start to come more even, her tears not quite as hard or fast. But America is still shaken — shaken and grasping for a solution.

“We can leave,” America promises, voice bordering on desperate. “We can portal back home right now, and we never, ever have to come anywhere near here again."

Agatha opens her eyes then, calmer now — at least visibly. More in control. “We’ll figure all of that out in a minute, okay? Just take it easy with me?” She lightly squeezes her hand. “You’re okay.”

“Okay.” America nods, taking a shaky breath and squaring her shoulders — conjuring up more of that fake courage. The false bravado. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Agatha tilts her head — even through her own turmoil, her own anguish, she can see through the act. “My sweet girl…” she whispers, reaching out to gently stroke her cheek. “You don’t have to pretend to be strong — not for me. I’m the one who should be comforting you. Protecting you. I'm your mom—”

Agatha freezes, realizing what she’s said. Seeming to realize more things along with it. Maybe it’s worse, to be back in the place where her mother made her life miserable when she’s with someone she sees as a daughter. Maybe the flashbacks, the panic attacks, the anxiety are intensified now that there’s a new layer to the trauma — the added complication of having a daughter now in addition to being one.

America’s body freezes at that, too, though a warmth floods through her chest. She sees her as a mother, too, of course — has for a while — but Agatha had always been slower to open up than Wanda. More closed off, less ready to talk about things like this. She didn’t think Agatha would be ready to use that word for a long, long time — if ever at all — and she’d made her peace with that. Didn’t take it personally. But now she has, and America has to let her know it’s not a mistake. 

“Yeah, you are,” she says firmly, squeezing her hand. “You are those things, and you do those things. But that doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time, either. The thing about family — real family…” she emphasizes, throwing some shade at Evanora. “...is that they love you no matter what. You and Wanda told me that, showed me that. I love you no matter what…” She bites her lip, hesitating for a moment. “...Mama Ags,” she finishes quietly.

Agatha takes a deep breath, a whole new wave of emotions seeming to crash through her at her acceptance. The pain from the past seeming to mix with the joy of the present. “I love you and Wanda dearly,” she says, voice shaky. “This is just a part of me that hasn’t seen the light of day in ages, and it hurts like hell,” she admits, wiping at a fresh set of tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I get it,” America says quietly. “But you don’t have to hurt alone anymore, you know? And…trust me, I know how that can be really hard — it’s why I tried to run away that one time. You know, after the basement portal incident when Wanda gripped my arm like that big green Hulk guy and you guarded the door like one of those dudes with the weird hats outside Buckingham Palace?” 

That seemed like forever ago, though the feelings that put her in that situation — the ones that told her she didn’t deserve this family, that she wasn’t a good person, that she should deal with things on her own — had never fully gone away. Are something she still struggles with. Had to make an effort to quell. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always worth it — always ended up being easier when she allowed herself to lean on Wanda and Agatha. “But…trust me, I know how it can be really nice, too,” America finishes.

“I know.” Agatha nods. “It’s scary to talk about Evanora, though. She was an abusive woman who made me do anything and everything. If I did it well, she taught me witchcraft. If I did it wrong…she’d…hit me,” Agatha softly confesses.

The revelation makes America’s stomach twist with nausea and her blood go hot with anger. Agatha had told her she didn’t have to be strong, but she tries anyway, swallowing down her emotions. “That’s awful,” she says quietly. “Is she…still alive?” she asks, trying to keep the nervousness from her voice. Agatha had always talked about her in the past tense, but she’s realizing now it could just be due to estrangement — witches did live a long time, after all.

“No.” Agatha shakes her head. America can practically hear her heartbeat speed up at the mere idea. “She’s not alive, thank god.” She exhales.

“Good,” America says, relieved. And then adds, because she’s still feeling pretty pissed off and petty, too: “I hope it was slow and painful, and I hope another equally terrible version of her is getting stabbed repeatedly by a snakodile like a voodoo doll in some other universe.”

The ghost of a smile appears on Agatha’s face at that. “Maybe if I ever get the emotional vigor, I’ll tell you the story. Maybe,” she repeats. “I don’t know. But she’s dead, and that’s all that matters. She can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

America nods. She would be patient, wait until Agatha was ready to share. They had time — all the time in the world now. “Right,” she agrees with her last statement. That evil…” She hesitates for a moment — she’s not really supposed to cuss, but if there was any acceptable time, this was it, and she can’t think of a more fitting word. “…bitch…” she says, boldly going for it. “…can’t hurt anyone anymore. Can’t hurt you anymore.”

There’s a conflict in Agatha’s eyes battling for dominance: the maternal instinct to reprimand her language and the urge to hug her for her passionate defense. The second one wins out — Wanda always cared more about her cursing anyway, and it’s not like it’s an inaccurate title for Evanora.

America hugs back immediately, some tension she didn’t realize she had been holding leaving her body. They stay like that for a long while — are still like that when America speaks again. “Should we go find Mom?” She buries her face in Agatha’s shirt to muffle the next part. “I sort of maybe kind of sprinted after you without her blessing…” she admits, cringing a little.

“Yes,” Agatha says with a sigh, too exhausted to lecture her about her impulsive tendencies. “Though she’s probably nearby. She knows.”

“That’s true,” America muses. “She knows everything. Like that egg on the ironing board thing? She yelled at me to stop from across the cabin — she couldn’t even see what I was doing; she just knew. I mean, there was a little smoke, but still. I’m pretty sure it was just mother’s intuition or whatever.”

Agatha laughs a little, which America is grateful for — despite it partially being at her expense. “Something like that. Though that shenanigan was probably pretty obvious. And pungent.”

America pulls back a little to look up at her. “I was discreet, and it didn’t smell that bad! Plus, you guys can’t hold my choices against me — my frontal lobe isn’t fully developed yet."

“I know, I know — but you do start learning common sense before your frontal lobe develops.” She lightly taps her forehead. “That is a thing,” she jokes.

“Whatever," America tilts her head away with a huff, indignant at her pointing out this fact. “What are you, a scientist or something?”

“Oh, I wish,” Agatha says, wrapping an arm around her and leading her back up the trail. “I wish I were that smart, but no. I’ve just been around for 300 years.” She smiles a little, giving her a wink.

America can’t help but smile back, breathing out a laugh. “That’s okay,” she assures her. “You’re still the smartest person I know. And plus, you’re something way more important than a scientist anyway.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “And what is that?”

“My Mama Ags,” America says, as if it’s obvious. She glances over at her as they walk through the forest. “How do you feel about the slight rebrand? Because we can revert back to Auntie if you want. Totally up to you,” she promises. It was one thing to say it in an emotional moment, another to be called it day in and day out.

Agatha considers for a moment. “I like it,” she decides. “It’s a change — it’s a lot — but…I like it.”

“Good,” America says, gravitating a little closer to her. “I like it, too.”

“Good,” she softly echos, giving her a little squeeze. “I want you to feel comfortable with Wanda and me.”

“I do,” she promises. “Even when things are uncomfortable, I still always feel…safe…with you both.” Even when she was going through it — when she was in trouble or upset — she knew they’d be there. Knew, deep down, she could tell them anything and they’d help.

“I’m glad. And I mean it. Even if we are a bit too gay for you sometimes,” she teases.

“Mushy,” America corrects. “You’re too mushy for me. A lot — not just a bit.” She crinkles her nose and sighs. “But nobody’s perfect, and if that’s your guys’ fatal flaw, I think we’re doing pretty all right.”

“Mm,” Agatha hums. “Well, I’m glad you think so. And hey — you can’t blame me for being excited to finally have a girlfriend after years of being painfully single. You’ll get it when you finally ask a girl out, or vice versa.”

“Yeah, yeah — so you keep telling me.” She rolls her eyes, still not quite believing that to be true. They walk a little further before another thought pops into her mind. “You should propose to her,” she casually suggests.

Agatha lets out a little cough. “Oh? Should I now?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I mean, you love each other, so you might as well get married. Plus, I’ve never been to a wedding before — well, unless you count Christine’s, which considering I was being chased by a monster on the street below it and wasn’t actually invited to it, I don’t — and I really want to, so…”

Agatha bites her lip. “I’ll think about it,” she says, noncommittal. “Maybe. I want to give her space.”

America nods. She’s not going to press the subject tonight of all nights. “Think about it,” she agrees. “Just…don’t give her too much space, you know? Don’t push her away,” she says gently.

“I don’t want to,” Agatha promises. “She’s my girlfriend — the only one I’ve had in a while. I do love her,” she asserts. 

“Good,” America says, letting out a small sigh of relief. All three of them could be…less than great at that — the whole opening up, letting other people in to help them thing — but together, they were getting better.

They walk the rest of the forest in comfortable silence. As expected, Wanda is waiting for them on the sidewalk right outside the trail. “Hey,” America greets her.

“Hey,” Wanda says, engulfing her in a tight hug as soon as she’s in reach. “I know you meant well, but do that again, and I’m making you wear one of those child leashes,” she quietly threatens.

“The ones attached to those little backpacks in the shape of, like, monkeys and stuff?”

“Mhm.”

“Those look kinda sick. Could be a fashion statement,” America teasingly reasons. 

Wanda pulls back slightly — just enough to give her a look that says, ‘Do you really want to test me?’ And even though there’s a 99.9% chance she’s joking, America very much doesn’t.

America gives her a sheepish smile before closing the small gap between them again. “It won’t happen again,” she promises.

“Good,” Wanda says, pulling her close and running her fingers through her hair. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispers. 

“We both are. Or will be,” America promises.

After a minute, Wanda turns and wraps her arms around Agatha. America looks down at the ground, letting them have a private moment to themselves — a much-needed one, it seemed. “I love you,” she can hear Wanda whisper. “So much.”

Once she pulls away, she looks over at America. “Do you still want to walk around? Or should we head back?”

“Maybe head back?” America says. “I’m pretty tired, honestly.” She stifles a yawn. Despite her car nap, the day had been emotionally exhausting, to say the least — for everyone. “We’ll have plenty of time to explore the next few days, right? That is, if you’re still okay with staying…” she says, glancing at Agatha.

Agatha takes a deep breath — in, out. “We’ll take it one day at a time,” she decides. “For now, let’s go back and get some rest.”

America nods. One day at a time. She could do that.

Chapter Text

They all turn in early, bidding each other goodnight in the common room before going their separate ways. But as tired as America is, she has trouble sleeping, and as excited as she was to have her own room, alone in the dark, her mind races. She can’t stop thinking about what Agatha and Wanda had said about the cruelty they’d been faced with for being witches. What Agatha had said about her childhood, her mother. About all the darkest parts of the day. 

When she finally does get to sleep, it’s restless, and she wakes up only a few hours later, before the sun has even risen, feeling somehow even worse than before. Everything hurts — literally in addition to metaphorically now. Her body is somehow both freezing and burning up, her throat is sore, and her stomach is achy. She’s thankful the suite has two separate bathrooms, hoping not to wake up Wanda or Agatha as she quickly tiptoes to her own and promptly throws up. She feels like crap.

She cringes when she hears the footsteps. Cringes harder when she hears a light rap on the door. Cringes hardest when she hears Agatha’s voice gently asking, “You okay?” This is the last thing she, of all people, needs to be dealing with after tonight. 

“Yeah. All good,” America croaks out in what is perhaps the most unconvincing lie of all time, immediately vomiting again.

She hopes to hear footsteps — ones walking away — but instead, there’s a quiet sigh. “You don’t sound it, dear. What’s going on?” she tries again.

“I’m fine,” America assures her before letting out a sigh of her own. That probably wasn’t going to cut it. “I…might be a little sick,” she admits. With maximum effort, she manages to push herself off the floor, using the sink for balance as goes to unlock the bathroom door. “But still totally fine. See?” she says, opening it to prove she was a-okay. 

Except she is, of course, at that very moment, hit by another wave of nausea that sends her right back to the floor, hunched over the toilet. A mess.

“Oh dear,” Agatha muses with the click of her tongue, kneeling down beside her to rub her back. “Take it easy. It’s okay.”

It takes her a moment to stop coughing, eyes burning with tears. “I hate this,” she whimpers. The being sick part, of course, but more than that, she hates feeling so weak, so pathetic, so vulnerable. “I hate this so much,” she repeats, breath hitching as she gets more worked up.

“Shh,” Agatha soothes. “I know, I know. Deep breaths.”

She takes a few shaky inhales — a difficult task since her nose is stuffed up — before looking over at Agatha. “Isn’t there some magic cure that’ll make me better?” she asks, eyes watery and pleading. “Some, like, spell or potion or something?”

Agatha purses her lips, slowly shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry — that’s not within our control. We can’t just wave a hand and cure illness. That’s got to happen organically.”

Her bottom lip quivers a little — she was really hoping for a quick, easy fix. She feels a tear sneak out of her eye, and she quickly wipes it away, hoping somehow Agatha won’t notice. It’s a futile wish, of course. She clearly notices it, as well as the next one that rolls down her cheek right after it.

Agatha tilts her head sympathetically, opening her arms. “Come here,” she says softly.

America wastes no time leaning forward, burying her face in her shirt. “There we go,” Agatha whispers. She wraps her arms around her easily, gently rocking her back and forth. “You’re okay.”

America relaxes a little, sinking into the embrace. “Can I sleep with you and Mom tonight?” she asks quietly. She’s well aware she sounds childish and clingy, but she’s sick and exhausted, and she really doesn’t want to be alone.

“Mhm.” Agatha nods, running a comforting hand through her hair. “I don’t see a problem with that. But let’s make sure you’re done getting sick first.”

“There’s nothing more to throw up,” America weakly insists. “I don’t think there’s one crumb left in my whole body.”

“I know, darling, but just in case you feel terrible again,” she reasons. “Give yourself another moment to breathe, and then we’ll lie down, hm?” she says gently compromises.

“Okay,” America agrees, too tired to argue. “I’m cold.” She shivers, curling in closer for warmth. “And hot,” she adds, noting the sweat making her shirt cling to her body. “It makes no sense.”

“That’s your immune system, dear — fighting off the infection,” Agatha explains. “But I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

“It’s not your fault.” She sniffles, stiffening at a realization as the words leave her mouth — it would be her fault if Agatha or Wanda caught whatever this was, though. America reluctantly wriggles from her hold, scooting back. “You should go,” she says. “I don’t want you to feel bad, too.” It had sucked, getting sick in the past with no one to help her, but at least she hadn’t run the risk of infecting anyone else. 

“No, I’m going to look after you,” Agatha vows with the shake of her head.

“But—”

“It’s part of my job,” Agatha cuts off her protest, pulling her close again. “As your…mom,” she adds, the last part quiet — new and still a bit uncertain.

It’s selfish not to fight her on it, but she has a feeling she wouldn’t win this particular battle even if she was feeling 100%. Plus, the ‘m’ word knocks down any guard she’d been trying to build up. She melts back into her embrace. “Thanks, Mama,” she says, suddenly feeling very…young in a way she hasn’t in a long, long time.

Agatha lets out a breath of relief — at the lack of stubbornness, maybe, or the acceptance and use of the term again. The fact America didn’t want to revoke it. “I got you,” she softly assures her.

“I know,” she replies, voice just as soft. She does know, and she believes her. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment as Agatha strokes her hair, and she struggles to keep them open — something Agatha seems to notice.

“Hey,” she whispers. “Let’s get back to bed. We don’t want to fall asleep in here.”

America nods against her before slowly pulling away, flushing the toilet before using it to help push herself up off the floor. “That’s it,” Agatha encourages, putting an arm around her for support — a good thing considering her legs wobble a little as she stands.

She lets Agatha steady and guide her back toward her and Wanda’s room, anxiety creeping up as they approach it. “You’re sure it’s okay if I stay with you?” America whispers as they slowly make their way. “I don’t want to…you know…” She trails off before she can finish with ‘impose.’ ‘Be a burden.’ ‘Bug anyone.’ Despite the reassurances, there were some things that fending for herself for eight years ingrained in her brain — insecurities that were hard to shake.

“I’m sure,” Agatha assures her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “You aren’t a bother. We want to take care of you.”

She calms a little at the consolation, comforted by her words, her hand on her back, and by the fact that her blunt honesty ensured she wouldn’t say it if she didn’t actually mean it. 

She tries to be as quiet as possible as she makes her way into the room and crawls into the middle of the bed, but Wanda stirs anyway. “Hm?” she mumbles, half rolling over.

“Nothing,” America whispers, burrowing under the covers as another chill runs through her body. “Sorry.”

Wanda rolls over fully now, blinking awake at the new, unexpected presence. “No, hey — what’s up?”

America sighs. “I’m fine,” she promises, covering her mouth as a few coughs rack her body. “Just…a little under the weather. Mama said I could sleep in here.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Wanda asks, feeling her forehead with a frown. “You’re pretty warm.”

She’s reluctant to go into detail, but she knows Wanda’s not going to stop asking and worrying until she does. Classic mom move. “I threw up. A few times,” she admits with a wince. “But I don’t feel like I’m going to again,” she quickly assures her. “I’m okay — I just want to go back to sleep. You should, too.”

Wanda peers over her head at Agatha as if to confirm this. America twists around, looking at her, too — for backup. “Please tell her I’m okay and we all just need to sleep.”

Agatha gives a small nod, and Wanda relents. “Okay, okay,” she says, wrapping an arm around her. “It’s okay. I’m just checking on you. We can sleep.”

America snuggles closer to her, grateful she initiated the comfort without making her go through the embarrassment of actually asking for it. “Sorry to be all cranky and needy — I’m just…tired,” she says with a yawn, which irritates her sore throat. She lets out a defeated breath. “Really tired,” she says quietly.

Wanda pushes a few strands of hair from her face, kissing her forehead. “Don’t apologize. I’m happy to help.”

“I’m happy you’re here,” America mumbles as her eyes close, already halfway drifting off.

Agatha settles into bed on the other side of her, letting a hand gently run up and down her arm. “Sleep well, darling.”

Chapter Text

It's not exactly a peaceful sleep, but it’s certainly not as fitful as before. When America wakes up again, not only has the sun risen, but it’s high in the sky — closer to afternoon than morning.

She wrinkles an eyebrow as she props herself up on her elbows and takes in her surroundings, it taking a second to remember where she is. When it sinks in — Salem, Agatha and Wanda’s room — she’s hit with a sense of both relief and self-consciousness.

America glances to her left and sees Agatha next to her, sitting up against the headboard as she reads. “Morning,” the older woman greets her, peering over her book. 

“Morning,” she replies, voice coming out hoarser than she’d like. She musters the energy to push herself up so she’s leaning against the back of the bed, too, seeing that Wanda’s shoes and coat are gone. Out exploring, probably. She feels a little jealous. And guilty. “You could’ve gone with Mom, you know. Just because I’m stuck in here doesn’t mean you have to be, too.”

Agatha closes her book, placing it on her lap. “I don’t mind staying to take care of you. She didn’t want to really leave either, but I told her she should. We both want you to be okay.”

“No, I know. And I appreciate it.” She bites her lip, eyes fixed on her lap as she fiddles with the blanket. “I just…I don’t think I remember how to do it right,” she vaguely confesses after a moment, voice quiet.

Agatha tilts her head. “What do you mean, dear?”

“I don’t know,” she says, continuing to fidget with the fabric as she searches for the right words. “I don't think I remember how to, like…be a daughter? I guess it’s just…really hard to let myself be taken care of sometimes. Even after all these months of you guys doing it — and doing it really well. This is so not your fault. At all,” she emphasizes. “And I know the whole calling you moms thing doesn’t really change anything, but it still feels…different somehow now. Good different. But it sort of feels like I’m…doing it wrong — the daughter thing. Like maybe I’m not…cut out for it. Like I'm...broken or malfunctioned. Or something,” she rambles.

Agatha shifts closer, wrapping an arm around her. “You are not broken,” she reassures her, voice soft but firm. “And you are not doing anything wrong. You are enough, and your presence is enough. We’ll care for you as long as you let us.”

“But that’s the thing — that’s the problem — I know you will. And part of me wants you to, but the other part of me…it feels like I shouldn’t. Like I should take care of myself.” She coughs a few times before her shoulders slump with a frustrated sigh. “It’s just…letting you is hard,” she admits. “And I feel like it shouldn’t be this hard.”

“It’s okay for it to be hard,” Agatha soothes, rubbing her arm. “You’ve been through a lot. We’re going to be there for you — through all of it,” she says decisively, giving her a pointed look.

She gives her a small smile, her promise evoking that same familiar, complicated dichotomy within her. She tries her best to lean into the reassured feeling rather than the overwhelmed one. “You might just have to be patient with me. Really patient. Which is hypocritical to ask considering I’m not so good at that, but…”

“I don’t mind being patient,” Agatha assures her. “We love you, and we can wait. We want to help.”

Her smile grows a little. “Same. To all of it,” she says. She scans Agatha’s face, trying to read her — a futile task considering how inscrutable she was. “How are you doing, by the way? After yesterday?” she tentatively asks.

Agatha sighs. “I’m…okay. I’m tired, and I don’t feel great, but I’m alive.”

“Mood.” America nods sympathetically. Tired. Feeling bad. Yet still breathing. She could relate. “Just, like, emotionally not great? Or are you getting sick, too?” She frowns, eyebrows knitting in concern.

“No, no — I don’t think I’m getting sick,” Agatha reassures her with a shake of her head. “Don’t you worry, dear.”

“Okay, good,” she says, relieved before she’s hit with another annoying coughing fit — one that wracks her whole body. Agatha pats her back, which marginally helps, but truth be told, she was ready to break out the big guns. “And you’re absolutely sure there’s not some special witch cure for this?” America asks once she’s caught her breath. “Magic medicine or whatever? I don’t even care if it’s dangerous or illegal — I promise not to tell Mom.” She had sworn not to lie to Wanda anymore after the driving incident, but she was desperate at this point. If there was a solution out there...she was going to take it.

“Not really,” Agatha says with a grimace. “I can’t just wave my hand and make it go away. I can make you sleep again?” she offers. “I could probably use some sort of herbal knowledge — concoct something to make the symptoms better.”

She pouts a little at that — she really thought there’d be some secret trick — before considering her options. “Are the herbs as gross as cough syrup? Because that stuff tastes disgusting.” She crinkles her nose.

“Depends on what I give you and how, but they’re about equal in my opinion. Sorry.”

“Ugh, of course.” She frowns. “What’s the most powerful and least nasty? And can you make me that one?”

“I asked Wanda to grab some cough syrup while she’s out, so why don’t we try that first. If it doesn’t help, we’ll look into alternative options, hm?” Agatha negotiates.

“Fiiine,” America reluctantly agrees. “I hope she gets grape. If she gets that fake cherry flavor, I’ll probably throw up again,” she says, more than a little dramatically.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Agatha lightly chuckles, glancing at the alarm clock on the side table. “She should be back in an hour or so. Until then, you’re stuck with me,” she teases.

“Good. I like being stuck with you,” America says earnestly, lying back down and pulling the blankets to her chin, settling in again. “You’re good at this whole taking care of a sick person thing.”

“I’ve had some practice.” Agatha shrugs.

“Oh?” America asks, tilting her head.

“My son, Nick. He was sick quite often as a child,” Agatha explains, pursing her lips as she absentmindedly fiddles with the cover of her book on her lap.

“Ah.” America nods. The familiar urge to pry rises up, but Agatha clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. So she changes the subject. “What are you reading?” she asks, nodding at the book.

“Oh. This is just…queer poetry…” She shakes her head as she looks down at it, seemingly a bit embarrassed by her choice for some reason. America can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with Wanda and her feelings for her, this newfound interest in romantic verse. “It’s nothing.”

“I bet it’s good. Your music taste is solid — your book taste probably is, too,” America assures her. “Will you read some to me?” she asks, a little embarrassment evident in her own voice, too. That always helped her fall asleep as a child — her mothers reading her bedtime stories. It was calming. Comforting.

“If you’re sure you’d like to hear it? It’s just a book I’ve been meaning to get to for a while — I don’t know how interesting it is.”

“I want to hear it,” she promises through a yawn. “And if I fall asleep, it’s only because I’m sick and your voice is soothing — not because I’m bored.”

Agatha nods, another smile creeping onto her face. “If you’re sure…” She looks at her for a beat. “Do you want to…?” she asks, holding out her arm — an invitation, if she wants it.

She does. Is glad that, just like Wanda last night, she can sense that she does — sense that she needs that closeness and connection right now and won’t make her outright ask for it. She nods, her own mouth curving into a tiny, sheepish smile at the offer as she scoots toward her and cuddles into her side.

Agatha pulls her in tight, glancing down to make sure she’s comfortable before opening the book and starting to read aloud.

America gives herself credit, she manages to stay awake for around 20 minutes. She enjoys the poems she hears, even if she doesn’t understand all of them. She makes a mental note to ask if they can add some more literature into the curriculum before she’s lulled to sleep, cozy and content.

She dozes deeply for around 45 minutes, blinking awake to the sound of a door slowly opening — Wanda coming back in and setting a few bags down.

“Hi,” Wanda quietly greets. 

America sits up and glances to her side to see that Agatha has fallen asleep, too, book sprawled out haphazardly on the comforter. “Hi,” she whispers back, rubbing her eyes. “How was town?”

“Town was nice,” she says with a soft smile, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and running a gentle hand through America’s hair. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

“Mhm.” She nods, coughing into her opposite arm, though the coughs aren’t quite as hard or painful as before. “Definitely not as bad as last night.”

“That’s good. And you’ve been getting plenty of rest?” she checks.

“Yeah. That’s all I’ve been doing,” she says with a sigh, peering out the window longingly. Her regular fever may be going down, but she was rapidly developing a rising cabin one.

“Good. If you want to kick this, rest is important. Speaking of which…” She reaches into one of the bags she’s brought. “I got some cough syrup for you.”

“Oh. Thanks,” she says flatly. She wrinkles her nose as Wanda opens the cough syrup. Fortunately, it is grape. Unfortunately, it is still…well…medicine. “But I was kind of hoping you’d forget it. Maybe you could conveniently lose it,” she mumbles.

Wanda clicks her tongue. “No can do. You need to get to feeling a little better, and this should help. Hang on — let me grab something to put it in,” she mutters, glancing around.

America makes a face but doesn’t argue. “There are cups over there,” she reluctantly points out, gesturing to the tiny coffeemaker on the desk in the corner of the room. 

Wanda glances to where she’s pointing. “Ah, yes.” She stands, going to grab one.

America squints, looking next to the coffeemaker. “I think I see a pack of hot chocolate, too. Will you make me some?” she asks, lip jutting into a pleading pout.

“Yes, I can,” Wanda agrees, carefully pouring in the recommended cough syrup dosage. “But first: medicine,” she firmly orders, handing her the cup.

“Yes, Mom,” America obediently grumbles, taking the cup from her. She takes a deep breath, hyping herself up before squeezing her eyes shut and throwing it back. “Ew. It’s even worse than I remembered,” she complains, passing the now-empty cup back to Wanda.

Wanda ignores the dramatics. “Great.” She nods in approval, taking the cup and moving back to the coffeemaker. “Now give me two seconds for the cocoa.” 

Wanda fetches some water, shooting a slightly worried glance at Agatha as she waits for the machine to heat it. “Hm, she’s out like a light,” she comments.

America peers down at Agatha, mouth curving into a frown. It was unusual for her to sleep through so much noise. “She did say she was tired earlier…” she tries to reason. “Do you think she’s okay? Like, really okay? Yesterday was…I’ve just…I’ve never seen her like that,” she says quietly, the space between her brows creasing in concern.

Wanda sighs, ruminating on the question as she brings the hot chocolate over to the bed. “I’m not sure…” she admits, handing America the cup before taking a seat beside her, wrapping an arm around her. “All of us here are traumatized. A professional would probably say we have some sort of PTSD, and I’m inclined to agree. That being said, this is where some of the worst things in her life happened. I know that, truthfully, she’s suffering more than she wants to let on.”

America stares down at the cup, gently swirling the hot chocolate around as she considers this. It’s a hard, painful truth to accept, but she’s glad Wanda’s leveling with her — not sugarcoating it. “What do we do then?” she asks, glancing up at her for answers. “I mean, how do we help?”

She bites her lip, considering. “I think just supporting her. I don’t want to speak for her, but I get the sense Agatha has felt like an outsider and a monster her whole life for one reason or another. Regardless of how her actions may have complicated those feelings, I know it weighs on her despite her usual confidence. I think the least we can do is make sure she knows she’s loved.”

“I can do that — that’s easy.” America nods as she takes a sip of her hot chocolate. The warmth feels nice on her sore throat. She sighs, lowering the cup and playing with the lip of it as she contemplates. “But it still doesn’t…feel like enough, you know? I want to do more.”

“I know.” Wanda nods. “I want to do more, too, but healing this sort of trauma is hard. Again, I can’t speak for her, but if I had to guess, she’s pretty triggered. Maybe when she wakes up, we see if she wants to go out somewhere nice for dinner? Assuming you don’t have a fever,” she pointedly clarifies.

“I don’t,” she quickly assures her, perking up a little. It’s a good idea — a nice distraction, a treat for Agatha. It still doesn't feel like enough, but at least it's something. And also, on a lesser, much more selfish note, she was growing restless, already tired of being stuck in bed. “I definitely don’t.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow, feeling her forehead. America purses her lips, fully prepared to whip out a myriad of irrational excuses if she deemed she still felt too warm — she just drank hot chocolate, Wanda’s hand just held said cup of hot chocolate — but she’s glad she ultimately doesn’t have to. 

“All right,” Wanda acquiesces. “Sounds good.” She glances over at Agatha. “I know we both want to help her, but we just have to support her how we can.”

“I know,” America says, peering down at her as well. “I just hope she lets us, you know? Because I know that’s hard for her, too.” She takes another sip of hot chocolate — she’s familiar with that feeling. Knows Wanda is as well. “Add that to the list of ways we’re all alike, I guess.”

Wanda nods. “We’ll just love her as much as she lets us. And be there when she needs us,” she says softly.

“I’ll be there,” America quietly agrees, leaning over to rest her head on Wanda’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Chapter Text

The two sit like that for a bit — America finishing her hot cocoa and forcing Wanda to scroll TikTok with her. She nods at the videos even though she clearly doesn’t understand some of the trends. Such a mom.

After a while, America feels the bed shift, Agatha starting to stir. “Sorry,” she whispers, quickly turning the volume on the phone down. “Too loud?”

Agatha blinks awake, seemingly confused for a few seconds. “No, no — you're fine,” she groggily assures her after the question registers, sitting up and attempting to shake off her slumber. America can’t imagine she’d meant to fall asleep, but she can imagine she needed it. After the heaviness of yesterday and staying up to take care of her last night? Her body was definitely desperate for some rest.

“How were the rest of the poems?” America asks, clicking her phone off and setting it on her lap.

Agatha picks up the book, grimacing at a few now-bent pages. “Well, it was good until I dozed off and lost my place.”

“Ah.” America frowns a little. “Well, that’s all right — I remember where we were when I fell asleep, and I was going to make you go back and reread what I missed to me again anyway,” she says with a small smile. “Was the nap refreshing at least?”

“The nap was good.” She nods, setting the book aside and turning her attention to America. “How are you?”

“Good. I took the cough syrup, and even though it tasted like toxic waste — like, literally, I accidentally got some toxic waste in my mouth in universe 44, don’t ask, and I swear it tasted the exact same — it did help. And I don’t have a fever anymore,” she proudly declares. 

“I’m glad to hear you survived the medicine,” Agatha says, feeling her forehead. “And that you’re feeling better.”

“Mama,” she whines with an eye-roll, resisting the urge to squirm away as she checks her temperature — that’d seem suspicious. “Mom already checked. Seriously, I’m, like, pretty much completely fine now. More hungry than anything.”

Agatha sighs, dropping her hand. “Well, have you eaten anything all day?”

“I’ve had hot chocolate,” she weakly defends, biting her thumbnail.

“So no,” Agatha deadpans. “You can just say no. That’s very much not food.”

“Well, Mom and I were actually wondering if maybe you’d want to go out to dinner? Someplace nice?” she suggests, still chewing on her nail. “If you’re up for it,” she quickly adds.

Agatha purses her lips, considering the proposition. “Sure,” she finally acquiesces with a slow nod. “We can do that.”

“Are you positive?“ America asks, searching her face. Making sure she isn’t trying to push herself, be strong for America’s sake. “We don’t have to. We can bring something back here if you’d rather. McDonald’s, even — I know it’s your favorite,” she teases, nudging her with her elbow to lighten the mood.

“No, I’m certain,” Agatha promises, putting on a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes — no doubt trying to hide some lingering exhaustion and doubt buried under the surface. “We can go out. Where did you have in mind?”

“Maybe, like, pasta or ramen or something?” America suggests — easy on the stomach, warm on the throat. It seemed like a safe bet. She clicks her phone on again, typing ‘noodles’ into Yelp and handing it to her. “You pick.”

Agatha scrolls through for a moment. “This okay?” she asks, turning the screen to show them a small ramen shop a little less than a mile away.

“Perfect.” She nods. “Are we walking? Or do you want to drive?” She scoots off the bed, wiggling her eyebrows as she looks at them. “Or do you want me to drive?”

Wanda groans at the suggestion, causing Agatha to laugh softly. America is happy to hear it — even if it is sort of at her expense. “We can walk,” Agatha says, standing up from the bed as well. “I could use some fresh air.”

“Good idea. That’s what doctors prescribed in the old days, isn’t it? Fresh air by the sea or whatever?” America asks, walking into the living room to retrieve her jacket. “Of course, they also prescribed, like, lobotomies. And heroin. To cure a cough, actually — I read that in a library book one time. Should've got me that instead," she tells Wanda, shrugging her coat on.

“Oh, dear god,” Wanda says with an exasperated sigh. “You on heroin is a frightening thought.”

“I’m just kiddiiiing. No drugs for me,” she reassures her, hugging Wanda’s arm once their coats are both on. “Mama has done drugs before, though. In the 20s. She never explicitly confirmed it to me, but I know she did. She said there was an ‘insane nightlife’ that was ‘very fun,’ which is definitely code.”

“Really?” Agatha gives her a look. “You had to tell her that?”

“Hey, you told her about the driving thing. Now we’re even,” she justifies, playfully sticking out her tongue.

“Mhm.” Agatha rolls her eyes, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and herding her out of the room.

“It’s truuue,” America stubbornly insists, though she happily lets her lead her out of their building and onto the sidewalk. Maybe it was silly, but she still treasured those small gestures — an arm around her shoulders, a hand through her hair — even as natural and frequent as they had recently become. It made her feel cared about. Some kind of tangible proof their weird little family was real.

“But it was supposed to be our little secret,” Agatha teases. “You weren’t supposed to tell my girlfriend that I’ve done illicit drugs.”

“I told my mom the truth. Didn’t I?” America challenges with a small smirk, raising a brow.

Agatha scoffs, gently batting her shoulder. “You wouldn’t dare pull that card on me.”

“Sorry,” she says without a hint of genuine apology, giving her a shrug and a smile. “Being a menace is in my job description now. Rule number three in the daughter handbook.”

Agatha’s mouth quirks up the smallest bit at the word ‘daughter,’ immediately softening. “Of course, of course. How could I forget?”

“Dunno. Maybe all the drugs fried your brain,” she cheekily retorts, pursing her lips to suppress a laugh as she quickly slips from Agatha’s hold and speed-walks ahead before she can swat her again.

Agatha pauses for just a beat, blinking away her shock. After a second, she shakes her head and starts walking again. “You’re too much like me for your own good!” she calls after her.

America glances back over her shoulder, mouth curved in something between a smirk at her surprised (and she thinks maybe even a little impressed) reaction and a genuine smile at the idea they were similar — whether Agatha thought it was a good thing or not.

It’s not long until they’re at the restaurant, a bell dinging as she opens the door. It’s tiny inside, but luckily, it’s an odd time — too late for most people to eat lunch, too early for the majority to be eating dinner — so it’s not too crowded, and they get a seat right away.

They browse the menu for a few moments before their waiter comes over. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” 

“I’ll try the hot sake,” America says confidently despite butchering the pronunciation of the word, saying the last part like ‘ache.’

The server wrinkles an eyebrow. “Do you mean saké?” he asks, glancing up from his pad of paper to look her up and down. “The…alcohol?” 

Oh. She had not realized that’s what that was — only that it was described as hot and sweet and thus would probably help her still slightly sore throat and taste good — but she doubles down just for the hell of it. She was in a mischievous mood. “Yup.” She smiles. 

“Uh…” the waiter’s pen dangles in the air as his eyes scan around the table, unsure of what to do.

“She’ll have a Coke,” Agatha cuts in, giving her a glance. She raises a brow once she and Wanda have ordered drinks and the waiter's walked away. “I’m going to choose to assume you didn’t know that was alcohol."

“I thought it was just, like, fancy Japanese juice,” America admits.

Agatha shakes her head, a small, amused smile on her face. “Not quite.”

“You really do learn something new every day,” she muses, looking at the food portion of the menu. “What’s kikurage?”

“It’s a type of mushroom,” Wanda chimes in, looking up from her menu.

“Oh.” Her eyes grow wider. “Glad I asked. We will be staying far away from that one.” Especially because she accidentally left her Epipen at home. But she isn't about to fess up to that. She was not trying to sit through that lecture again.

“Yes.” Wanda nods firmly. “Yes, you will. We don’t need any allergic reactions." She shakes her head, the space between her brows creasing in concern at the thought. Always such a worrier.

America doesn’t comment. It was kind of sweet, really. “That would not be a vibe. The Salem hospital is very low on my list of places to explore here."

“Well, I’m glad,” Wanda says with a short laugh. “I don’t think either of us want to end up there either.”

The waiter comes back a few minutes later to drop off their drinks and take their kikurage-free orders before disappearing back into the kitchen. “So…” America says, stirring her straw around in her Coke. “The emergency room’s a no-go, but is there anywhere we do want to visit?”

Agatha squares her shoulders, actively trying to be present. Useful. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”

“Somewhere historical maybe? I think it’d be neat. Help me connect to my, like, magical heritage or whatever.” A beat as America takes a sip of her drink. “Is that weird? Do I sound like a nerd?”

Agatha shakes her head, sucking in a breath, “No, that doesn’t sound weird. We can go somewhere like that for sure. There are plenty of historical places from the witch trials. It connects more to America’s history of white supremacy and colonialism than magic, but in my opinion, a big part of being a witch is fighting those systems of oppression, so it’s not irrelevant,” she explains.

America’s demeanor grows more serious. She remembers their conversation in the car about how there would always be people wanting to burn them at the stake. The thought of visiting places that were such a stark reminder of that frankly scared her a little, but she still wanted to — felt like she needed to in a way. “That makes sense.” She slowly nods. “I think…I think that’d be good for me to see. Important, I mean.”

Agatha nods, maybe a little proud of her, maybe a little nervous for herself. “Then we can do that. Admittedly, I haven’t seen them since I left here.”

It dawns on America there’s probably a good, painful reason for that. “You don’t have to come. If you just point us in the right direction, Mom and I could go by ourselves,” she quickly assures her before realizing she could interpret that as them wanting to get rid of her. “Not that we don’t want you to come — because we do, obviously,” she rushes to add. “I just mean, you know, if you’re tired or you’d rather do something else or it’d be boring for you since you’ve seen it all before or if it’d, um…like, bring up bad memories,” she rambles. “I just mean, uh…do what you need to do. Or don't do what you need to…not do.” 

America sighs. She’s so bad at this. She tries to think back to Wanda’s advice from earlier on what to say, how to be supportive. “What I mean is…I love you, and I just want you to be okay. And if going there is going to make you not feel okay then…then that’s okay,” she says softly.

Agatha’s face curves into a tender smile. “I love you, too. And I appreciate how much you care. I think I should be okay, but I’ll keep an eye on myself,” she promises.

“Okay.” She nods, relaxing at the assurance and returning the small smile. “Okay, good. I’m keeping an eye on you, too,” she teases, schooling her face into a serious expression and doing the ‘I’m watching you’ gesture with her fingers.

Agatha puts her hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “Okay, okay — I see you.”

America’s smile grows at that, a giggle escaping her lips. 

Their food comes out soon after. She hadn’t realized just how hungry she was until she slurps down a spoonful. It burns her mouth a little, but it’s worth it, piping hot and flavorful. “Good pick, Mama,” she compliments, words muffled around a mouthful of noodles.

Agatha lightly blows on a spoonful of her own, wisely waiting for it to cool off. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Maybe we can try and make something like this for Friday dinner sometime,” America suggests. 

It was a little silly, maybe, how tightly she held onto the concept of Friday dinners considering the three of them ate together almost every night now, Agatha having all but moved into the cabin save for having class in her Westview basement. (It was good, they’d decided, to have some separation between school and home. A place where they were student and teacher versus…well, mother and daughter now.) But there was something about the tradition of Fridays she liked to hang on to. Going out of their way to cook a new recipe together, make a special drink. It felt…intentional. Sentimental. 

America slurps down another spoonful of noodles. “Let me know if you want me to do my egg-on-the-ironing-board TikTok recipe to go along with it,” she jokes. 

They all finish their food quickly, America anxiously ripping her straw wrapper into tiny pieces after the server has cleared their dishes away and they’ve paid the check. “Are we ready to go to the historical place?” she asks, voice laced with a little hesitation. She glances over at Agatha, trying to read her face — make sure she hadn’t changed her mind about it.

Agatha takes another deep breath — in slowly, out slowly, just like she was always telling America to do — gathering herself. She’d seemed sufficiently distracted during the meal, but now? It was clear those memories were being rekindled despite her desperately trying to quash them. “Yes," she says with a smile. “Let’s go.”

America has to hand it to her, she’s a pretty good actress — which, like, considering what she knew about their history with the whole sitcom simulation of it all, wasn't surprising. 

If America didn’t know any better, she’d be convinced that nothing is wrong. 

But she does know better — knows Agatha — and she can see that small flicker of nerves simmering under the surface. Which means she also knows better than to point it out. Be there when she needs us, Wanda had said. That’s all she could do. 

“Okay,” she says, smiling back and tossing the dismantled straw wrapper onto the table, slipping her coat on before they head to the door. “Lead the way,” she says.

She hopes she won’t come to regret it.

Chapter Text

Agatha leads them out of the restaurant, shoulders pulled back into a faux-confident posture. America tries to keep the discussion light on the walk there, hoping the mood will lighten in return. It seems to work for a while — she shows them a live feed of Carla on the pet camera she’d set up to check in on the cat while they were away, and Wanda tells them about some shops she stopped in that morning — but conversation dies down during the final stretch. Despite not knowing their exact destination, it’s almost as if the atmosphere gets heavier the closer they get. Like she can feel the past hanging in the air.

They eventually stop in front of a couple of houses marked as historical landmarks, and America glances over at Agatha. Her confident posture has shifted into a tense one now. “Are we, uh…here?” she tentatively asks.

“Yes,” Agatha confirms with a solemn nod, staring at the homes. “We are.”

“And where is here exactly?” America asks. “I mean, whose houses were they? What…happened in them?” She tries to brace herself for the answer. She can’t imagine it’ll be pleasant.

Agatha doesn’t take her eyes off the site, silent for a moment. “People were dragged out, tried, convicted,” she finally says. “Important condemned so-called witches lived here.”

“And you knew them?” she asks, voice quiet. “You…saw it happen? Saw them...” She can't bring herself to finish the sentence. She swallows hard, trying to tamp down the emotion threatening to creep into her voice.

“Some of them. Almost none of them were actually witches — just women trying to live. They were queer, women of color, mentally ill — something that challenged the status quo — so they were immediately called witches and killed,” she says softly.

A wave of nausea hits America, and she knows it’s not from the bug she has. It’s from picturing it unfold. From the fact it’s not hard to imagine even all these years later. From thinking about how many of those categories she fits into — how many of those categories the people she loves do, too. 

There’s a wave of nausea and then a wave of white-hot anger. “That’s so messed up,” she says. She’s had small sparks jump from her palms when she was scared and, more recently, when she was excited. Now she feels them radiate with this…rage. This sense of injustice. She balls her fist to keep them contained, hide them from view.

“I know,” Agatha agrees, grabbing onto one of her hands tightly — pushing her own feelings aside to be there for her. Wanda wordlessly takes the other. “I know.”

America takes a deep breath — she’s getting a little better at reminding herself to do that — the sparks disappearing when her moms take her hands, their touch grounding her. “What were their names?” she asks Agatha. “The ones you knew. What were they like?”

Agatha draws in a sharp inhale. “Names I don’t quite remember. The people I knew I didn’t know well…only in passing. Through rumor. They were good people, though. Smart and brave.”

That makes sense, America thinks. Especially if her mother kept her isolated most of the time. The sparks flicker on her palm again at the thought. “I bet they were. I wish they wouldn’t have had to be brave, though.”

“They shouldn’t have had to be,” Agatha agrees, anger flaring up in her voice before it flattens into sadness. “But because man is cruel and the world is inhumane, they had to be. And to die senselessly,” she finishes quietly.

America feels a strange combination of helplessness and determination rise up in her and attempts to lean into the latter. “I’m gonna change it,” she declares with childlike confidence. Maybe a little naiveté. “The world, I mean. I don’t know how yet, but I’m gonna try and change it so that doesn’t happen.”

“I hope you do — I hope you will," Agatha says without a hint of sarcasm or disbelief. As if she doesn't think the idea is silly or far-fetched at all. As if she actually has full confidence that America has that potential.

"But even if you can’t change the whole world, just know your love and kindness can make a difference to everyone you meet,” Wanda adds, giving her hand a small squeeze.

It didn’t necessarily seem like enough — it never seemed to feel like enough; she always wanted to do and be more — but it was better than nothing. “Yeah,” she finally agrees with a nod. Because she was right. She knew firsthand the power one person could have on someone’s life. “Yeah, that’s true. And if I live for centuries, I’ll probably meet a lot of people.”

“You will. And you’re strong and kind and passionate. You’ll make the difference you want,” Wanda assures her.

The corner of her mouth curves into a small smile at that. “Ditto,” she responds before taking her eyes off the house to glance over at Agatha. She seemed sort of…distant. Lost in thought. It makes sense why, of course — given where they are, what they’re talking about — but there’s something that doesn’t make sense to her, too. “Can I…ask you a question? You don’t have to answer,” she says softly.

“Hm?” Agatha blinks, glancing over at her. “What is it?”

“Why did you agree to come back here? I mean, I know asked to, but I ask to do a lot of stuff you say no to.” Get a tattoo, try hard liquor, have a non-hostile conversation with Strange — the list went on. “Why did you say yes to this thing?”

She sighs, considering this for a moment. “There’s always something that brings you back home when you’ve run from it so far. I couldn’t tell you what it is — maybe a sick sense of comfort or curiosity — but it’s there. It’s also important, this history. This...trauma,” she practically whispers.

America nods as that sinks in, looking back at the houses. “You can’t really…escape it ever, can you? Your past?”

Agatha shrugs. “You escape your past when you confront it. You can only run for so long.”

“Wow.” America blinks. “That’s deep. Wise. You could be a philosopher like that Play-Doh guy.”

“Plato?” Agatha quietly laughs. “Maybe. But I think maybe I just understand the world more than those who haven’t experienced the kinds of things I have.”

America nods. Those things — the little she knows of them — are horrific, and she knows she’s only scratched the surface of it all.

The three head back to the bed and breakfast shortly after, all exhausted from the field trip. She’s too tired to shower — or even to argue when Wanda makes her take another dose of the cough syrup — falling asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.

But that doesn’t mean she’s lucky enough to stay that way the whole night.

It’s not unusual for America to wake up in the middle of the night — especially not when she was in a weird headspace. The combination of getting over her illness and visiting the houses had definitely put her in one of those. 

So it’s not unusual that it’s still dark outside when she opens her eyes and taps her phone on the nightstand to check the time: a little after 3am. She’s about to roll over and get some more sleep when a text catches her eye. From Agatha, no less. That part is unusual. 

She wrinkles her eyebrows, growing more alert as she picks up the phone to read the message. It’s short and to the point — a pretty typical style of communication for Agatha — but its contents are still…a little concerning. She’s gone back, she says, to her childhood home. To face her past.

America has never seen her childhood home, of course, nor has Agatha ever really described it to her, but she swears she can picture it. Down a path deep in the woods — not dissimilar to the one she’d followed her down the day before. The building somehow still standing despite its aged and dilapidated condition, the dirt floor cracked. She imagines an eerie whistling sound as a breeze blows through the shuttered, broken wood.

She bites her lip, debating what to do. She’s tempted to go after her, but as impulsive as she was, even she knew running through a strange city in the middle of the night maybe wasn’t the smartest plan in the world.

She tries everything. Taking deep breaths. Tossing and turning. Counting sheep. But she’s still wide awake and knows she’s going to be until Agatha’s back. She stares at the ceiling until she can’t take it anymore, too restless to stay in bed. 

She slips out and goes into the common area between the two rooms, sitting on the couch instead. She turns the TV on as a distraction, the volume all the way down so as not to wake Wanda. It doesn’t matter — she’s not really paying attention to it anyway. The only thing she’s watching is the door.

She sits through what feels like countless infomercials advertising everything from kitchen appliances to gym equipment until the door finally creaks open. She feels a split-second of relief that Agatha’s back — one that immediately disappears once she actually sees her. 

The light of the TV illuminates her enough for her to get a decent look: her hair’s a tangled mess, clothes caked with dirt, and her arms are scratched and bleeding. Judging from the dried blood under her fingernails, she assumes the wounds are self-inflicted. She doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. America’s eyes widen as she stands and slowly starts to walk toward her. “Are you okay?” she whispers.

Despite her best attempt not to frighten her, Agatha nearly jumps, clearly not having expected anyone to be up. She looks down at herself, taking in her own condition, before glancing back up at her. “I will be,” she says. Her voice is hoarse as if she’s been sobbing. Or screaming. Or some combination of both. America has the sinking realization that it’s most likely the last one.

“Okay.” She nods, fidgeting as she takes a few more small steps toward her. “I think maybe you should sit down though? For a second?” she suggests, though it comes out more like a question.

Agatha takes a deep breath — in and out. “How about I change clothes first. Then I will,” she negotiates.

America chews on her thumbnail, considering. Was it a good idea for her to be alone? She realizes that, technically, she wouldn’t be since Wanda’s in the bedroom where her suitcase is. Asleep, yes, but she’s in there nonetheless. That was probably okay enough — especially considering she didn’t really know what she was doing. Have any kind of game plan. Her only objective was to keep her here. With her. “You’ll come right back?”

Agatha nods. “I promise. I just need to clean up a bit.” Her voice is croaky, but she seems sincere.

“Okay,” America finally relents, though she’s clearly a bit hesitant. She didn’t want to let her out of her sight — for Agatha’s sake but also for her own. That selfish separation anxiety bubbling up again. “You go change. I’ll wait here.”

Agatha gives her a small, forced smile, quickly disappearing into the bedroom. 

Agatha’s not gone for long — just a few minutes — but America makes herself busy while she waits. She heats up some water in the Keurig and rearranges the throw pillows for maximum comfort. 

“Hey,” she says quietly, scooting over on the couch to make more room as Agatha comes back, hairbrush in tow. She looks marginally better, having changed into a fresh set of pajamas and washed off the cuts on her arms. “I made you some tea.” She nods to the cup on the coffee table.

Agatha takes a seat on the couch and gives her a slightly more convincing smile. “Thank you, dear. Once I’ve worked through this mess, I’ll be sure to drink it,” she vows, gesturing to her hair.

“I can brush it for you,” America offers, desperate for a way to be helpful. “I’m good with hair — I helped Mom do hers before your date.”

“All right,” Agatha relents, handing the brush over.

“Before I start, do you want me to get you any cream or bandages or anything? For…you know,” she doesn’t want to bring too much attention to the injuries — it seemed like a potentially touchy subject. “Mom made me pack a first aid kit. It has pain meds, too. Advil, Tylenol…” For once, she was grateful for Wanda’s insane over-preparation.

“No, no — I took care of them already. I’ll be fine.” Agatha waves her off.

“Okay, good. That’s good.” America nods, deciding not to fight her on it. It’s not like she was some medical expert, and at least she was letting her help her with her hair. That was something at least. She shifts, tucking her knees under herself and sitting up on them so she’s able to reach her head, starting to work through the tangles as gently as possible.

Agatha hums to herself, focusing on her breathing — her composure. “Thank you,” she says after a moment.

“Of course,” America replies. She lets silence overtake them for a while — trying to give Agatha some space, some time to calm down — as she combs out the knots. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. “I would have gone with you, you know. You could have asked me."

Agatha stiffens a bit, quiet for a moment as she weighs her response. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” she finally confesses.

America swallows hard, focusing on her task to try and push down her own emotions. Her hand shakes a little, as does her voice. She hopes Agatha doesn’t notice. “Like what?”

Agatha shrugs, sucking in a breath. “I’m not sure how to describe it,” she admits. “I was just…screaming…and crying…and I couldn’t breathe,” she whispers.

America bites the inside of her cheek. She understands why she wouldn’t want her to see her in that state. Her chest tightens anxiously just thinking about it — seeing her in that kind of pain. And yet. “I wouldn’t have thought any less of you,” she assures her. “I still would’ve thought you’re, like, the strongest person in the world.”

“I’m not the strongest person in the world.” Agatha scoffs, voice tinged with contempt. Though the disdain — the disgust — is clearly aimed at herself. “I’m far from it. I was dizzy with memories. The mental pain became physical pain, and I just…I couldn’t have anyone see me like that.”

“Well, I think you are. In all the universes I’ve been to, I’ve never met anyone tougher,” America says stubbornly. “But I get it — needing to be alone.” She purses her lips, finishing the last section of hair. “You said earlier that you had to confront your past to escape it,” she says slowly. “Do you feel…freer…now?"

Agatha thinks for a second. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe. I feel like it never fully leaves you. You only make peace with it. And I’m not sure what I did was making peace.”

“Is there anything I can do? To help you make peace?”

“I’m not sure.” Agatha shrugs. “I think…it takes time. And healing. You know…” She pauses, debating whether or not to forge ahead. “You know, my mother said I’d never be able to be good. It’s almost like nature is slowly healing itself when you allow me to love you. To be your mother.”

The weight of the statement hits America hard. There are an overwhelming number of emotions in her chest, of thoughts swirling in her head, yet she can only manage to voice two words. “You’re good,” she whispers as she sets the hairbrush on the coffee table and curls in close, resting her head in her lap. “You’re good.”

Agatha’s clearly taken aback by the action, but she quickly recovers, immediately — almost instinctively — beginning to run a hand through her hair. “Shh,” she soothes. “It’s okay.”

“You’re good."

“Okay, okay — I know,” she reassures her, though America’s still not convinced she actually believes it. But that would have to be a discussion for another day. She’d meant for the action to be comforting to Agatha, but when she feels herself relax as she strokes her hair, she realizes it subconsciously may have been a little selfish, too.

After a few moments, the adrenaline of everything wears off, tiredness creeping up again. She stifles a yawn — though she’s sure Agatha can sense it anyway, as irritatingly observant as she is. “I don’t want to go back to bed,” she says proactively before she can suggest it.

Agatha lets out a soft sigh. “What if you come to ours again?” she bargains as if reading her mind. “Would that make you feel better?”

America considers this for a moment before turning her head slightly to look up at her. “Promise you won’t leave again?” she asks quietly.

“I promise,” she says, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

America slowly nods. She can see how exhausted Agatha is, and even though part of her is still anxious she’ll wake up and find her gone again, she knows they’re going to have to sleep sometime. 

And she did come back eventually. She came back. 

She takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she agrees, pushing herself up off the couch.

Agatha leads her to her and Wanda’s room, gesturing for America to lie in the middle of the bed again. “It’ll be okay,” she assures America as she climbs in. It’s a little ironic thinking about how excited she was to have her own room on this trip when she ended up barely sleeping in it. Agatha gently pulls the covers over her. Tucking her in like a small child. She’ll be embarrassed by it tomorrow, but right now, she lets it be comforting.

“It’ll be okay,” America repeats in a whisper as she settles in — almost like a mantra. For her own sake. For Agatha’s, too. 

It would be okay.

Chapter Text

The drive back from Salem the next day is miraculously uneventful, as are the next few months for the most part — which is exactly what they need after such an emotionally exhausting trip. As painful as parts were, it was good they got through it together, bringing them closer. 

America keeps training, rising the ranks and eventually making it to magic second grade. Calling the two of them “moms” gets easier and easier, quickly becoming second nature. And Wanda and Agatha stay mushy as ever, which makes her want to throw up — a fact she reminds them of often. But it also thrills her to see them so in love — a fact she refuses to tell them because it’s more fun and on-brand to gag every time they kiss instead. 

America is happy. And no day is she happier than July 3rd, when she walks into the kitchen with a little extra pep in her step. 

“Good morning,” she greets Wanda and Agatha, holding her hand up to stop them before they can respond. “Before you say anything back, just remember this is the last time you ever get to tell me good morning as a 14-year-old, so really savor this moment. Enjoy it. Because tomorrow, I’ll be 15, and it’ll feel way different.”

“Well then.” Agatha blinks, glancing up from her coffee. “Happy early birthday to you.”

America smiles, satisfied, before going to pour her own cup of coffee. “Why thank you.”

“Are you excited?”

“Maybe just a little bit,” she says — a huge understatement. She’s practically bursting. She doesn’t even know exactly what they’re doing for it yet, and she doesn’t particularly care. The important thing is that it’s the first time in the better part of a decade she won’t spend it alone, and that in and of itself is cause for celebration.

“Mhm.” Agatha nods, sipping her coffee. “We have to finish some last-minute things today, so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“What? You’re putting me to work? The day before my birthday?” She scoffs, taking a seat at the table with her mug. “Feels illegal."

Agatha shakes her head with a laugh. “Believe it or not, perfectly within the confines of the law.”

“Fiiine,” she relents. “But in almost exactly three years when I can vote, I’m making the government change that,” she vows, which earns her an eye roll. “What do we have to do today?”

“Well, it’s mostly fun things for you,” Wanda cuts in. “We’ve planned most of your quinceañera, so we just need to figure out some accessories. And since your dress is so nice, we figured maybe you’d want to get your nails done.”

“Oh.” America looks at her nails — chipped with black polish. They could definitely use some love. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? That does sound fun.”

“Because we have to be on time to places, and we also need to make sure you’ve gotten your hair washed at some point today,” Wanda says.

“Hey, I’m punctual…ish. And my hair is not that bad.” She sniffs it to make sure. Oh. “Okay, it’s a little bad,” she admits.

“Exactly.” Wanda nods. “So eat some breakfast — we have to get going.”

She stands, going to fix herself a bowl of cereal. “Do you think maybe we could pit stop at Mama’s Westview house at some point?” she asks as she pours in the milk.

“Sure…” Wanda says slowly, glancing at Agatha. She shrugs in return. “Why’s that?”

“So I can go shoe shopping in her closet?” America asks hopefully, sitting back down at the table and hitting Agatha with the pleading eyes/puppy dog pout combo. “Please? None of mine feel right with the dress, and your vintage stuff is way better than what they sell in stores.”

Agatha sighs, considering. She holds up a finger. “One condition.”

“Name it.” America eagerly nods.

“If I say something’s off limits, no arguing. That means none."

Her pout quickly curves into a huge grin. “Deal,” she promises.

Agatha cracks a smile in return. “Hopefully the shoes fit, period.”

America folds her hands, looking up to the ceiling. “Please, shoe gods. I need to slay tomorrow.”

Though she shakes her head at the dramatics, Agatha’s quick to reassure her. “If they don’t, we’ll figure it out. We’ll find you something.”

“Thanks.” America smiles, scooping a bite of cereal into her mouth. “I feel like I have fairy godmothers prepping me for the ball, except you’re witches and it’s a quince, so it’s even better. Like, fairies are kinda meh. And who wants a prince anyway?”

“I agree with you there. Men are…kind of the worst.” Agatha sighs, biting into her toast.

“Most of them…” America slowly concurs, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “But please tell me you still invited Strange and Wong to the party.”

“Unfortunately,” Agatha groans. “Wanda wouldn’t let me not.”

“Good,” America says unsympathetically before turning to Wanda. “Thank you.”

Wanda shrugs. “I know they’re important to you.”

“They are,” she agrees with a nod. “And the only thing I want for my birthday is for everyone important to me to get along.” She shoots Agatha a pointed look.

Agatha raises her hands. “I’m doing the best I can and will do the best I can. I like Wong,” she says defensively.

America raises her hands in return. “That’s all I ask,” she assures her. She examines her nails again now that they’re right in front of her. “What color polish should I go with, do you think? Blue, right? To match the dress?"

“Maybe a light blue?” Agatha suggests. “Really light.”

“Super light,” America agrees. “Maybe they can even do some tiny white stars, too? You know, since you still won’t let me get a tattoo of one.” She rolls her eyes before a hopeful thought crosses her mind. “Unless 15 is finally old enough...?”

“Not yet,” Wanda pipes up.

“Fine,” America concedes with a sigh. “I’ll stick to the polish for now.”

“Good,” Wanda says, leaning over to kiss the top of her head.

She should probably say she’s too old, too mature for stuff like that now, but the truth was, it made her feel safe. Cared for. Loved. Plus, she was robbed of eight years of maternal affection — she felt entitled to enjoy it a little longer. 

She shovels the rest of her cereal into her mouth in record time before drinking the milk at the bottom of the bowl. “Okay,” she says, going to the sink to wash it. “What’s first on the agenda?”

“If we’re stopping to find shoes at Agatha’s place, we need to head there so we’re timely for nails,” Wanda explains.

America nods, setting the bowl on the rack to dry. “Just let me get changed.” She concentrates hard, waving her hand over herself and muttering the spell she’s been practicing. It…halfway works. Her oversized t-shirt is replaced with one of her favorite tank tops, and a beanie successfully appears on her head. But her pajama pants stay on instead of turning into jeans, and only one sandal finds its way to her foot. “Dang it. Haven’t quite mastered that one yet.”

“Close though,” Agatha muses with an approving nod.

She ducks her head to hide a proud smile. “I’ll go finish doing it the old-fashioned way,” she says, disappearing into her room to throw on a pair of ripped jeans and dig out her other shoe from her closet. 

Once that’s taken care of, she gives Carla a few pets on the head, the cat purring in response, before she reemerges in the kitchen. “Okay, now I’m ready.”

“Amazing.” Wanda smiles, standing and putting her dishes in the sink. “Shall we head out?”

“Yup.” She nods. “Can I open the portal?” That’s another thing she’s been working on — portaling within the same universe and doing so accurately.

Wanda nods, going to stand next to Agatha, who’s leaning against the doorframe. “Be my guest.”

America takes a deep breath, narrowing her eyes in focus before punching the air in front of her, a star-shaped portal opening. They’re not scary anymore — not now that she knew how to control them better. 

When she walks through, it seems she has mastered the portaling skill, landing them right in front of Agatha’s closet. Usually, she was in a few-feet range of where she wanted to go, but this was close to perfect.

“Good job,” Agatha praises. “I think that might be your best yet.”

“Thank you,” America says with a toss of her hair, clearly pleased with herself. “Okay.” She eagerly rubs her hands together. “What are my options?”

Agatha opens her closet, revealing the hundreds of neatly displayed pairs. “None of my stilettos, and try to avoid anything that looks too worn.”

“Why no stilettos?” she asks before throwing her hands up. “Not arguing — just curious.”

“All of mine are quite high, so they’re not very age-appropriate,” Agatha explains. “And also hard to walk in without practice.”

“Okay, fair. Would prefer to not break my ankle.” America taps her chin, examining the plethora of options still at her disposal. “What about these?” she asks, picking up a pair of sparkly sandals with a tiny block heel. “Or these?” She reaches for shiny, rose gold flats with a subtle flowery pattern on the top.

“Either would work,” Agatha encourages. “Whichever you think would look best.”

“Hm…” she considers. “Let me try both.” She kicks off her sandals and perches herself on the end of Agatha’s bed, slipping one onto each foot. Miraculously, they both fit. “Thoughts now that you see them on?” she asks.

Agatha pauses for a minute, considering. “I like the heel.”

“Heel it is,” she proclaims, beginning to switch back to her sandals. 

She bites her lip, wondering if now’s a good time to bring up something else she’s been thinking about. They were in a good mood, and she imagined they still had a little bit of time before the nail appointment considering the shoes took all of five seconds. She decides to go for it before she chickens out. “I was wondering if maybe I could borrow something else. From both of you. It’s…kind of a big ask, so it’s totally okay to say no.”

Agatha raises a brow. “What is it?”

America swallows hard, hyping herself up. “I was wondering if maybe I could start using your last names?” she asks, voice uncharacteristically timid. “I still want to keep Chavez, but…I’d like to hyphenate it. Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness. Or Chavez-Harkness-Maximoff. I don’t know. Whatever you think sounds better. And only if you’re both cool with it, obviously.” She bites her lip a little harder.

Wanda glances at Agatha, who looks stunned for a minute before snapping out of it and meeting Wanda’s gaze. They share a look, communicating in that way only they can — having a whole conversation with their eyes. 

Once they seem to reach a silent conclusion, Wanda turns her attention back to America, eyes widening. “Oh, sweetheart — your lip is bleeding.” America forces herself to remove her tooth from it — she did taste a little blood, now that she mentioned it. Before she can wipe it away, Wanda comes to sit next to her on the bed, wrapping her in a hug. “I think we’d be more than okay with that.”

“Yeah? You’re sure?” she asks, hugging back tight. She turns her face as she leans her head against her, careful not to let her lip touch her shirt. She’s relieved, but there’s a little more to it based on some internet research. She takes a deep breath. “Because I know it’s not for another year, but I want that to be the name on my driver’s license. And since it’s, like, a government document, I think there’s maybe, like, some kind of paperwork or something we’d have to do — to make it more official or legal or whatever. And if that’s not something you’re cool with, that’s totally fine — it’s just, you know, we’re already talking about it, so I thought I’d…bring it up…but you can have time to think about it if you want,” she rambles.

Agatha comes to stand in front of her, gently lifting her chin — both to force her to look her in the eye, she presumes, and to have better access to her lip, dabbing it with a tissue. She can’t help but think of her doing the same thing all those months ago. The day America had accidentally opened the portal and cut her knee trying to run away. The day after she found out about her moms. The day she started gaining two more. She sees now that this was always meant to happen. That it had always been them. They’d always been family — even when they didn’t know it yet. 

“We’re sure,” Agatha gently reassures her. “We’d be honored.”

“Okay,” she says with a sniffle — she doesn’t even know when she started crying. “Okay, cool. Well…thanks. I’ll try to, you know…like, make you proud. You won’t regret it.”

Agatha flips the tissue, wiping her tears with the clean side, as Wanda holds onto her tightly. “You already do,” Wanda says. “We love you so much.”

She feels another tear fall at that — a good tear. A happy one. “I love you, too.”

“We’re always here for you,” Wanda promises, emphasizing her point with a little squeeze.

“I know,” she whispers. “I told you a long time ago I was hard to get rid of — now you’re really stuck with me,” she teases.

Agatha tosses the tissue into the trash before sitting on the other side of her, joining the hug. “We’re glad to be stuck with you.”

“Good,” America says, mouth curving into a smile. There are a few moments of comfortable silence until she’s hit with a realization. “Wait…since you’re both so powerful, does this make me, like, a nepotism baby in the witch community?” She wrinkles her nose.

Wanda lets out a laugh. “Maybe it does. Sorry, Star Girl.”

“Well…shit,” America says, though there’s a cheeky smirk on her face as she boldly decides not to censor herself. “I guess I can live with that considering the tradeoff.”

“Mhm. I’ll give you a break since it’s almost your birthday.” Wanda rolls her eyes. “But I’m glad it’s worth it.”

Her smirk grows at that. “Thanks, Mom. It’s the most worth it,” she says, giving her one final squeeze before pulling away. “Okay.” She wipes the last remains of tears from her eyes. “To the nail salon? Are you guys getting manicures, too?”

Agatha shrugs. “We weren’t planning on it.”

“Why not?” America wrinkles her brows. “You should. Treat yourself.”

“Oh, should we now?” Agatha asks with a raise of her brow.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “You should. I know you’ve been working really hard to plan this party, and I really appreciate it — you deserve some pampering, too.”

Agatha gives her a small smile. “I suppose so.”

“Glad you agree.” America raises her chin, proud of her persuasive arguing skills. She'd learned them from Agatha herself, after all. “Now as amazing as I am at opening portals now, I don’t know where this place is, so someone else is gonna have to do it.”

“You open the one home then?” Wanda asks, waving a hand until a red circle of light appears.

“Deal,” America — no, America Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness — excitedly agrees, stepping through.

Chapter Text

When America exits through the other side of the portal, she finds herself on a pretty high-end street in front of a pretty fancy-looking salon. It’s nice — really nice. “Is this it?” she checks, not wanting to assume. 

“Mhm,” Wanda assures her with a nod. “Only the best for your birthday.”

“You spoil me,” America says with a grin, opening the door to the building. 

After they check in (and ask if they can squeeze in two more people — luckily, the answer is yes), the woman at the desk points them to a wall of what must be thousands of polishes in various shades, telling them to choose whatever they like.

“Whoa,” America says, eyes widening as she scans the shelves. “I’ve never seen this many colors before. Not even in the paint universe.”

Agatha’s mouth twitches into a small smile. “Which one are you thinking?”

“I don’t even know where to start.” She finally zeroes in on the blue section, carefully surveying them before pulling out a baby blue as well as one with a slightly more turquoise tint. “Help,” she says, presenting both options.

Agatha tilts her head. “Maybe this one?” she asks, pointing to her first selection. “It’d go nicely with your dress.”

“Oh, yeah. Good thinking.” America nods, putting the turquoise one back and plopping a thin white bottle off the shelf for them to do the star pattern with. “What color are you guys doing?”

Agatha gestures to a lavender shade. “Something like that.”

“Perfect. Very you.” She nods in approval.

“I think Wanda’s getting a full set, so she’s probably overthinking the color,” Agatha says with a laugh. Sure enough, America glances over to see Wanda very intently considering her options.

She rolls her eyes. “We all know she’s going to go with some variation of red. You two are so predictable.”

Agatha lightly bats her arm. “And you’re not?”

“Why fix what’s not broken?” She smirks, earning her an eyebrow raise. “I knooow — I have a very strong brand, too. I don’t claim to be full of surprises. At least, not anymore.” She begins to absentmindedly look through the other colors to kill time until Wanda finally chooses something. “Honestly, after eight years of nothing but surprises — zero predictability at all — it’s really nice to have stability,” she muses, growing more serious. “And if that makes me boring, then…oh well. At least I’ve had a chance to actually breathe and figure out who I am, you know?”

Agatha gives her a soft smile. “I understand completely. And I’m glad we can give you that.”

“Me too.” She smiles back earnestly, deciding to go bother Wanda before she gets all emotional and reflective again. There’d be plenty of time for that tomorrow. 

“Dude,” she says, nudging her arm. “If you don’t pick one soon, I’m not gonna have time to do that whole hair washing thing you're so adamant about.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, showing her two bottles. “I’m stuck between these.”

They are both different shades of red — because of course they are. She takes them, carefully examining each. She laughs a little once she reads the names on the bottom, handing her a slightly lighter shade. “This one’s literally called ‘scarlet,’ so I think you kind of have to go with it.”

“Fair point.” Wanda breathes out a laugh. “As long as you think it’ll look good.”

“It’ll look great,” she promises as the three make their way back to the nail technicians. 

She sits down and explains what she wants, and they assure her the star pattern should be no problem. She’s a little surprised when, after filing and shaping her nails, they pull out lotion and begin giving her a hand massage. 

“I’ve never actually gotten a professional manicure before,” she admits.

Agatha glances over at her. “Are you liking it?”

“A lot.” She nods, leaning her head back to rest on the padded headrest of the seat. “I could get used to a life of luxury.”

Agatha snorts. “I’m sure you could.”

“And someday, I will,” she vows. “Once I’m old enough to make money,” she says, emphasizing the word ‘make’ only slightly so she understands the implication. To anyone else listening, this would be a normal conversation about joining the workforce — not learning to fabricate money by magical means.

“Mhm.” Agatha rolls her eyes. “That won’t get you everywhere.”

“I know, I know — I have to study and work hard, too,” America recites. “All that boring stuff.”

“Exactly.” Agatha nods. “But you seem to like studying. Is that an inaccurate assessment?”

“No, I do like it,” she assures her. “Most of it anyway. Except numerology.” Or 'arithmancy' as Agatha still called it — the old-school term. No matter what it was called, it sucked. It was confusing and hard and took forever and, above all, it was pointless. “I still don’t understand why you’re making me learn math.”

“Because math is important.”

“Mm…I don’t know,” she says, unconvinced. “I think I’d be fine without it.”

Agatha raises a brow at her. “Math is useful for other things besides how you’re learning it, you know.”

“Like what?” America challenges. “Finances? I’ll just get an accountant to do all that for me, duh.”

Wanda cuts in with a hum. “You say that now, but accountants are expensive.”

“Right, but I’m going to be rich, remember? So that won’t matter,” America stubbornly insists.

“The world is expensive,” Wanda warns. “More expensive than you think.”

“Fiiine,” she relents — she was clearly not going to win this argument. “I’ll keep learning math. But I’m not going to like it,” she pledges.

“You don’t have to like it,” Wanda laughs — a very mom response.

“Well good. Because I won’t,” America swears — a very almost-15-year-old one. 

The conversation drifts to less controversial topics, and soon, their manicures are done. They all turn out pretty amazing, and her little stars are especially impressive. 

After they grab a late lunch nearby, America portals them back to the cabin. She takes a shower (complete with washing her hair) while Wanda and Agatha finish up some tasks she’s not allowed to help with. (Though whether that’s due to them being boring or related to surprises the next day, she’s not sure.) 

At around 11pm, they find themselves on the couch, winding down with a movie. (Jennifer's Body. Again. It’s quickly become one of her favorites for...obvious reasons, okay?) “You guys aren’t tired yet, are you?” she asks as the ending credits roll.

Agatha glances over at Wanda, who’s fast asleep on the couch. “Looks like she is.”

America breathes out a laugh. “I have this tradition where I always stay up until midnight the day before my birthday and the day of — so I can experience the very beginning and the very end, you know? I was gonna ask if you wanted to join me, but if you’re too wiped, that’s cool.”

“I’m happy to join you,” Agatha says, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. “I want to stay up with my daughter.”

She smiles, her heart skipping a little at that — as it always did when one of them used that word. Daughter. She was someone’s daughter again. She easily leans into her embrace. “Can we go sit outside maybe? On the porch? It’s really warm, and the sky’s super clear so you can see a bunch of stars.”

“Of course.” Agatha nods. “Let’s go.”

America grabs one of the larger, thicker blankets from the couch before quietly following Agatha outside. She spreads it out on the porch, lying down on her back and looking up. There are indeed a lot of stars out lighting up the night sky. 

“Do you know any constellations?” she asks as Agatha carefully lowers herself to sit on the blanket next to her.

“A few,” she says, glancing up as well. “But not nearly all of them.”

“I know some. There was this book at a library in one of the universes I liked that I learned them from. That’s Cancer — that’s my zodiac sign,” she says, pointing out an upside-down ‘Y.’ She moves her hand over. “And that one that looks like an arm and a hand or some bent fork thing? That’s yours. Scorpius. That’s my favorite one, though — Ursa Minor," she says, gesturing to it. "Its tail is the Little Dipper. It’s, like, definitely a cliche one to have be your favorite, but come on, it’s supposed to look like a baby bear. How cute is that?”

“It’s very cute.” Agatha nods, a smile spreading across her face as she listens intently. “I had no idea before now you knew about constellations,” she says, taking America’s free hand in her own. 

“Yeah, well, they don’t call me Star Girl for nothing. Plus, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me. Maybe I’m still full of surprises after all,” she teases, though there’s a small pang in her chest as the words leave her mouth at that realization. Agatha and Wanda had missed the first 13 years of her life. And with her moms — her other moms — gone, there were things nobody knew about her anymore. Memories that were lost forever. “What do you think I was like as a baby?” she quietly asks after a few moments.

Agatha runs her thumb over the back of her hand. “I think you were probably adventurous — got into a fair bit of trouble, if I had to guess — but sweet and loving, too.”

“Yeah, probably,” she says, mouth curving into a smile. “My earliest memory is drawing all over the living room wall. I’d seen a mural on the side of a building, and I thought it’d be nice to have one in our house — I didn’t understand why it was so different. And another time, I climbed onto the table and jumped off thinking I could fly,” she remembers with a laugh. “Which really wasn’t that crazy considering I am going to learn how to do that someday. My moms freaked though.”

“Sounds like you,” Agatha says with a chuckle. “And sounds like you were quite the small child.”

“I’ve always been a menace,” she agrees with a smirk, though it slowly fades after a moment. That pang in her chest returns tenfold the more she reminisces about her childhood. Her other moms. “Is it okay that I still miss them sometimes?” she whispers. “Is it okay that I…that I miss them right now?”

Agatha nods. “It’s more than okay,” she says, gentle but emphatic. “I think it’s natural, in a way. You’re still allowed to miss them even though you have another family now.”

“But I’m happy — so happy — with you and Mom,” she says, looking up at her, eyes wide and almost pleading. “And even though it was awful, I’m so glad everything that happened led to me meeting you. It’s just…I just…” Her breath hitches, struggling to explain.

“I know. I know,” Agatha soothes. “Both of those things can be true.”

America nods, one hand squeezing Agatha’s while the other absentmindedly reaches up to clutch the pendant of her necklace. Trying to ground herself. Quell the panicked feeling in her chest that seems to come out of nowhere sometimes.

Agatha continues rubbing calming circles on her hand. “Breathe, honey,” she quietly instructs.

She tries to take a deep inhale, but it’s like it gets caught halfway in her throat. She tries again — unsuccessful. “I can’t,” she weakly argues, her eyes welling up.

“Hey,” Agatha says, pulling her closer so her head’s resting in her lap. “It’s okay. In five and out five. I’ll do it with you.”

“Okay,” she shakily agrees between the little gasps of air she can manage. It feels impossible — it feels like she’s dying, though the rational part of her knows she’s not. Eventually, by following Agatha’s lead, she’s able to suck in a decent enough breath before letting out a slow exhale. It takes a while before her breaths even out into anything resembling a steady rhythm again — several minutes of Agatha’s coaching and coaxing. And it’s a relief when it happens, but it’s also…embarrassing. 

“Sorry,” America whispers, head still lying in her lap — she doesn’t have the energy to scoot away. “I don’t…I don’t know why that happens.”

Agatha shakes her head, hand gently running up and down her arm. “It makes sense. It’s normal to panic when you feel that overwhelmed.”

“I guess,” she mumbles, picking at a fuzz on the blanket. “But it still makes me feel dumb. And weak.”

“You’re no such things," Agatha firmly assures her. "I promise."

She takes a deep breath — glad that she’s actually able to do that again. “Well, if you promise,” she relents, feeling some of the tension leave her body. “How many minutes until midnight now?” she asks, turning her head to look up at her.

Agatha glances at her watch. “Four. Then it’s officially your birthday.” She smiles down at her.

“Wow,” she says, her own mouth curving into a tiny smile as well. “How am I going to spend them? Lot of pressure.”

“Well, how do you want to spend them?” 

“Mm…” America considers for a moment before snuggling closer to her and looking out at the stars again. “Maybe just this,” she says quietly. “I like just this.”

“I like it, too,” Agatha says, stroking her hair.

She lies there in comfortable silence, letting the last bittersweet seconds tick down. They're mostly sweet, though. Sweeter than they've been in a long, long time. “Mama?” she asks after a few moments.

Agatha’s hand stops — just for a millisecond — at the word. It still catching her by surprise every time she hears it. “Hm?” she hums, tilting her head.

“Do you think 15 will be a good year for me?” 

Agatha considers this for a moment. “I hope so,” she finally decides. “I want it to be, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it is.”

She can’t help but smile at that. “Thanks,” she says softly. “I have a good feeling about it.” She hears her phone chime — the alarm she’d set for midnight going off. “We’re off to a good start.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so.” Agatha leans down to kiss her forehead. “Happy birthday, darling.”

Her smile grows, nose scrunching a little — not dissimilar to the way Wanda’s does sometimes. “Thanks,” she says again. She’s reluctant to get up — she’s really pretty comfortable here — but after a moment, she forces herself to. “I should probably go to bed,” she says through a yawn.

“I think that sounds like a good idea.” Agatha nods. “Get some sleep — I know you’re excited for the party.”

“I’ll try,” she promises, quietly opening the door and walking back inside. She laughs to herself as she passes Wanda now snoring on the couch on the way to her room. But she’s doing the same thing a few moments later, falling asleep almost as soon as her head hits her pillow. 

Maybe it’s because she’s drained from the panic attack. Maybe it’s because she feels at peace after a pretty perfect day. Maybe it’s a little of both. She’s not able to dream, of course, but if she could, she thinks they would be happy ones tonight.

Chapter Text

America would usually have more than a few objections about being woken up at 8 o’clock in the morning, but today’s different. Enthusiasm about the party overshadows any tiredness, and she wants ample time to get ready. 

Getting ready, in fact, is sort of half the fun. Wanda and Agatha assist her with her hair and makeup — and let her choose the music throughout the entire process — as well as help her get into her gown: the heaviest, poofiest, and most gorgeous thing she’s ever worn. 

It’s late morning by the time she’s done getting dressed and glammed up. When she looks in the mirror, she does feel different — older somehow. Although that could be the fact she’s wearing way more makeup than normal. Still tasteful — “age appropriate” — but a far cry from the few swipes of mascara she usually sports. 

“Well?” she asks. “How do I look?”

Wanda smiles, brushing the last few hairs into place. “Beautiful,” she assures her. “You look beautiful.”

“Yeah?” She grins before turning away from the mirror to face them, looking them up and down. “You guys don’t look so bad yourself. Trying to upstage me at my own quinceañera?” she teases.

Wanda playfully rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. Everyone will be paying attention to you.”

“I don't even know who 'everyone' is," America laughs. "I know, like, four people on the guest list — with two of them being you both and two of them being people I coerced out of Mama yesterday. You haven’t even told me where we’re having the party. Is it here? Westview? Another universe?”

“The Sanctum,” Wanda answers.

“Oh, wow — fancy venue.” America nods, impressed. “How’d you get Strange to agree to that?”

Wanda sighs. “Agatha told him he wouldn’t be invited if he didn’t.” She throws a glance at Agatha, who simply shrugs in return.

America covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. “That’s actually so smart. And so savage.”

“Thank you?” Agatha says, squinting a bit. “I don’t exactly know what that means, but I also thought it was smart. Wanda just rolled her eyes.” 

“Oh, right — I haven’t taught you that term yet.” America had recently explained the meanings of stan and simp — ghosting was next on her imaginary syllabus. “Savage means, like, bold in a way that’s equally brutal and badass,” she clarifies. “Strange can be savage, too—” she lowers her voice to a loud whisper. “—but you’re better at it.”

“Ah, okay…” Agatha nods before shooting her a pointed look, eyebrow raised and everything. “And I better be better at it.”

“Don’t worry — you are,” she assures her. “By…kind of a lot, actually.”

Agatha grins, a cat with a canary. “Oh, I should tell him that.”

“No, you should not,” America says firmly, immediately regretting giving her this ammunition. She turns to Wanda. “Mom, tell her she should not.”

Wanda puts a hand on her chest. “I can’t control what she does.”

“Gee, thanks for the help.” She rolls her eyes, looking back at Agatha with a deep sigh. “If you tell him, he’ll get all butthurt, and it is nice of him to let us do the party at the Sanctum, threats or not. Plus, you promised me you’d at least try to be nice, remember?” she reminds her. “I would even settle for not actively mean.“

“I’ll do my best,” Agatha vows, holding her hands up in diplomatic surrender.

America lifts her hands too, lacing her fingers with Agatha’s. “Thank you,” she says, giving them a squeeze. “Now — should I open a portal to the Sanctum so we can get this party freakin’ started?”

“Yes, yes — go ahead,” Wanda responds as Agatha nods, giving her hands a squeeze in return.

America grins as she lets go of Agatha’s hands, turning and punching a star-shaped portal. Her jaw drops as she steps through to the Sanctum. It’s impressive on its own, but it’s even more beautiful decorated now. One step in, and she can already see blue and silver streamers draped over nearly every surface, along with dozens — maybe hundreds — of star-shaped balloons floating around. 

She immediately spies pizza balls and cake balls on a table in the corner and is hit with a memory — many months ago, when she reunited with Wanda again at Kamar-Taj that first day. Before New York. Before she even knew who Agatha was. Before she’d dared to dream any of this could be possible. Wanda had asked when her birthday was — had promised her both foods. 

“You remembered?” America quietly asks, turning to her.

Wanda gives her a small smile. “Of course I did.”

“There’s other food, too — for more refined palates,” Stephen says, beginning to descend the stairs. 

“Like champagne?” America eagerly asks. 

Stephen narrows his eyes, slowing his walk. “Not food. Or legal for you to consume.” He looks at Agatha. “This is what happens when I trust you with her education?” he deadpans.

Agatha crosses her arms. “She’s a teenager, Stephen. All teenagers think about underage drinking. If anything, I’m more qualified on this subject than you — someone who’s never been around a teenager.”

“I’ve been around teenagers.” Stephen scoffs. “Peter Parker? Spider-Man? And Wanda was a teenager when I met her,” he argues, smug.

“Spider-Man?” Agatha questions, as if the words don’t sit quite right in her mouth, before moving on with the wave of her hand. “I’ve had a child before — raised one. Your awkward clownery around teens isn’t as impressive as you think.”

America looks at Agatha with a proud smile — a truly perfect use of clownery. That was one of the first words she taught her. She shakes her head, forcing herself to snap out of it and get serious before Stephen can respond and escalate things further. “I’ve already given this lecture once today,” she tells him. “I want everyone to get along. Mama has to be nice to you, but you also have to be nice to—”

“Mama?” Stephen asks, eyes widening. 

“Yes, exactly.” 

“No, I mean…you’re calling her ‘mama’ now?” The thought clearly horrifies him, though he is — to his credit — valiantly trying to hide it.

“She is,” Agatha confirms. “I’m sure that’s just making you crawl out of your skin.” The thought clearly delights her, and she is not trying to hide it whatsoever.

“My skin is fine. Still firmly attached to the rest of my body,” Stephen dryly retorts, brushing a piece of imaginary dust from his jacket as if to reiterate this fact before turning back to America. “I’m surprised, is all — it’s the first I’m hearing of it.” 

“You told me you’re a busy man and to stop texting you all the time,” America says with a defensive shrug.

“Mee-mees,” Stephen corrects. “I told you to stop texting me mee-mees — not stop texting me in general.” 

“It’s pronounced meem-zuh,” America says, holding back a laugh. “And I was texting you TikToks.”

“Same thing.”

“Uh, big difference.”

“See?” Agatha rolls her eyes. “You can’t even listen to her and learn. And here I was thinking you were a smart brain surgeon.”

"She is supposed to be learning from you — you’re her teacher, or so you’ve assured me.” Stephen massages his temples, choosing to ignore the ‘smart brain surgeon’ comment. 

“I am learning from her!” America defends. “We learn different things from each other. She taught me how to do this.” She flicks her wrist, popping one of the balloons across the room. “And this.” The balloon patches back up and re-inflates. “And this.” She does the clothes change spell on Stephen, switching him from a suit to a clown outfit, complete with a red nose. It’s very amusing. Unfortunately, Stephen is very much not amused.

“Stop that,” he says, immediately waving his hand and changing them back. 

“Then stop doing clownery,” America says, stifling another giggle.

“See?” Agatha smirks as if to say, ‘That’s my girl,’ raising a pointed eyebrow at Stephen. “She’s learning plenty. You just have a stick up your ass.”

Proud and egged on, America flicks her wrist again, breaking off a small branch from a houseplant and plopping it on the ground behind Stephen. She’s showing off now — and it’s kind of fun. “The stick’s been removed from the ass,” she says with a salute.

“Enough.” Stephen huffs, replacing the branch back on the tree with his own magic. “And watch your language.” 

“Mama just said it,” America argues with an eye roll. 

“Well, she’s an adult,” Stephen says, straightening his tie before muttering, “despite never acting like one.”

Agatha waves her hand, and suddenly, there’s a cloth stuffed in his mouth to shut him up. Stephen promptly rips it out and throws it on the ground, fuming. Before he can respond with equal force, America steps between the two of them — this escalated so quickly. “Okay, I demand someone tell me the itinerary for this party right now. I’m pretty sure a physical altercation is nowhere on it.”

“Right.” Wanda steps in now. “Both of you, behave,” she orders, pointing a stern finger at them. It sends a little chill up America’s spine, and she’s very glad she’s not the one in trouble. 

Stephen raises his hands, sufficiently chastised. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes to Wanda before turning to America. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice just as sincere. He looks at Agatha. “I’m…sorry,” he tells her, the words almost physically painful to say. 

Agatha gives a stiff nod. “I’m…also…sorry,” she forces out before shooting Wanda a glance — that good enough?

It’s good enough for America — it’s the best she’s going to get right now. She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” 

Stephen rubs the back of his neck, awkward. “So, uh, has there been an official adoption? Or is there an adoption in progress? That’s great if there is,” he rushes to say. “You know, if that’s what you all decided. Just the whole…'moms’ thing…I’m trying to piece everything together here...stay in the loop…” 

“Oh.” America tenses up again at the question. “We haven’t really…talked about it.” She’s thought about it, of course — maybe even wanted it. But how do you bring something like that up? Last names are one thing, but that?

“We’re dealing with things as they come up,” Wanda explains, jumping in to save her. She wraps an arm around her shoulders, and America relaxes at the touch. “One step at a time.”

“Yeah,” America agrees. That had been one of their mantras from the beginning: to take it day by day. 

“I think that’s a very good plan,” Stephen says, patting her on the top of the head. “I’m happy for you.” If it was anyone else, she’d find it condescending, but she can tell he’s genuine — trying to be sweet and supportive.

Wanda smiles, rubbing her arm. “Happy birthday, Star Girl.”

“Thanks, Mom,” she says, sinking further into her embrace. 

“Yes, happy birthday, kid,” Stephen chimes in. 

“Thanks, Stevie.” 

“Please don’t call me that.” 

America promptly ignores his pleas. “Are we waiting on anyone else?”

Wanda nods. “Wong — and his plus one, I think? Who I don’t know — and some of your friends from Kamar Taj.”

“Oh, good.” America grins. Despite Kamar-Taj not exactly being the right fit for her, she’d made a solid group of friends there — ones she still texted often and hung out with when they could get weekend passes from school. “And I hope Wong’s bringing Madisynn. I haven’t actually met her yet, but she has the most fire Insta and always leaves nice comments on my stuff. I’ve gained, like, a thousand followers from her. Pop quiz,” she turns to Agatha. “What does ‘fire’ mean in this context?”

She blinks, a little nervous at being put on the spot. “Um. Good? Hot?”

“A+.” America smiles, nodding in approval. “You’re going to be fluent in Gen Z in no time."

Agatha smiles back. “We’ll see about that.”

“What are we seeing about?” Wong asks, stepping through a portal to join them. 

“I’m teaching Mama new slang,” America says, going over to hug him. “I can teach you too if you want.” 

He hugs her back. He gives pretty phenomenal hugs. “Oh, that’s a kind offer, but I think someone already has that covered,” he assures her, nodding to a brunette in a short, sparkly pink dress behind him. America almost dies. It is Madisynn. In the flesh.

“Oh yeah, totally.” Madisynn nods seriously. “I’m teaching Wongers all sorts of new slang. Like, he knows so much now. I’m so proud,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“We are doing such important work — volunteering with the elderly and all,” America says, pulling away from the hug as Wong scoffs. She gives Madisynn a shy little wave, starstruck. “Hi. So nice to meet you. You’re, like, kind of a celebrity to me. I’m a huge fan.”

“Oh my god!” Madisynn grins, a hand clutching her heart. “You’re literally so sweet. It’s good to meet you, too. I followed you when Wongers mentioned you to me, so, like, I’m flattered you think I’m a celebrity,” she says.

“I’ve been following you for years. Well, the different you variants. You’re big in, like, every universe,” America gushes. “You were a model in a couple. And an actress in others. And in one, you were the spokesperson for rosé. Not even a brand of rosé — just, like, the spokesperson for the drink in general. It was wild.”

“Oh my god — I’d love to be a spokesperson for rosé. I love rosé. It’s my favorite.” 

“Never had it, unfortunately.” America rolls her eyes. It wasn’t for lack of trying. 

“You’re telling me I was really famous?” Madisynn asks, excited. America feels very cool, having this exclusive information for her.

“Super famous,” she raves. “And you are super famous in this universe, too. At least in my circle,” she assures her. “I mean, you’re already, like, my whole friend group’s favorite influencer. And usually, we aren’t really into influencers, but you’re different — you’re so funny and real."

Madisynn lets out a short squeal of delight. “That’s, like, so sweet of you all. We should do an Instagram story: you, me, and Wongers!”

America gasps, hand flying up to cover her mouth. “You mean it?” she asks, touched.

“Yeah!” Madisynn nods. “I mean, I look sexy, and it’s your party, and Wong needs to be educated in social media.”

“I’m doing okay for myself,” Wong says defensively. “My following has recently doubled.” 

“From what?” America snorts. “Four people to eight?” she teases. 

There’s an ashamed pause. “Three people to six,” he confesses. “Agatha finally followed me back, and Stephen just got an account.” 

“No, I didn’t!” Stephen calls from across the room. Annoyingly good hearing, that one. America cringes.

“Oh, yeah. I made that for him without telling him,” she admits with a grimace. 

“You what?!” Stephen yells.

“And there’s another account that goes by the name ljerxd593009?” Wong reads from the screen. 

“That’s probably a bot,” America tells him.

“See, Wongers?” Madisynn sighs. “You need the exposure. You’ll look cool in the story with America and me.”

America purses her lips to keep from smiling too creepily big — Madisynn thinks she’s cool. “What should we do? Flash a peace sign? Peace sign’s a classic, right?” she asks, looking to her for approval.

“Hm.” Madisynn taps her chin with a perfectly manicured finger, wheels turning as she mentally composes the shot. “We’ll figure something out. Something with a cute pose. And you’re shortest, so you’re in the middle,” she says, taking America by the shoulders and moving her a few inches to the left.

“Sure.” America nods, watching and listening as intently as she did during magic lessons. Maybe more intently, but don’t tell Agatha that. She pulls an only slightly reluctant Wong closer so he’ll fit in the frame. “Of course. Direct me however you want."

Madisynn grins, pulling out her phone. “We look hot."

They do look hot — so hot, in fact, that they end up having nearly an entire photoshoot. Wong secretly enjoys it — she can tell. Madisynn is even generous enough to take selfies with all her Kamar-Taj friends as they trickle in, too.

It’s already shaping up to be the best birthday ever.

Chapter Text

America mingles with everyone while alternating between devouring pizza balls and cake balls. She’s not even sure how many she consumes, losing count after about 10. After taking a few more photos with Madisynn and forcing Strange to learn a TikTok dance against his will (it was her birthday, after all — it was the least he could do), she goes off to find one of her moms to say hi and get a rundown for the rest of the party — and also to make sure Agatha wasn’t feeling too homicidal toward Strange. They’d narrowly avoided bloodshed earlier, after all.

She finds Agatha leaning against the wall, eyeing Strange and getting a glare in return. “Hi,” Agatha greets, putting on a smile when she sees America bouncing over to her.

“Hi.” America grins back. “How’s it going over here?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Just keeping an eye on Strange. And keeping an eye on my favorite daughter,” she says, delicately running a hand through America’s hair.

“Aww, your favorite?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry — I won’t tell all your other daughters,” she teases.

Agatha playfully rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I’m sure, I’m sure.”

America laughs, leaning against the wall next to Agatha and taking a little breather from socializing to survey the crowd. It was a good turnout — a great turnout. It makes her a little emotional, knowing this many people were here for her. That she went from having nobody to...well, this. “It seems like everyone’s having fun, don’t you think?”

“I think so.” Agatha nods. “Everyone seems to be enjoying each other’s company…other than Stephen and me.” She throws a scowl in his direction.

“Well, yes, but that was never going to happen. You’ve both refrained from causing each other severe bodily harm so far, so I’m counting that as a win." She playfully nudges her with her elbow. "I'm very proud of your restraint."

“Mhm. The party isn’t over yet,” she says with a mischievous wink.

America rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches into an amused smile. “I believe in you. You don’t have that much longer to go.” Time was flying by fast — almost too fast. She wanted to enjoy and remember every second. “Although I sort of wish you did. I don’t ever want today to end.”

“I know,” Agatha says with another hand through her hair. “But I’m so glad you’ve loved the party.”

"So much,” America reiterates. “Best birthday ever — I’m not even exaggerating.”

Agatha gives her a soft smile. “Well, I’m glad.”

“Sooo…strictly out of curiosity, is there, like, an agenda for the rest of the party?” she asks as casually as possible, looking down at the floor in order to resist glancing at the pile of presents. She was eager, but she was also trying really hard to practice that whole patience thing Wanda was always on her about. And she didn’t want to seem ungrateful. She’d be perfectly happy if there weren’t any wrapped packages with her name on them. 

But there were. And she was kind of dying to see what was inside them.

Agatha glances at America’s line of sight, smile widening. “Do you want to open presents? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“What?! No,” she lies — badly. She looks up, meeting her gaze with a sheepish smile. “Okay, maybe,” she admits.

Agatha chuckles. “Go round everybody up.”

“Cool,” she says, her grin growing bigger. 

It doesn’t take long to get everyone together, the party gathering around her as she sits in a throne-like chair that makes her feel like a princess. The tiara — a classic quinceañera tradition — doesn’t hurt either. She makes her way through her friends’ gifts first, opening some candles, perfumes, and even a skateboard that Wanda, in natural overprotective fashion, seems a little wary of but that America can’t wait to try out. 

The next present in the pile is in sparkly, hot-pink wrapping paper with a lighter pink bow. “Wonder who this one’s from,” she teases, looking at Madisynn.

The brunette gasps in mock shock. “Duh. Me, of course. I hope you love it.”

“I’m sure I will,” America says, ripping open the paper, little pieces of glitter sticking to her hands and floating to the floor as she does.

“Great,” Stephen mumbles under his breath. “I’ll be finding that everywhere for the next decade or so.”

Agatha smirks at him. “I hope you do. Maybe it’ll get stuck to you, and everyone will finally recognize you for the sad clown you are.”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “Second time you’ve used the clown joke today. If you insist on antagonizing me, the least you could do is get some new material.”

“It’s not like you’ve gotten any ‘new material’ since we met. You repeatedly say the same annoying thing, so I’m sure I get a pass.”

“I’ve only had 40-something years to come up with my so-called ‘annoying things’ — in between becoming a neurosurgeon and superhero: two things you are not, last time I checked — compared to your 300. By my calculations, that means you’ve had quite a bit more time to brainstorm, wouldn’t you agree?” he snarks.

“Wow.” Agatha crosses her arms as she sizes him up, unimpressed. “Only 40-something? I would have guessed 60s at least. And I’m sure you had long hours in the OR to snap at your interns and residents to come up with material to steal. Can’t imagine you were a very…mm…amiable boss. At least in my 300 years, I’ve learned how to take the stick out of my ass.”

“Again, you’ve already mentioned the stick today,” he says, teeth gritted.

“And yet you still haven’t removed it. Honestly, not shocking considering you’re a stubborn, arrogant, sorry excuse for a man,” she mumbles.

“And encouraging my subordinates to waste their time on such petty, trivial matters isn’t really my style,” he continues, ignoring her last comment. “Though it is yours, evidently. Having America teach you lingo you’re far too old to be using…” He shakes his head with a scoff.

“For the record, America chose to teach me slang. Who am I to stifle my daughter’s creativity?” she asks with a patronizing, faux-innocent pout.

He balls his fist. Hearing her say the word ‘daughter’ in relation to America is like nails on a fucking chalkboard for him. He wanted America in his life, but he could definitely do without Agatha. Unfortunately, this new advancement pretty much sealed the deal that there was no hope of there being the former without the latter, too.

“Oh, I forgot,” he says sarcastically. “You, on the other hand, are a woman known for her easygoing nature and humility. A great listener who—”

“Hey,” America cuts him off. “Neither of you are being great listeners right now. You’re missing me opening Madisynn’s awesome…” America looks down at the now-open gift box, tilting her head. It’s clearly expensive…and trendy…and she doesn’t quite know what the hell it is. “Her awesome…um…” she looks at Madisynn quizzically, a silent plea to help her out.

“Oh my god. So,” Madisynn starts, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. “It’s this little handbag, but obviously, it’s shaped like a crab because you’re a cancer. It’s crossbody, too. I don’t know if you’re a purse girly, but it was blue and seemed up your alley.”

“Aww!” America squeals, lifting it from the box. Sure enough, a long strap unravels as she does, hanging down from it. She hugs it to her chest. “It’s perfect. I’m literally going to carry it, like, everywhere. Thank you.”

“I’m so glad.” Madisynn beams. “I know it’s a little quirky, but it totally seemed like your vibe.”

“It for sure is,” America eagerly agrees. She’s beyond flattered Madisynn has even once for one second contemplated what her vibe was — and is even more flattered that she thinks something as cool as this fits into it. 

Next, she picks up the gift bag that was sitting next to Madisynn’s — Wong’s, of course. When she removes the tissue paper and takes out the box, she wrinkles her brows. “A ring light?”

 “You don’t like it?” Wong asks, frowning a bit.

“No, I do,” she quickly reassures him. “I’m just…kind of surprised you know what a ring light is.”

“Madisynn may have helped pick it out…” he admits.

"Yeah.” Madisynn nods. “Wongers texted me asking about what to get you, and I was so happy to help with some recs. He picked this, though, in the end,” she says, giving Wong a proud nudge.

Wong smiles bashfully and shrugs. “It was a little selfish. My eyesight’s going in my old age, and the reviews promised that the upgraded lighting would help me see all your Tic-Tacs better.” 

America laughs. “TikToks,” she corrects. “But selfish or not, I love it. Thank you.” 

She reaches for a small, neatly wrapped box next, the nearly illegible doctor’s scribble meaning it could only be from one person. “This one’s Strange’s,” she announces. Agatha gives him a dubious glance. If America didn’t like it, she’d have words with this man.

America tears off the paper and opens the box to reveal a watch: not quite as fancy as the one he wears but still nice. Very nice. She knows how important the one Christine gave him is to him. Knows how special, how thoughtful, this is. She looks up at him. “I don’t know what to say,” she tells him softly. 

“Well, that’s a first,” he says with a laugh, giving her a small smile. “Flip it over.” 

She does as he says, turning it and reading three engraved words. The same words he said to her at her lowest point, when it seemed all was lost: Trust your power.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can even see Agatha give him a begrudging nod of approval. He’d done good.

America delicately lifts the watch and puts it on, narrowing her eyes a bit as she spies something else at the bottom of the box: a sheet of what looks like star stickers. “What’s this?” she asks. 

“Temporary tattoos,” Stephen replies. “You can wear them instead of getting that real one you want so badly.” 

“Oh my god." America rolls her eyes. 

“She’s still not getting a real one, right?” he asks, eyeing Agatha nervously. “That’s still the one thing we agree on?”

Agatha nods. “Not until she’s older,” she confirms.

America pouts. “I think I liked it better when you guys were fighting…” she mumbles.

“When you’re an adult, we’ll talk tattoo,” Agatha reminds her.

“I know, I know.” She sighs, turning to pick up the last gift — addressed from Agatha and Wanda. “Safe to say there’s probably not a tattoo gun in here, huh?”

“No, but I think you’ll still like it,” Agatha says, taking Wanda’s hand, who gives an encouraging nod and smile in confirmation.

“I’m sure I will,” she relents, smiling in return as she opens it up.

She’s quickly at a loss for words again. It’s a locket — one on a bracelet, a picture of the three of them inside. She’s struck by the beauty of it. The symbolism, too. It went perfectly with the necklace from her other moms — a similar color, a similar chain — but it was still unique. Its own thing. 

She looks up at them, misty-eyed. “Will you help me put it on?” she asks quietly. The small clasp was hard enough even when her hands weren’t shaky, overwhelmed by emotion.

“Happy to.” Wanda nods, gently taking it from her hands and wrapping it around her wrist — the opposite one that the watch was on. 

“Thanks,” she says as Wanda secures the clasp. “You guys so didn’t have to get me anything, though, you know. This party was enough — more than enough.”

“We wanted to get you something to remind you that we’re family,” Agatha says.

America smiles, looking down at the bracelet again and lightly running her thumb over the locket. “Well, you succeeded,” she says softly. 

It would serve as a nice reminder — a tangible one she could always look at when she needed — whenever her past planted a seed of doubt in her mind. Told her she was too dangerous, too broken — that she didn’t deserve one.

Agatha envelops her in a tight hug, quickly followed by Wanda. She hugs back just as tight, the bracelet lightly jangling as she does, not even caring that all her friends can see.

The party ends not long after, people slowly filtering out. Wanda stays back to help Strange clean up, while Agatha takes America back to the Westview house so they can watch some fireworks in the backyard once it got dark — the perk of having her birthday fall on the Fourth of July.

It was official. Best. Birthday. Ever.

Chapter Text

Neither Wanda nor Strange is particularly great at making small talk. They frequently team up on missions, sure, but that’s strictly business. The fact they find themselves cleaning up the Sanctum post-Quinceañera alone isn’t exactly a recipe for easy conversation.

After a few minutes of unbearably awkward silence, Wanda clears her throat as she magically disposes of some of the wrapping paper strewn out on the floor. “Sorry about Agatha today.”

“It’s not your fault,” Strange bitterly mutters in response, working on the demolished food table. God, those kids could eat. “That woman does and says whatever she wants regardless of what anyone else does, says, or wants. Honestly, I don’t know how you put up with it. Or why, for that matter.”

Wanda frowns, pausing her task to look at him. “Stephen. I know you may not like her—”

“Hey, it’s pretty clear she doesn’t care too much for me either,” he defends. “That feeling seems to be mutual.”

“And you’re entitled to your own opinion.” Wanda nods. “But she’s someone who’s helped pull me out of the dark. Sometimes she may be brash and too blunt—”

“Sometimes?”

“—but she’s also kind, protective, and loving. She’s a wonderful mother to America, and she may be hardheaded, but that’s because she listens to what she’s feeling. She stands her ground, and I love her for it.” Wanda places a hand on her hip. “I love her period. That’s why I put up with her.”

Stephen sighs, choosing his words carefully. He and Wanda had come a long way — the last thing he wanted to do was ruin that like he’d done so many times before. “Look, I haven’t been lucky enough to see these rumored good qualities you speak of, but I’m glad to hear that she’s helped you out of a rough time — I really am. And she does seem like she would curse an entire family’s bloodline for so much as looking at America the wrong way,” he admits. “After all that kid’s been through, she deserves someone like that looking out for her.”

Wanda nods, resuming her wrapping paper cleanup. “Agatha would do anything for America. She’s been through so much…they deserve each other. She seems to understand the balance of strict and fun as a mom, and she and America rarely argue. She just…she’s good,” she says quietly, smiling to herself.

“I’ll…take your word for it,” Stephen settles on, folding the last leg of the cleared-off cake table and propping it against the wall. If he were pressed to describe Agatha, ‘good’ would certainly not be at the top of the list, nor anywhere near it. “What about you and the kid — do you argue a lot?”

Wanda shrugs. “Not really. More than her and Agatha, though. America says I’m too protective.”

“Considering she can’t go a day without begging someone to let her repeatedly shove needles into her skin to permanently ink her body, that doesn’t surprise me.” He rolls his eyes. “My advice: start being even more protective. She’s a good kid, but she’s also a teenager,” he says, beginning to wrangle some of the balloons. “Not trying to ‘mansplain parenting’ to you — I know you know you’re more than capable,” he clarifies. “I just…I care about her, too.”

Wanda blinks, a little surprised Strange of all people knows what mansplaining is. (The truth is, he had to look it up after one of the numerous memes America had sent him.) “I know you do,” she says after getting over her initial shock at the extent of his modern vocabulary. “And trust me when I say I’m always protective. I’d do anything to keep her safe. Both of us would.”

“Good.” He nods. “That’s good. That’s…all that matters, I suppose — my personal feelings on Agatha notwithstanding.” He begins the daunting task of sweeping up the glitter. “Speaking of feelings and Agatha, I noticed you used the word ‘love’ earlier. I know it’s none of my business, but it seems pretty serious — any plans to make that official? I’m sure America would be ecstatic to be a bridesmaid, another fancy dress and all…”

Wanda freezes for a second, considering. “I hadn’t really considered it — only because I don’t want to lose her,” she quietly admits.

“I’m no expert on marriage, but I think the whole point is it’s supposed to decrease the chances of you losing someone.” He sets the broom down in order to look at her with an uncharacteristically sincere expression. “And I’m certainly no expert on Agatha — nor would I want to be…” he can’t help but mutter. “But from where I’m standing, I can’t imagine there’s anything you could do to lose her.”

Wanda turns to face him with a sigh. “I hope not. I love her more than anything, and truthfully, I would love to marry her someday.”

“Well, there’s no need to rush anything. She’s lived 300 years, and I’m sure she’ll live at least 300 more — if only to spite me.” He bristles before softening again. “Look, uh…if you want to use the Sanctum for anything — a proposal, a wedding, etcetera — you’re welcome to it. Whether I’m invited or not,” he offers, equal parts awkward and earnest.

Wanda walks over to take one of his hands.  “Thank you,” she says, giving it a squeeze. “I know she’s not your favorite, but she’s my everything.”

“Of course.” He squeezes her hand back, giving her a smile. “I really am glad you’ve found an everything after…” his voice trails off. He doesn’t want to get into the specifics — imagines she doesn’t either. “Well, everything,” he settles on.

Her face drops a bit at that. “I still have a place in my heart for them, you know. Vision, the kids. They're still so loved, as is everyone else I’ve lost. Agatha and America can be my everythings now because I’m learning to live with my grief.”

“Of course,” he repeats, giving her hand another squeeze. “I would never question that, and anyone who knows you wouldn’t either. You’ve always had a big heart — I have no doubt there’s plenty of room for all of them in it. And you deserve to feel that love back.”

She gives him a genuine smile. “I appreciate that. And how far we’ve come.”

“As do I,” he agrees, smiling back.

The moment is interrupted by Wanda’s phone buzzing in her back pocket. She pulls it out to see a series of texts from America:

are you coming to the house to watch fireworks soon??

can you pick up mcdonalds on the way?? 😇🙏

pls 🥺 it’s still my bday 

Wanda smiles before looking up at Stephen. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll head home soon.”

“Not at all — I can manage the rest,” Stephen assures her. “Go be with your family.”

“Thank you. And thank you for having the party here, even if Agatha did threaten you into it.” She laughs.

“Of course. Anything for America.” Stephen shrugs. “And Agatha was right — this did end up being the perfect location for it,” he admits. A beat. “But if you tell her I said that, I will deny it.”

Wanda holds her hands up. “Lips are sealed,” she promises.

America blinks, sitting up a little from her place lying on a blanket in Agatha’s backyard. “Mom?” she asks after what she thinks is a portal appears — they and some of the fireworks looked suspiciously alike. “Is that you?”

Wanda steps through. “It’s me. Strange is taking care of the rest.”

“Nice.” She nods, sitting up a little more. “Did you bring the goods?” she asks. Yes, she just told Agatha an hour ago she was so full of pizza and cake balls she felt like she was gonna explode. Yes, she’s now hungry again and craving nuggets. Both things could be — and were — true.

She shakes her head. “We have food here.”

America scowls. “Today is, like, the one day you’re not allowed to use the ‘food at home’ argument.”

“I also wanted to get here as quickly as possible.”

“Why? What’s the rush?”

Wanda playfully rolls her eyes, though a soft smile spreads across her face as she sits down next to America. “I wanted to be with my family. Is that such a crime?”

America’s mouth twitches into a small smile as well. She scoots closer to Wanda, resting her head on her shoulder. “I can’t be salty when you say something all nice like that.”

“Well, I mean it,” she reiterates, kissing the top of her head.

“I know, I know. We wanted you to hurry and be here, too,” she admits. “How was your one-on-one time with Strange? Was he grumpy? He always gets grumpy after being around people all day.”

“It was good, actually. He and I had a nice chat.”

“Oh, yeah?” America raises a brow. “About me?” she pries.

“Mm, not exactly. About our family. All good things, though,” she assures her.

“Good.” America nods. “That’s good.” 

She lies back so she can see the fireworks better. It’s sort of what she feels like inside — warm and bright and with a crackling sort of energy. “You know, I’ve kinda been thinking about that thing he said about our family earlier,” America says after a few moments.

“Yeah?” Agatha asks, running a hand through America’s hair. “What about it?”

“Just, like, that question he had. About adoption?” She purses her lips, picking at a little grass just beyond the blanket. “How would you guys…feel about that?” she asks.

Agatha tilts her head, considering for a moment. “I don’t think we’d mind,” she says, glancing at Wanda.

Wanda nods gently. “I think we’d like that.”

“Okay.” America smiles, relieved. “Okay, cool. I think I’d like it, too. Because I know it may not seem like a big deal since I already call you moms and you said yes to the last name thing and I live with you — it’d mostly be symbolic.” Her voice grows a little softer. “But…it’s still sort of a big deal, isn’t it? To make it official official? And symbols can be nice sometimes, can’t they? Like with the bracelet?” she rambles, glancing at the charm on her wrist.

“If it’s something you want, we’d be honored,” Agatha says softly.

It was nice to know the ball was firmly in her court — that it was first and foremost her decision — but she’s never been more sure of anything in her life.

“I do,” America says quickly. “I want it. A lot. And I know it’s mostly just a symbol to us — we know we’re a family — but, like, the government and stuff cares about that kind of thing sometimes.” She had a hard time trusting institutions like that — partly due to Agatha’s cynical influence and partly due to her own negative experiences with everyone from skeptical doctors to social workers who didn’t listen to a word she said in nearly every universe she’d ever been to. “So this way there’s nothing…” A beat. That’s not true. There were never guarantees — there were surprise portals and evil people and just plain old bad luck that didn’t care about papers and forms. “…there are fewer things,” she quietly amends, “that could break us apart, you know?”

“I know.” Wanda nods, giving her a small smile. “I get it.”

“Good.” America looks up at her. “Because I don’t…I don’t think I can go through losing my family again. Losing you. I don’t think I’d survive it,” she softly admits.

“You don’t have to worry about losing us,” Wanda says, tenderly bruising the bangs from her eyes.

She’s still going to worry, she knows. At least a little. There would always likely be a little bit of anxiety about that with her past. But she decides she’s not going to worry about it now. Tonight, she was just going to enjoy the last little bit of her birthday watching the fireworks. “Do I have to worry about losing you to sleep before midnight again?” she teases.

Wanda playfully rolls her eyes. “No, not this time.”

“Okay, good. Come down here so you can see the fireworks better,” America says, pulling her so she’s lying next to her on the blanket. She curls into her side. “And so I can use you as a pillow.”

Wanda wraps an arm around her, pulling her close. “What, you’re not going to yank Agatha down?” she teases.

“I was getting to that,” she says, stretching her arm out to grab Agatha’s hand and tugging her down, too.

“Hold on,” Agatha grunts as she adjusts herself. “I’m coming.”

“Well, hurry up,” America says unsympathetically. “What’s the good of having a human pillow if I don’t have a human blanket, too?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, turning on her side to face her. “So I’m your human blanket?” she asks dryly.

“Yup.” She nods seriously. “You’re all cozy and warm.”

Agatha can’t help but crack a smile at that. “Well, I’m glad I can be.”

She smiles back before looking at the sky again, nestled between them. “Thanks again for today,” she says softly. “It’s seriously the best birthday I’ve ever had. Maybe the best birthday anyone has ever had.”

“I’m glad you loved it so much,” Agatha says, kissing America’s temple.

America’s eyes flutter shut for just a moment as she does — she feels so content, so secure that she could fall asleep. But she forces her eyes open again — she couldn’t be a hypocrite after she teased Wanda. She’d never live it down if she herself didn’t make it until midnight. 

So she watches the fireworks fizzle out, taking her birthday with it. It’s bittersweet, the ending of the day. But she’s never been quite so excited for the beginning of a new year. A new age. A new beginning.

A new her.

Chapter Text

With 15 comes…more. Of everything, it seems. In good ways: Agatha was teaching her more complex spells, Wanda and Strange were developing a more genuine friendship, and America was feeling slightly more secure now that the adoption was officially underway. (Though there is still that nagging fear that the rug could be pulled out from under her at any moment. That it was too good to be true. That she might say the wrong thing to the wrong person and ruin everything.)

But it’s more in some…not so good ways, too. Agatha was assigning more homework. (And therefore making America feel more overwhelmed, more behind, more frustrated.) Wanda was growing more overprotective. (Legitimately pondering the necessity of hospitalization after she sustained a few tiny scrapes on her skateboard before Agatha thankfully talked her down. Forbidding her from swimming in the pond without supervision despite it being shallow and a short distance from the cabin. Not allowing her to keep candles in her room for fear one could catch flame on something and start a fire — never mind the fact that Agatha was going to teach her how to magically conjure fire in a matter of weeks.) And, in turn, America was feeling more angsty and restless than she had in a long, long time.

It was bound to happen, really — all the factors culminating in a blowup like this. It’s just a fact of life: mothers and daughters fought. Wanda and America had fought before — from the car and cat incident to the dangers of the new skateboard tricks and TikTok challenges America was always desperate to try — but not like this. Never like this.

It didn’t happen that often anymore — portaling to the wrong place. After over a year of training from Agatha, she had much more control now. 

But just because it didn’t happen often didn’t mean it didn’t happen at all, especially when there were other factors involved. She was upset — no, she was mad — and strong emotions tended to throw things out of whack. The anger (and yes, okay, maybe the bit of alcohol…) flowing through her veins probably interfered. 

“This isn’t the alley outside Vinny’s Pizzeria,” she mumbles in frustration as she steps out of the portal and into a diner. God, could this day get any worse? She freezes when she realizes that, yes, it certainly could. She always tried to portal somewhere discreet so as not to attract attention. 

The good news: the restaurant is dead, the staff in the kitchen and the man in the corner still practically asleep behind his newspaper. They don’t seem to have noticed her…unconventional entrance. 

The bad news: there are two women in a booth — a tall Asian woman and a shorter blonde one — who definitely did. “Uh…hi,” she says slowly.

The Asian woman shoots the blonde one a concerned look before sliding out of the booth and taking a few cautious steps toward her. “Hi,” she says, giving her a soft smile.

“Hi,” America repeats flatly — on guard with this stranger and still seething from her argument with Wanda.

“What’s up?” the woman asks, revealing a British accent. “It doesn’t seem like this is where you were trying to go.”

“No. Not exactly,” America admits, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing out the window. It was still New York, thankfully, so at least she seemed to have only missed her intended location by blocks and not continents or multiverses. 

She looks back at the woman, keeping her distance. She didn’t seem freaked out or pissed off, at least — a small mercy. America wasn’t yet advanced enough in her magic to wipe memories, and she did not want to have to ask one of her moms for help doing that. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with them at the moment, hence her current predicament. “Anywhere beats being home right now, though,” she says, bitterly nudging the floor with her boot.

The woman nods. “I see. Who are you? And where’s home, if you don’t mind me asking?” she asks with a tilt of her head.

“America,” she says before realizing that answer could be confusing. “That’s my name, I mean,” she clarifies. “America Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness, but that’s a mouthful, so you can just call me America. Home is in Russia. Well, and New Jersey, kinda. But mainly Russia most of the time.”

“Russia?” the blonde at the table speaks up. “Is where I’m from, too. Yelena,” she says by way of introduction, lifting her hand in a wave.

“And I’m Sersi,” the woman replies. “Russia’s quite a long way off…” she muses, seemingly more to herself than America.

“Nice to meet you both,” she says — she might be in a bad mood, but she still had manners. “And yeah, I guess.” She shrugs. Between her portals and the fact she’s been in dozens of universes, the distance between here and the cabin doesn’t really faze her. 

Sersi nods. “First things first: are you okay? Physically?” She gives her a once-over.

“I’m fine,” she promises, a wave of dizziness hitting her at that exact moment — because of course it does. She grabs onto the chair next to her to balance herself. “My head just feels a little fuzzy. And my nose is kinda sore.” She reaches up to touch her freshly pierced nostril with her free hand.

“Do you know why?” Sersi asks with a worried tilt of her head.

“Yes, and don’t worry — I’m not, like, concussed or anything,” she assures her. “It’s just…sort of a long story.” She sighs. 

“Well, we have time for a long story,” Sersi says. “Do you want to sit with us for a minute?”

America looks over at the table. It would probably be a good idea to sit down, maybe eat something. It’s tempting. And yet... “I don’t want to ruin your breakfast…”

“Nonsense.” Sersi waves her off with another soft smile. “I’m inviting you.”

“Okay,” America relents, returning the small grin. Something about Sersi seemed nice. Trustworthy. “If you’re sure.” 

She allows herself to be guided to the booth, sliding in across from them. The server comes by as soon as she does, and she follows their lead, ordering coffee and waffles. She sighs as the waiter leaves, figuring she’d delayed the inevitable long enough. She was going to have to start talking about what had happened. 

“I was literally just doing my homework,” she starts, already on the defensive. “Practicing a basic transmutation spell. That’s where you turn one thing into another. So…I turned a glass of water into vodka.” She casually shrugs, tracing a scratch on the table. Agatha hadn’t said to work with that particular substance, but she also technically hadn’t said not to either. 

“Holy shit,” Yelena says, hiding a laugh behind her mug of coffee. “Can you teach me how to do that?” she jokes.

Sersi shoots Yelena a look before turning her attention back to America. “And you drank the vodka? I’m assuming that didn’t go over well with your…parents?” she guesses.

“I drank some,” America says, though it was really more like most. “But only because I was curious, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.” 

“Is criminal to waste vodka.” Yelena nods. Sersi kicks her under the table. 

“I was going to pour the rest down the bathroom sink, but right when I was about to, I looked in the mirror and remembered how much I wanted a nose ring, and I remembered that alcohol is a disinfectant, so I kind of had the perfect idea to, you know, use it to clean my nose before piercing it,” America explains.

“Is like time my sister dyed her hair blue,” Yelena chimes in again. 

“And of course my mom — one of them, Wanda — came home super early.” She rolls her eyes, irritation flaring again as she recounts the events. “We got into this huge fight. She was like, ‘I can’t believe you’re drinking! I can’t believe you’re shoving a needle in your face! I can’t believe you’re shoving a needle in your face while you’re drinking! Do you have any idea how reckless that is?!’ And I was like, ‘Okay, chill out. First of all, every teenager drinks, and it’s not like I’m driving anywhere. Second of all, this tiny little needle isn’t going to hurt me — you’re being so dramatic. And third of all, like, it’s my body, and I’m going to punch as many holes in it as I want whenever I want.’ Well, that made her freak out even more, and eventually, I just couldn’t take it anymore — she was being so unreasonable and driving me so crazy — so I portaled here to get away from her.” She huffs out a breath, slumping back against the booth. “So, yeah. It didn’t go over well.”

Yelena lets out a whistle, which causes Sersi to lightly elbow her. “That sounds rough,” Sersi says. “But it seems like your mom is just trying to protect you.”

“That’s the problem — she’s so overprotective. Like, all the time,” America sulks, fiddling with her napkin. 

“I’m sure it’s only because she cares, but I understand how it could be frustrating,” Sersi relents. “Will you at least stay here with us until you go back?”

“Not unless you want me to stay here with you for the rest of my life because I’m not going back. Ever,” America stubbornly declares.

“You’ll have to eventually,” Sersi says gently.

“We’ll see,” America retorts, noncommittal. 

“I can see you’re upset.” Sersi sighs. “We can change the subject for now if you want.”

“Okay,” America agrees. The other subject was only making her mad. “To what?”

“Anything.” Sersi shrugs. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” She racks her brain for a topic that would make her seem grown-up and mature. “What do you two…do for a living?” she settles on as the waiter appears with their food.

“That’s a complicated question. Very complicated,” Sersi says. “But simply put, I’m an anthropologist.”

“What do anthropologists do?”

“Another complex question. Let’s just say I’ve done quite a bit and been around awhile.” She laughs.

“Really?” America raises a curious eyebrow. "Like what stuff? How long’s a while?” She cuts into her waffle. “Sorry if that’s, like, rude to ask.”

“It’s not rude,” Sersi assures her with a shake of her head. “I’ve been around since the beginning of civilization. I’m what’s called an Eternal — a race of synthetic being sent to various planets to help humanity along.”

“Whoa.” America’s eyes widen. No wonder she hadn’t seemed fazed by the portal or her talk of magic. “That’s so cool. I was gonna say, you don’t look like you’ve been around since the beginning of civilization, but I know looks can be deceiving.” She pours some more syrup onto her waffle. “My mama doesn’t look like she’s been around since the 1600s either.”

“I’m glad I’m still cool — I was afraid I’d lost that.” Sersi chuckles.

“What about you?” America asks, turning to Yelena.

“Contractor,” she says vaguely with a shrug. “Project management.” 

America narrows her eyes, not quite believing her for some reason. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but nothing about her seems to fit the role. Not that she really knows what the hell a project management contractor actually means or does — it just sounded officey, and Yelena does not look the office type. “Got it.” She nods slowly anyway, deciding not to push the subject. Why would she? “That’s…cool, too,” she says, notably less enthusiastic than she’d been about Sersi’s information.

Sersi, however, seems to think it’s the most amazing thing ever. She glances over at Yelena, smiling as she takes her hand underneath the table. “It’s very impressive.”

“Not nearly as impressive as you,” Yelena says, smiling back. 

They weren’t quite as mushy as Wanda and Agatha had been when they first started dating, but this little exchange was sure giving them a run for their money. “So how long have you two been together?” America asks casually, taking another bite of waffle.

Sersi blushes, choosing this moment to take a large bite of food — an obvious stalling tactic. “Uh, we aren’t together…” she says once she finally swallows. “At least not…yet…or officially. It’s not that I don’t like her — I do. A lot…” she defends before trailing off.

“Right. Same,” Yelena rushes to say. “Is just…new and…are taking things slow...with the labels...” 

America shakes her head. They had more in common with her moms than just the mush, it seemed. “You and my moms are single-handedly breaking the U-Haul stereotype, I swear.”

Sersi tilts her head, “U-Haul stereotype?”

Oh, right. She was old. “It’s the idea that lesbians move, like, super fast in relationships. Like, ‘move in together after one date’ fast,” she explains.

“Ah, I see.” Sersi nods. A beat. “I mean, Yelena is staying with me currently,” she admits. “But it’s not because of that. It’s because of…other circumstances.”

“Huh. Interesting.” America notes, taking a sip of coffee. “Maybe you guys aren’t special after all.” 

“Oh, as opposed to you? Getting drunk and piercing face as teen rebellion? Sooo original,” Yelena sarcastically teases.

Sersi rolls her eyes. “Point is,” she says, steering them back on track. “I don’t know if we count as a U-Haul stereotype or not, but we are doing things our own way.”

“No, that’s good,” America says, turning serious as she nods in agreement. “You shouldn’t listen to the world when it, like, tells you that you have to do stuff a certain way.” She stabs her waffle with a little too much force. “Or me, for that matter. I clearly don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” she mumbles. How did she end up here? In this mess?

“And that’s okay,” Sersi says, her voice encouraging. “You’re still young — you’ll find your way eventually.”

“I’m not that young,” she can’t help but mutter in protest — because that was the root of all of this, really. Not wanting to be treated like a kid. “But yeah, I guess. Hopefully.”

“Trust me — it’ll be fine,” Sersi promises. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now.”

America nods, not quite believing her. If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t feel like she had anything figured out. 

The table grows quiet for a few moments before Yelena changes the subject. “What did you say last name was again?” 

America wrinkles an eyebrow — not the question she was expecting. “Chavez?” 

“No, the other one.”

“Harkness?” 

“Other one.” 

“Maximoff?”

Yelena studies her face, putting the pieces together. “And you said Wanda, right? Wanda Maximoff is your mom?” 

“Y-yeah…why?” America stutters with a blink before narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Oh my god, did she send you here? Are you, like, a spy? If so, that’s so messed up.” 

“No, no.” Yelena breathes out a laugh, shaking her head before pausing for a beat. “I mean, I am spy—” she admits. 

America points at her. “I knew you weren’t a project manager!" 

“—but not for her.” Yelena's gaze drops, her energy changing as she focuses hard on her plate, a flicker of pain crossing her expression. “She…knew my sister. Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow.” 

“Oh.” America nods, solemn realization crossing her own features. She knows that name. Wanda didn’t love to dig into the past, but when she did, Natasha’s name came up almost every time. Came up the first day they reunited — the last time they were in New York. “Yeah. She talks about her sometimes. She said she was one of her best friends,” she says softly.

Sersi reaches for Yelena's hand again, squeezing it tight. “Your mom knew Natasha? So she was one of the ones who helped when Thanos was around? What’s she like?”

“Yeah, she fought Thanos,” America says. “She…doesn’t like to talk about that much. She lost a lot because of him.” 

She knows, then, that she will have to go back. That, as frustrated as she is with her, she won’t make her lose yet another person. She doesn’t deserve that. She sighs, shoving her food around her plate. 

“Like I said, she’s super overprotective — super needs to relax and stop worrying about me as much as she does — but…she’s pretty patient for the most part,” America admits. “And brave. And kind. The world treated her like shit, but she still, like, sees the good in it.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. She’s sort of my hero, I guess.”

Sersi gives her a soft smile. “I can tell you love and care for her a lot — she’s lucky to have you. I bet she worries because she’s lost so much,” she gently reasons. “And because she loves and cares for you a lot, too.”

“I know,” America says softly, some of her anger morphing into guilt.

Sersi must sense this, thankfully changing the topic again. “And your other mom? What’s she like?”

“Agatha is…definitely more cynical,” America says. “But just as brave. And super smart. Hilarious. Has, like, impeccable taste when it comes to music and clothes and—” She absentmindedly glances out the window, catching a glance of some of those clothes, along with a familiar head of unruly brown hair. “—oh my god.” America must look comical, eyes practically popping out of their sockets like a cartoon character. But the situation is the furthest thing from funny. She swallows hard. “She’s right outside."

Chapter Text

America quickly turns her face the moment she spots Agatha, shielding it with her hand despite the fact she definitely already saw her and they definitely made eye contact. “Shit. She’s gonna kill me. And then probably do some spell to resurrect me just so she can kill me again,” she panics.

“It’ll be okay,” Sersi assures her — something America is not at all certain about.

The bell on the door rings a moment later, and Agatha enters, approaching the table. “America Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness,” she says sternly.

America bites her lip, reluctantly uncovering her face and turning her head to look at her. “Heeey,” she slowly greets. “Fancy meeting you here?” she tries with a nervous smile.

Agatha crosses her arms, unamused. “What happened? I want to hear it from you. And who are these people?”

America anxiously purses her lips. She doesn’t know where to start, how to explain any of it. Agatha seems predictably irritated, but she also looks tired — like she’s been through hell. 

Thankfully, Yelena speaks up to help the process along and buy her some time. “I’m Yelena,” she introduces herself before nodding across the table. “That’s Sersi. You are Agatha, yes?”

“Yes, Agatha Harkness.”

“Nice to meet you.” Yelena nods. “Your daughter has told us lot about you. Would you like to have seat while you two talk?” She gestures at the table before nudging her plate toward her. “Would you like to have waffle? Am not going to finish it. Was overambitious order.”

“All right,” Agatha says with a reluctant sigh, looking back at America. “Scoot,” she orders, and America does what she’s told, sliding over to make more room.

As Agatha sits, America squirms upon the realization that 1) she was truly trapped now — there was no getting out of this booth or this conversation and 2) everyone was looking at her expectantly. She clears her throat, gesturing to the waffles Yelena had offered. “You should seriously try those, Mama. They’re, like, really good,” she says, a pathetic stalling tactic.

Agatha doesn't even spare them a glance, laser-focused on interrogating America. "Out with it," she commands. "What exactly happened with you and Wanda?” America hates it when she gets like this — so direct and to the point. But she figures that she should follow suit. Rip the band-aid.

She takes a deep breath. “I kinda maybe used the transmutation spell to make vodka and kinda maybe drank some of it and kinda maybe pierced my nose and when Mom got home and flipped a shi—” She just barely stops herself from cursing, not imagining that’d go over super well. “—flipped out, I kinda maybe portaled away,” she says quickly, all in one big ramble. She sinks down in the booth. It sounded…well, not very good, with it all laid out like that. “Kinda. Maybe. But she’s overreacting!”

Agatha can’t help but let out another sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re 15 — you shouldn’t be drinking, and you know that. She reacted the way she did because piercing yourself, especially under the influence, can be incredibly dangerous.”

“Okay, but it was just a little bit — I just wanted to see what it was like — and I was at home, which is way more responsible than drinking somewhere else,” she justifies with a little huff. Why did she even make her tell the story if she was just going to side with Wanda anyway? “It barely even hurt. It only bled a little, and it looks cool, see?” She tilts her head so she can get a better view.

Agatha takes her chin to more closely examine it — though not, it seems, to gauge its awesomeness. “The pain isn’t what I’m worried about,” she says, squinting at the piercing. “It could get infected.” After she’s sufficiently assured it’s not already a medical emergency, she lets go of America’s face, wrapping an arm around her instead. America stiffens a little at this — maybe out of teen rebellion, maybe because she doesn’t feel like she deserves it right now, maybe a little bit of both. “As for the drinking, yes, it’s more responsible to do at home in comparison to somewhere else, but it’s still irresponsible to do anywhere at your age, young lady,” she continues to lecture.

America looks down at her lap, playing with the hem of her jacket. She hadn’t really thought about that — the risk of infection. Hadn’t really thought about the consequences of any of it.

Agatha surprises her, though, by sighing again and saying, “Though I understand why you did it, I think, and we need to chat about that at some point. All three of us.”

“You understand why I did it?” she asks quietly. She doesn’t even completely understand why she did it — just that she wanted to, badly. Part of her needed to almost.

“Mhm.” Agatha starts absentmindedly rubbing a hand up and down her arm. “I’d guess it has to do with you feeling like Wanda’s too protective.”

“Yeah,” she admits. “It can just feel sort of suffocating, you know? Especially when I did pretty much whatever I wanted for eight years. There are, like, rules and boundaries now, and sometimes I don’t like living in them. Sometimes I don’t even know how to live in them.” A little part of her, maybe, even felt like she had to test them — just to make sure the two of them would still be there if she did. Make them prove it.

Agatha slowly nods. “I hear you, and I get where you’re coming from, but that doesn’t excuse your behavior. Drinking and piercing yourself is already not okay, but abusing magic to do it is completely unacceptable, not to mention a violation of my trust as your teacher. And then running away?” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue in admonishment. “Never the answer, my dear. There will be no more of that. Do I make myself clear?”

America swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Agatha softens a bit, deeming her sufficiently repentant. “Wanda loves you very much and is just trying to make sure you’re okay, even if she doesn’t always go about it perfectly.”

“I know,” she softly confesses.

“Next time, you calm down and talk to her instead of acting out. Is that understood?”

“Yes. I…I’ll try,” America promises. It’s like the red-hot fire of anger, of frustration, is suddenly put out by an icy wave of shame crashing over her. She knows Agatha is right — that Wanda isn’t the only one who messed up. That she messed up, too — and messed up about a thousand times worse. She bites her lip, finally risking a glance up at her. “Am I in a lot of trouble?”

Agatha gives her an unsympathetic shrug. “I can tell you right now you’re grounded from magic for the next two weeks — longer if you so much as think about pulling another stunt like this. The rest is up to Wanda.”

She bites her lip harder, her voice getting softer. “Is she really mad?”

“I can’t speak for her. I know we were both worried about you, and she was upset. I tracked your magic and came to find you so she could cool off.”

“Right.” America cringes. If Wanda had to cool off, the answer to that question was probably yes. She wasn’t particularly eager — or ready — to find out. “I know I’m in, like, no position to ask this, but could we pleeeease maybe wait for her to cool off a liiiittle longer?” she asks hopefully. “This breakfast is god-tier, and these two are cool,” she says, gesturing to Sersi and Yelena with her fork. “You and Mom could use more couple friends.” 

“Oh, we’re not—" Yelena awkwardly starts. 

America rolls her eyes, cutting her off. “Sorry. You and Mom could use more ‘whatever these two are’ friends,” she corrects.

Agatha can’t help but breathe out a small laugh. “We’ll give it a minute.” She glances over at Sersi and Yelena across the table. “Sorry if all this was awkward for you.”

Yelena waves her off with a smile. “Is all good. Really. You spend enough time around my papa, you get immune to awkward,” she teases, though her voice makes it sound like there’s more than a little truth to it. 

“Oh?” Agatha raises a brow. “He must be quite the person then.”

“He’s certainly something,” Yelena says with a small laugh, though it’s tinged with a hint of sadness. “Haven’t seen him in a while,” she admits. 

“How come?” America asks with a wrinkle of her brow before shaking her head. “Sorry. Rude. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.” 

“No, it's okay,” Yelena reassures her with a sigh. “Let’s just say…you’re not the only one guilty of running from things.”

Sersi grips Yelena’s hand, shuffling closer to her. “You’re doing the best you can,” she whispers. Yelena gives her a weak smile, rubbing her thumb over Sersi’s hand in thanks.

“What are you running from?” America asks softly. 

Yelena takes a deep breath, debating how to answer. How much to reveal. “Things were…hard after my sister…” she trails off, not wanting to say the words. Risk getting choked up in front of strangers. “I left home, threw self into work. I’m a…project manager,” she explains to Agatha. 

America rolls her eyes, taking a bite of waffle. “She’s a spy.”

“Dude. Seriously?” Yelena shoots her a look.

“What?” America asks around the mouthful of food. 

“Do you not understand confidentiality is kind of foundation of profession? Fucking teenagers, man…” Yelena shakes her head.

“Well, she’s impossible to lie to.” America shrugs. “Trust me — I’ve tried.”

Agatha gives her a little nudge. “Maybe next time we don’t blurt out someone else’s secret.”

“Sorry,” America says, lifting her hands in innocence. “I didn’t know it was a big deal. And come on, you didn’t really believe she was a project manager, did you?” America asks, highly skeptical.

Agatha sighs, glancing at Yelena for a beat before focusing her attention back on America. “I didn’t,” she admits. “But that isn't the point.”

“Congratulations, you are one of two people in world I apparently cannot lie to,” Yelena says dryly. “Was trained in deception, for god's sake.”

“Who’s the other one?” America asks. 

Yelena rolls her eyes. “My mother.”

Agatha snorts. “Perhaps it’s maternal instinct then.”

“Perhaps,” Yelena agrees with a groan, playing with her napkin. “Am seeing her for first time in long while soon, too. Hoping she has same…maternal forgiveness as you.”

“She’s your mom.” Agatha shrugs. “I think, from my perspective anyway, I’d love my kid no matter what — even if we had to have a hard conversation or two,” she says gently.

America scoots the food around her plate with her fork, guilt creeping up in her chest again. Agatha’s own mother certainly didn’t share that sentiment. She was lucky to have her and Wanda, and she took that for granted sometimes. 

It seems to marginally reassure Yelena at least, and she gives her a small smile. “Thank you,” she says earnestly. “Appreciate the perspective. Have reason to be optimistic, I think, but…” She holds up her crossed fingers. “We will see.”

Sersi gives Agatha a grateful smile before squeezing Yelena’s hand again. “I’ll be there with you the whole time. It’ll be okay.”

Yelena’s smile grows a bit at that. She turns, lightly touching her forehead to Sersi’s. “You will be best buffer. Not to mention most beautiful.”

A blush rises in Sersi’s cheeks. “You’re too sweet to me, love.”

“You are sweet one,” Yelena argues. “Especially when you have little bit of syrup on face,” she says, gesturing to the corner of her mouth.

Sersi blushes harder at that, turning her head to quickly wipe off the syrup. “There.”

“Mm, no…did not get it all. Let me help,” she teases, leaning forward to gently kiss her. Sersi lets out a pleased hum as Yelena’s lips lock with hers. 

America wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t know what she did to deserve being around the horniest people alive all the time. 

Well, yeah she does. She got tipsy off of magically acquired vodka, pierced her nose, and ran away. Maybe this is karma. She doesn’t want to face Wanda, but she also doesn’t want to keep interrupting their day/date/whatever. 

She chooses the more selfless of two evils, clearing her throat. “Well, we better get going.” She reaches into her jacket pocket, coming up empty. Shit. “I…kinda forgot my wallet,” she admits to Agatha. “I’ll pay you back?”

Agatha sighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll cover it.” She pulls out two twenties and slides them Sersi and Yelena’s way.

“Oh, please — her food was, like, eight dollars. We got it,” Yelena says, sliding the bills back.

Agatha shakes her head. “I insist.”

Yelena opens her mouth to argue but settles for a reluctant nod instead. You didn’t fuck with Agatha, even if you were a world-class assassin, and even if it was only about a check. “Well, thank you. Next meal is on us, though. For you and Wanda. Would very much like to meet one of Natasha’s friends. Feel free to bring this one along, too.” She nods at America. “That is if she is not grounded for life,” she teases.

America gives her a tight, sarcastic smile. If Agatha wasn’t sitting right next to her, there’s no doubt she’d be flipping her off.

“Of course,” Agatha says. “I’m sure Wanda would love that.”

“Good.” Yelena nods.

“Good.” Agatha gives her a small smile as she stands up. “We’ll see you.”

America slides from the booth, giving Yelena and Sersi a wave. “Bye. Thanks for letting me crash your breakfast. And for listening and stuff. If I had to portal to the wrong place…I’m really glad it was here with you guys."

“Of course.” Sersi gives her a smile. “Any time.”

It might be the end of America’s life as she knows it for a while — facing Agatha was the easy part; she’s undoubtedly going to be in even more trouble with Wanda — but it might just be the start of something, too. The universe had a way of guiding her toward the people she needed to meet. She has a feeling there’s a reason she encountered Sersi and Yelena. 

A good one.

Chapter Text

America was, indeed, in a fair amount of trouble when she got home. And she did, indeed, do a fair amount of paying for it: more chores, less access to her phone, the longest lecture of her life.

She didn’t like the consequences by any means, but they were admittedly reasonable. And truthfully, the guilt was the worst part of it all. Listening to Wanda talk about how scared she’d been when she saw the blood on the sink. During that time she didn’t know where she was.

But the conversation hadn’t been all bad. Wanda did actually listen to her when she told her what she’d voiced to Agatha at the diner: that even though it’d been over a year of living with the two of them, that didn’t erase the eight years of being on her own doing whatever she pleased. That she was still adjusting to having rules, people looking after her, people who cared what she did. That her progress wasn’t linear, and some days, it was harder not to feel suffocated than others. That she loved Wanda and understood why she was so overprotective but that she needed to let go just a little — she was growing up, after all.

They’d made some compromises — ones Agatha had helped facilitate. America was under no circumstances to run away again, but if she needed some space and time to gather her thoughts before communicating her feelings, Wanda would give it to her. Wanda would try to be less overbearing and hear America out if a rule felt too restrictive, but America couldn’t take advantage of this and had to understand there were certain non-negotiables in place for safety purposes. And finally, America did have to take the nose ring out due to the risk of infection, but Wanda would finally help her dye her hair. Blue highlights, to be exact.

Which is how she ends up sitting on the bathtub, eagerly swinging her legs as Wanda mixes the dye. “What does it feel like?” she asks. “Does it hurt?” It smelled kind of chemically, and she’d read that it could burn a little. She was confident she could handle it, but she wanted to be prepared.

Wanda glances up. “It’s just kind of creamy — I don’t think it’ll hurt,” she assures her. “The bleach should have been the worst of it.”

“Okay, good.” She nods, relieved — Wanda was the expert, after all, and the bleach barely stung. Was very manageable. “And you think it’ll look cool?” she checks again.

“I think so,” Wanda says. "We need to make sure it’s not, like, 2000s vibes, but otherwise, I think so.”

“2000s vibes are kinda in right now, though,” America muses. “Not that I want to go full Y2K. But, like, if we mess it up, it wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. It’d be sort of aesthetic.”

“Mhm. Let’s try not to mess it up anyway,” she says as she stops stirring, deeming the dye sufficiently mixed. America eagerly hops up from the tub, peering into the bowl curiously. “Look like the color you wanted?” Wanda asks, looking over at her.

It’s a vibrant blue — dark enough not to clash with her natural hair but bold enough to make a statement. “Yeah.” She meets her gaze with a smile. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

“I’m glad.” Wanda nods, turning to grab a few towels from the cabinet. “Go put on a sleep shirt or something you’re okay with getting dye on.”

“Go put it on?” America scoffs. “Did you forget I’m in magic second grade now? I can change right here.” She flicks her wrist, a raggedy t-shirt replacing her tank top. She smiles proudly, the novelty of it still not wearing off.

“You’re right — silly me,” Wanda relents, leaning over to kiss her forehead. A marker of pride that still made America feel all warm and cared for and young in a good way. “Good job.”

“Thanks — I’ve been practicing,” she says. And it’s true — she hasn’t manually changed clothes in weeks. “Mama says I can start learning how to light fires soon,” she says eagerly before she sees Wanda’s eyes widen. Before she remembers who it is she’s talking to. She quickly adds, “Only small flames, though. Little candles and stuff. And always supervised.”

“Good.” Wanda breathes a sigh of relief. “Small flames are good. Just nothing irresponsible.” She raises a brow.

“Yes, Mom — I know,” she assures her, impressively resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I promise both I and all of the forests in the area will be safe. There's a strict no trips to the burn unit or wildfire policy.”

“I’m glad.” Wanda gives her a small smile. “Please keep it that way.”

“Promise,” she says, sitting back down on the edge of the bath. “Now, what do we do next to get my hair looking all blue and awesome?”

“We need to section it,” Wanda says, stepping into the tub behind her, comb and dye in hand.

“Perfect,” America says, letting her eyes drift shut as Wanda starts to gently brush through it, the action — and the way Wanda hums to herself as she works — soothing her.

She opens them again when she feels her phone buzz in her hand — a text. One that makes her blush a little. She quickly clicks the screen off, setting it face-down on the tub beside her.

She’s hoping that Wanda is too focused on the task at hand to notice — too worried about her hair to pay attention to the rest of her body. But, of course, hoping is futile. Curse Wanda’s observant, multitasking nature. 

She feels Wanda’s hand stop, the humming replaced with a question she does not want to answer: “What was that?” America can hear the grin in her voice, and it makes her want to die.

“What? Nothing. No one,” she says quickly, blushing harder. 

“Mm, I think that’s not quite the truth,” Wanda sing-songs, enjoying this far too much. “Who texted you?”

America sighs — she was trapped. Why did she always seem to get herself into these situations when Wanda had her hair in her hands, therefore making escape impossible? It was just like the braid in Salem. “Just this girl…” she says vaguely. “Who I met online…” she admits. “But she’s not a catfish — I swear!”

“Well, who is she? What’s her name?” Wanda pries.

“Kamala,” she says, suppressing a smile. “Kamala Khan. She lives in New Jersey — like half an hour from Mama’s house.”

“Oh?” Wanda asks, putting the comb aside and pulling on gloves. “What’s she like? How old is she?”

“She’s 16,” she says — a whole year older and therefore infinitely more awesome and mature. “And she’s super funny and super smart — a total nerd, but like, in a cool way. And she has powers, too. Not the exact same kind as mine, but she still gets it, you know?”

“I do.” Wanda nods. “I’m sure Agatha would like to meet this girl. I know I would.” 

America covers her face with her hands. “But I don’t even know if she likes me. I mean, how do you know if someone likes you?” She twists around, peeking through her fingers to glance at Wanda. “Although…you’re probably the wrong person to ask. It was really obvious when Mama liked you, and you were clueless.”

Wanda lightly thumps her shoulder. “Hey, I didn’t know how to interpret all of that!” America turns back around, and Wanda starts brushing on the dye. “Our background was complicated. Sometimes you just have to go for it.”

“Go for it like how?”

“You have to just ask her.” Wanda shrugs.

“If she likes me? Are you crazy?” She blinks, shocked and horrified at the suggestion. “What if she says no? What if she says yes? Both of those outcomes are, like, terrifying.”

“I know,” Wanda admits with a sympathetic laugh. “But asking is the only way you’ll find out.”

“That’s not true — I could have Mama teach me how to read her mind. Actually, no. Because I am not telling Mama about this.” She turns her head again, which is maybe risky considering the dye is now actively being applied. A few droplets fling onto her forehead, but she doesn’t care — she needs to look Wanda in the eye for this. “And you’re not allowed to either,” she says seriously.

Wanda holds her hands up in surrender. “I won’t say a word.”

“Good.” She relaxes but crosses her arms, pouting a little. “Because she’s gonna be all smug, you know. She’s always like, ‘Just wait, dear — when you like a girl, you’ll be all gross and mushy, too,’” she says in a (quite frankly pretty good) impression of Agatha. “And she’s right, so she’s gonna say, ‘I told you so.’ And I hate it when she says, ‘I told you so.’”

Wanda laughs, patting the rogue dye from her forehead. “She will say that, probably,” she admits. “But she’ll also be happy for you.”

“Yeah,” she relents, dropping her arms and fiddling with the bottom of her T-shirt instead, trying to hold still as Wanda wipes the dye away. “You’re right. I’ll probably end up telling her sooner rather than later anyway, whether I want to or not.” She sighs. “I’m not good at keeping secrets from her. Especially not when she gives me that look — that scary eyebrow raise thing she does, you know?” She shudders a little at the thought.

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re talking about. She can be quite persuasive.” Wands shakes her head with a smile.

“It’s, like, wildly effective,” America agrees. “It’d be impressive if it wasn’t so freaking annoying.” She continues playing with the thread of her shirt, mind wandering a little: to Kamala, to the whole situation. “What if we make a deal?" she tentatively pitches. "You and me.”

“Okaaay,” Wanda hesitantly agrees. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll think about asking my person a big question if you think about asking your person a big question.” It should be obvious what she’s talking about, but she holds up her left hand and wiggles her ring finger just in case.

Wanda pauses, contemplating. After a moment, she nods a little. “I was already planning on asking her, so that’s no problem.”

“You what?!” she asks, whipping her head around again. More dye splatters to unintended destinations. “You’re planning to propose? And you didn’t tell me?!”

Wanda laughs. “Try not to move so much — we’ll have a lot to clean up. But yes, I was considering it.”

“Well, come on — spill! When are you going to do it? How are you going to do it? You should have a winter wedding. No, actually — fall. A fall wedding for sure.”

“I’m not sure,” Wanda confesses with a sigh. “I want to make it special for her, so I haven’t decided on anything.”

“I’ll help,” America eagerly volunteers, forcing herself to face forward again so Wanda could finish her hair sometime today. “I mean, if you want me to.”

Wanda nods, brushing on some more dye. “What ideas do you have?”

“Hmm…” she ponders. “Do you guys have any special places? Like, I don’t know — the restaurant she took you to for your birthday or whatever. Somewhere that means something?”

“The restaurant is something I considered, but I think it’s a bit loud for her taste. She enjoys a spectacle but nothing in that sort of crowded place…” Wanda says, the two both going silent for a moment as they brainstorm. “We do have the outdoor area we were walking in afterward.”

“Oh, yes — good. That’s good.” America nods in approval, careful to not nod too hard so as to not spread more dye all over the room. “Sentimental, private, in nature. Nature’s her jam. The question is: how would we lure her there without her getting sus?”

“I don’t know. That’s another thing I’m worried about. She’s a very insightful person.”

“She is,” she agrees. “But while I’m a bad secret keeper, I am a pretty good planner, so I’m confident we can come up with something. And I can usually lie if it’s to pull off a good surprise — like your birthday. It’s the guilt factor that really effs me up.”

“I hear you.” Wanda nods. “What did you have in mind?”

America narrows her eyes, wheels turning in her head. After a few moments, all the pieces seem to snap into place — and she doesn’t necessarily love the look of the whole puzzle. “I think I’ve got it. But it would require a huge sacrifice on my part, so you’d be indebted to me for literally ever.”

“Oh?” Wanda raises a brow. “Is that so?”

“It’s so,” she gravely confirms. “It’s very so. Here’s the plan: I tell her about Kamala. She’ll be all annoying and gloaty.” She rolls her eyes. “I tell her that, for our first date, I want to take her to the same restaurant you guys went to — you know, good luck and tradition and all that, blah blah blah. She’ll be even more annoying and gloaty, and she’ll insist on meeting her first. Which means she’ll look nice — first impression and whatnot — which means she’ll look nice in engagement photos. Nobody wants to look like trash in engagement photos. Are you following me so far?”

“Mhm. I am,” Wanda assures her.

“Okay, good. So I portal Kamala and me there. Once I do that, you’re gonna leave, too — pretend you’re late for some mission with Strange because you wanted to meet her. The three of us prep for the big moment, set some stuff up, whatever. When we’re done, I’ll act like my powers glitched out, and I have no way of getting us back home — Kamala’s freaking out because her parents are gonna be pissed if she misses curfew, and she’s halfway around the world. I call Mama and tell her I need her to come get us and portal us back. She’s distracted by what she thinks is a teenage crisis, but that’s not what she’ll find when she gets there.” She wags her finger with a little smirk. “Instead, she’ll find you with a ring. Boom.” She pretends to mic drop.

Wanda nods, impressed. “I like it. For it to work, you will have to ask Kamala and let us meet her, though,” she says, lightly tapping America’s head with the comb.

She groans at the prospect, picking at her nail polish. “Or I could just hire a paid actor pretending to be Kamala so I don’t actually have to do either of those things for real,” she mumbles.

“Nope.” Wanda shakes her head. “I want to meet this girl.”

“But what if…” She bites her lip before she can say anything further — say anything too real. Because while she was nervous about Kamala meeting the parents for all the normal reasons — if it turned out she did even like her back like that — there were deeper ones, too. Ones her heart knew were probably irrational but ones that had nevertheless lodged themselves in her brain. “Ugh, never mind.”

Wanda frowns. “What if what?” There’s a beat of stubborn silence from America before she speaks again. “You can tell me,” she gently encourages.

America sighs, starting with the slightly less shameful of the fears. “What if you guys, like, hate her? Your opinion matters to me. A lot. So if you think she sucks…” she trails off. “I like her. I want to keep liking her — keep having her in my life.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Wanda assures her. “From everything you’ve told me, she seems lovely.”

“Yeah, she is. She’s perfect,” America agrees with a slow nod before it all comes spilling out. “So what if you, like, love her? Like, more than you love me? That would be the rational thing — she’s way smarter and way better at controlling her powers and has never, to my knowledge, drank underage and pierced her nose,” she rambles. “What if you meet her and…like…” She swallows down her emotion, voice growing quiet as she looks down at the floor. “Like wish she was your daughter instead?”

Wanda goes very still for a second before immediately putting the brush down, moving to kneel in front of America. She embraces her in a tight hug, not caring that her hair’s dripping with dye. “I’d never wish anyone else were my daughter.”

Something in America breaks then, and the tears start flowing — hard. Shame and anxiety that’s pent up for weeks pouring from her. “That’s stupid,” she says, though there’s no bite to it — it’s just…a fact. The truth. There was so much better than her out there, and they'd realize that. That they chose wrong.

“No, no — listen to me.” Wanda gives her a soft but serious squeeze. “You aren’t Kamala, and that's okay. You’re America, and that's who we want. You’re kind and passionate and curious despite everything you’ve been through. You don’t have to be some kind of academic genius to be smart. You are incredibly smart for surviving on your own for so long. And that stuff doesn’t matter to me anyway because your intellect and abilities don’t define you. Agatha and I love you just the way you are.”

America sniffles, burying her face in Wanda's shirt. Tears mix with hair dye, guilt mixes with gratitude. It’s a mess. She’s a mess. “I’m sorry. For being impulsive and stubborn and not listening. I want to be better. More patient. More like you.”

Wanda gently runs a hand up and down her back. “You don’t have to apologize. I understand why you’re impulsive — it's kept you alive. And in the future, your stubbornness may save you. You’ll get better at listening and patience as we go. That’s why Agatha and I are here — to make sure you’re okay and that you can grow into yourself.”

It all seems very logical when she puts it like that. Like maybe they’re not the worst things to be after all. Like maybe she didn’t have to be so hard on herself — could forgive herself. “Okay,” she relents, taking a deep, shaky breath — relaxing a little. “Thank you. For being there.”

“No problem.” Wanda gives her another squeeze. “I love you, Star Girl. I love you so much.”

America holds onto the hug — holds onto her — for another moment, not quite ready to let go. “I love you, too, Mom.”

Chapter Text

America only pulls away from Wanda’s hug when she hears the front door open — Agatha coming home. She quickly surveys the room: the floor is wet, and there are droplets of blue on the tile. She catches herself in the mirror to see her mascara running down her cheeks, but when she wipes the tears away, it only messes it up more. She looks like a drowned rat. Or the saddest clown ever. 

“Oh god — it’s like a crime scene in here,” America laments.

Wanda can’t help but laugh a little, pushing herself off the floor. “Don’t worry. We’ll clean up the tile and your face and then go from there?”

“Yeah.” America nods, taking another deep, steadying breath. “Yeah, that’s a good plan.”

“It is. And I promise everything will be okay.”

“Even my hair?” America asks, sneaking another concerned glance in the mirror. “All the moving around didn’t, like, screw it up?”

“No, it’ll be fine. It’ll only show on the bleached parts,” Wanda assures her, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Okay, good.” She sighs in relief, pushing herself off the tub to go grab some makeup wipes from the drawer. She focuses on washing her face while Wanda starts scrubbing the dye. It seems to come off relatively easy save for a couple small stains, which earn a frown from Wanda.

“Sorry.” America cringes, looking down at the tainted tile. “I’ll pay to have a professional come clean it — I’ve saved a lot from doing chores. Or maybe there’s a spell? Mama!” she yells. “Is there a stain spell or something?!”

“What was that?!” Agatha’s voice calls back a moment later.

“Is there a stain spell?! Like, a spell to get stains out from stuff?! Don’t worry — I’m not asking because I did something I wasn’t supposed to and am trying to hide it from Mom! She’s—" Agatha appears in the doorway, and America lowers the hand holding the makeup wipe, along with her voice to a normal volume. “—in here, too. Hi.”

“Hi,” Agatha replies slowly — suspiciously — as she leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “What’s going on?” she asks, observing the chaos in the room.

“Mom’s helping me dye my hair,” America explains. “And we accidentally got some on the floor because…of reasons,” she says vaguely.

Agatha waves her hands in lazy, intentional patterns, her focus never leaving America as purple magic surrounds the stains. “Reasons?” she prompts with the raise of her brow.

“Yeah. The main one being that…uh…Mom’s really clumsy?” she lies, dropping her gaze to the stains slowly disappearing on the floor — unable to look her in the eye. “Hey, wow — looks like it’s working. That’s great,” she says, desperate to change the subject.

“Mhm,” Agatha hums, her eyes still firmly fixated on America. “You’re not a great liar, you know that?”

“Yes,” she mumbles, looking back up at her sheepishly. “I know that.”

“So what happened?”

America sighs. “Mom was dyeing my hair, I told her about my crush, I had an emotional breakdown, and now we’re here,” she says as quickly and casually as possible, hoping — probably futilely — that she’ll barely even notice the ‘crush’ part tucked in there. She points to the Kleenex box on the back of the toilet from her place sitting on the bathtub. “Will you hand me a tissue, please?”

“I will,” Agatha agrees, gliding over and plucking a tissue from the box. “But who’s this crush?” she asks as she hands it to her.

America blows her nose and gives her a look. “If I tell you, you’re not allowed to tease me. You’re not allowed to be smug, and you’re definitely not allowed to say ‘I told you so.’”

“I can’t promise all that, but I do want to know,” Agatha says with a smile that’s both teasing and encouraging.

America considers this for a moment. “Fine,” she finally agrees. “But will you get the parts I missed first?” she asks, handing her the makeup wipe. She’s stalling a little, of course, but she also can’t see the mirror from here. And her cheeks were a little raw from the combination of crying and rubbing at them. Agatha’s touch would be gentler. More efficient.

“Yes.” Agatha nods, pinching the makeup wipe between her fingers and wrinkling her nose in distaste. “But not with this. They’re bad for your skin.” She pitches it into the trash can, returning with a washcloth and some kind of oil instead. “Anyway,” she says, kneeling in front of her and beginning to dab at her face with it. “Tell me about this girl.”

America sort of wishes she’d lecture her about skincare some more — anything but this. But seeing as she seemed adamant, she decides to get it over with. “Hername’sKamalashe’ssixteenshelivesinNewJerseyandwemetonline,” she says in one breath, ripping the band-aid. “There. Happy?”

Agatha’s hand pauses for a moment as she blinks, trying to process it all. After a second, she coolly resumes her task. “Do I get to meet her?”

“Yeees,” she says slowly. “She’ll have to ask her parents first, so I don’t exactly know when yet.” She'd have to scheme with Wanda in secret later, figure out how much time they’d need to prepare for the proposal side of things. “They’re, like, pretty strict,” she explains.

“I understand.” Agatha nods. “But I’d like to eventually.”

“I know, I know. I…want you to meet her, too,” America admits. “You’re just not allowed to want her to be your daughter instead of me.” Then, before she or Wanda can say anything: “I’m kidding,” she promises. “I mean…kinda. I— it was a whole thing, but I already had that conversation with Mom, and I’m good now.”

America has a little sense of deja vu as Agatha sets the washcloth on the side of the tub, promptly wrapping her in a firm hug. “I’d never not want you to be my daughter.”

“I told you, I already worked this out with Mom,” America halfheartedly protests.

“I know.” Agatha pats her back. “I just wanted you to hear it from me, too.”

America feels her eyes well up again — because that’s just the kind of day she’s having — and she’s grateful there’s no makeup left to mess up this time. “Well, I’d never not want to be your daughter,” she responds, hugging her back. She looks at Wanda over Agatha’s shoulder. “Both of you.”

“I’m glad,” Agatha says, continuing to hold her. As if she has some cryptic sense telling her she needs it. “We love you.”

“I love you, too,” America says quietly, soaking in the comfort. The reassurance. 

Until she hears her phone vibrate on the sink. 

She knows it’s probably from Kamala — they text pretty much nonstop. Her heartbeat speeds up a little, breath catching. There’s literally no way Agatha doesn’t pick up on that, and it makes her want to die a little.

“Mm,” Agatha hums, tightening her grasp — another cryptic sense telling her America was going to try to squirm away from her and this conversation. “Would that text be from Kamala?”

“No,” she says quickly — too quickly. “Maybe,” she amends. “Probably,” she settles on. She pulls back slightly, tilting her chin to look up at her with her best, most emotionally manipulative pout. “Go easy on me — I’m fragile today.”

“I will.” Agatha nods seriously. “First of all, I just want you to know that if she hurts you, she will regret it. Second of all…” She takes a theatrical pause before breaking out into a grin. “I told you you’d find a girl.”

“Mamaaaa,” America groans, throwing her head back. “‘Go easy on me’ means saying neither of those thiiiiiings,” she whines dramatically.

“Mhm. Mhm. Well, I said them, and I mean them,” she says, kissing America’s temple.

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes, though she can’t help but smile a little, too, despite herself. “I guess I should probably, you know, actually make sure she likes me back before we all get too invested in this. Will you hand me my phone?” she asks. “But don’t look at the messages,” she orders.

Agatha pulls back from the hug and holds her hands up in surrender. “I won’t look,” she promises, making a point to hand America her phone face-down so there was no chance of sneaking a peek.

“Thank you,” America says, breathing a sigh of relief. She looks at her messages, biting her lip to suppress a smile when she sees what she’s missed from Kamala: a TikTok of a cat and a photo of a sidewalk-chalk star she found on the street.

The smile falls easily when she realizes it’s the moment of truth. “What do I say? How do I do this? I don’t want to sound weird or stupid or desperate.”

“Just be honest. I know it’s hard, but your words are going to read better than anything we say,” Agatha advises with a supportive smile. 

“Ugh. You are literally so not helpful.”

Agatha rolls her eyes, changing tack to tough love. “Well, you have to learn how to be a functioning lesbian sometime — might as well be now.”

“Why? You haven’t,” America retorts, giving her a mockingly sweet smile.

Agatha scoffs, smacking her arm. “Excuse me, I have had many girlfriends over the years.”

“Um, who told you to ask Mom out? Me. Who picked your outfit for the date? Me. Who chose the freakin’ restaurant you went to? Me. ‘Functioning’ is a little generous, don’t you think?” she asks, patting her head condescendingly.

Agatha bats her hand away. “I’m functioning — she’s just a special case,” she mumbles, pointedly avoiding Wanda’s gaze as the redhead tries and fails to suppress a laugh.

“Mmmkay,” America says, looking down at her phone. “Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Agatha gives her another eyer-oll. “Okay, well on that note, I’ll let you two finish the dye.”

America briefly glances up from her screen as Agatha heads to the doorway. “Thanks for the stain spell. I’ll call for you if we make any more messes.” She looks over at Wanda. “You finish the hair while I finish…this?” She nods to her phone, where her message to Kamala is still very much blank.

Wanda nods, stepping back into the tub to brush on more dye. “Have fun with that.”

“Thanks — I won’t,” she promises. 

It takes her approximately 10 minutes to come up with the message — or, rather, five messages, the last four frantic additions after the first:

hey soooo like sorry if this is random but i think i’m starting to like you in more than just a friend way? and i was just wondering if maybe you liked me in that way too? if so maybe we could hang out sometime irl? 

and if not i would also still like to hang out sometime irl!! it would just be like different obviously lol. 

but yeah just like lmk but no rush and no worries if not ❤️

I MEANT 🤪

not the heart

“Oh god. I sent it,” she announces to Wanda, palms sweating.

Wanda gives her shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. Totally. I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” she says, trying to convince herself. And she believes it. Sorta kinda.

Until three dots appear.

“She’s typing back. She’s typing back,” she says, throwing the phone across the room as if it’s a bomb about to explode. Luckily, she has good aim, and it goes into the full laundry hamper, the clothes cushioning it from impact.

Wanda sighs. “Oh, sweetheart — it’ll be fine.”

“Well, it’s gonna have to be because there’s no going back now," she mumbles, regretting every life decision that led her to this anxiety-inducing moment. "Unless I learn how to wipe her memory. Or turn back time. But I take it Mama’s not gonna teach me those yet.” She peers back over her shoulder at Wanda. “I take it you wouldn’t let her even if I was advanced enough to learn.”

“Mm,” Wanda hums with a nod. “One thing I’ve learned from working with Strange is that messing with time is always bad.”

“But the memory wiping? That’s only sometimes bad?” she half-jokes. Wanda simply raises an eyebrow in response, and America drops her gaze to her lap. She knows what that look means. “Always bad, too. Got it.”

“‘Always’ is a very blanket statement but a good majority of the time,” Wanda confirms.

“Yeah, I sorta figured.” She sighs. “Guess I’ll just have to deal with this the stupid, annoying human way and, like, live with the consequences of my actions or whatever."

“You will,” Wanda agrees. “But, as I said, no matter what happens, it’ll be okay. I promise you that.”

“Yeah,” America says softly. She hopes she’s right. She knows she probably is — she’d survived snake-crocodiles and multiverse jumping and terrifying Darkhold-influenced Scarlet Witch, after all. But this felt just as scary, in a way. “How’s the hair coming? Almost done?”

“Almost done,” Wanda assures her. “It’s going to look great.”

“Okay, good.” She glances over at the laundry basket where her phone is still sitting. “Because I should probably go see what she said at some point. Leaving her on read’s probably not the best idea.”

“Give me two seconds, and then you can get up,” Wanda says as she finishes with the last strands.

“Take your time,” America replies, though her leg is shaking — restless.

Wanda’s finished within two minutes (though it feels like a lot longer), putting a plastic bag over her hair for it to develop. “There. All done.”

America’s eyebrows furrow at the bag. She reaches up to touch it, it crinkling under her hand. “How long do I have to keep this on?”

“About 40 minutes,” Wanda says, setting a timer on her phone.

“And then I can see the finished product?”

“Well, the wet finished product,” Wanda clarifies.

“When do I get to see the finished finished product?” America asks, pushing herself off the tub. “Do we just blow-dry it, or are there more steps?”

“Just blow-dry. Or you can let it air dry.”

“Blow-dry,” she says decisively. “For sure blow-dry. I’m impatient, remember?”

“Yes, I know — silly me,” Wanda laughs. “Blow dry it is.”

Figuring she’s stalled about as much as she can, she takes a deep breath and slowly approaches the hamper as if it’s a feral animal instead of just a pile of dirty clothes. She carefully fishes the phone out and sees Kamala has, indeed, responded, hand shaking a little as she unlocks her phone to read it.

America is simultaneously flooded with relief and more butterflies fluttering around in her stomach as she reads.

“What’d she say?” Wanda asks.

“She said that she likes me, too,” she says, mouth curving into a smile. “And that she’d love to hang out sometime.” Well, technically, she said: omg stop that’s not random at all!!! my friends have been bugging me for literal WEEKS to tell you I like you. v glad we’re on the same page lmao because like I was picking up vibes but you never KNOW you know?? it’s a date. well, after i ask my parents. even if they say no i’ll make it work. i’ll sneak out if i have to. wouldn’t be the first time hahaha. But still.

“See?” Wanda says with a grin. “Told you it would be okay.”

“Yeah, yeah — mother knows best.” America glances out the door to make sure Agatha isn’t walking by or in earshot. “When should I plan our date? How much time do you need to prepare?” she whispers.

Wanda’s mouth drops into a focused frown as she thinks. “A week?”

“Next Saturday.” America nods. “I think we can make that work. I’ll fill Kamala in," she says, beginning to text her master plan.

“Sounds good,” Wanda says, smiling again, though it’s smaller this time. More forced. Tinged with nerves.

“Hey. It’s gonna be okay,” America promises, giving her a little nudge — repeating the words she’d been telling her all morning. “More than okay. Perfect.”

Her smile grows more genuine. Grateful. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I know so,” she promises. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Chapter Text

America spends the rest of Saturday and Sunday secretly coordinating with Wanda and Kamala to make sure the engagement would go off without a hitch, only stopping when 11 o’clock Monday morning rolls around and it’s time for school again. Even then, she doesn’t take her eyes off her phone screen as she portals to Agatha’s basement, plopping into her desk.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Agatha says from her spot behind her own desk, sipping a cup of tea.

America doesn’t hear her, too immersed in a text conversation with Kamala about whether Billie Eilish or Lady Gaga did the blue hair thing better. (She was pretty obsessed with her new highlights — the only other thing that was taking up any kind of brain space besides the proposal and meeting Kamala in person.)

Agatha stands, clearing her throat. “America.”

“Huh?” she asks, glancing up from her phone. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“I said good morning. Now put the phone away — stop talking to your girlfriend.”

“Okay, okay. Geez.” She sets the phone on the corner of the desk and puts her hands up in surrender — a mistake considering Agatha promptly snatches it, America’s reflexes too slow to grab it back. She opens her mouth to protest, but Agatha speaks before she can get a word out.

“Today isn’t about magic,” she announces, placing the phone on her own desk.

America looks at it longingly — no chance of sneaking a quick peek and reply when her back was turned now. She slumps back in her chair in defeat, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “It’s not?”

“No, it’s not.” She begins pacing — she always liked to do that when she taught. It was a little intimidating at first, but America’s gotten used to it by now, with a year’s worth of lessons under her belt. “You have a girlfriend now, and you’ve spent half your life on your own,” she continues. “Someone has to give you this kind of advice.”

America’s eyes widen. This couldn’t be happening. “Oh, I do not like where this is going…”

Agatha momentarily stops pacing to look at her straight-on. “Have you ever had The Talk?” she asks bluntly.

Her eyes squeeze shut. This was happening. "Oh my god." America buries her face, red from embarrassment, in her hands. “If I say yes, can we not do this?”

Agatha sighs. “I’ll take that as a no. You need to know these things.”

“Don’t you think this is premature?” America uncovers her eyes to look at her. “We haven’t even kissed. Or held hands. Or met in person. Can’t we put it off for, like, a few months or years or maybe even the rest of my life?” she pleads.

“Look, it’s just in case,” Agatha explains, putting her hands up. “There’s that thing you said that one time…” She searches for the term. “U-Hauling. I don’t want you and Kamala U-Hauling it up without knowing things.”

“I would literally rather get run over by a U-haul than have this conversation,” she grumbles.

“Hey,” Agatha warns. “Watch the smart mouth.”

America sinks down lower in her seat at the admonishment. “But you promised you’d teach me how to magically set things on fire,” she reminds her. “What happened to that?”

“Soon, I promise. But this is important.”

America sighs. She would really rather be learning how to set shit on fire. “Fine,” she reluctantly agrees. “Let’s just…get it over with, I guess.”

“Okay.” Agatha nods. “How much do you know about sex?”

“The basics? I guess?” She squirms a little at the candidness of the question, trying to keep it vague as possible on her end. “I mean, I have internet access, so like…”

“Care to elaborate?” Agatha raises a brow. “I need to know where to begin.”

She very much does not care to elaborate. But she also very much does not have a choice. “I know what all the parts are called…down there.”

“Great, so you know what a vagina is. Cervix, uterus, ovaries—”

“Yup. All of that,” she says quickly so she wouldn’t continue listing everything — or god forbid draw a diagram or something.

Thankfully, she nods, seemingly satisfied she’s telling the truth. “Do you know anything about contraceptives, or are we starting there?”

“Is that, like, relevant? When there are two birds involved?” She wrinkles her brows. “Or would it two bees…” she muses. “Whatever — I don’t know the metaphor…two cis girls, I mean.”

“Yes. There are things called dental dams you can use during oral, and since you might not be with Kamala forever—”

“Yes, I will,” America stubbornly declares. 

“Well, I’m informing you anyway. Just in case,” Agatha proclaims just as stubbornly. “Trans girls who haven’t medically transitioned exist, so it’s important to know how a condom works. Plus, people use contraceptives for a variety of reasons other than the act of sex — it’s just sexual health,” she explains.

“Okay…” America slowly nods, blush deepening at the specifics, too shy to ask any of the numerous follow-up questions that had popped into her head. “That…makes sense, I think.”

“But on the topic of birth control, ask any doctor a lot of questions about side effects and longevity if you ever want to go on it. And make sure they don’t sucker you into an IUD without proper pain management,” she adds.

“Okay…” she repeats, now getting overwhelmed in addition to uncomfortable. It was an embarrassing topic — and one she’s now realizing she knows very little about. Yet another thing she was behind in. Another subject she was terrible at. “I— okay…”

Agatha can sense she’s holding back. “What’s in your head that you’re not saying? 

“Nothing.”

“Questions?” she presses.

She does have questions — so many she doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Yeah, can I be excused?” she asks instead, challengingly crossing her arms over her chest. Maybe if she baits her into an argument, they won’t have to keep doing this.

Agatha takes a deep breath, clearly resisting the urge to reprimand. “No, you may not,” she says, voice firm but calm. “Now, what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up,” she snaps.

“America…” Agatha cautions. If there’s one thing she doesn’t like, it’s an attitude.

She glances toward the door at the top of the stairs. Her track record for escaping this basement during uncomfortable situations was not great, and after the disastrous portal debacle during her fight with Wanda, that was out of the question, too. She huffs, dropping her gaze to the desk, resigned. “It’s just…it’s awkward,” she mumbles. “Talking about it with you, and…like…”

Agatha softens a little at that. “Like what, dear? It really is important to know these things. I understand it’s uncomfortable for you, but we want you to be safe. A lot of people don’t have access to this knowledge from someone — much less the queer version.”

“No, I know — I just…it’s embarrassing.” She fidgets. “And not just because the subject is uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing because I literally don’t know, like, anything. About any subject any normal person my age does. It’s less mortifying when it’s magic stuff, but this?” She lets out a bitter laugh. “I should know the basics. I thought I did know the basics. But clearly, I don’t.” She looks up at Agatha then. “Do you know how humiliating that is? How stupid that makes me feel?”

She gets more worked up as she rants, the questions she was too ashamed to ask exploding out of her now. “I mean, why do you have to use dental floss to protect yourself from oral?! What does a DUI have to do with contraceptives?! What else does birth control do besides just control you not having to give birth?!”

Agatha moves her chair next to America’s desk, taking a seat next to her. “You aren’t stupid — I promise. There are a lot of things to keep in mind about this stuff,” she calmly assures her. “When we don’t really see information for people like us, it’s hard to know.” 

Agatha lays a hand on top of America’s. Her hand twitches a little, still feeling awkward about the conversation — how could she not? — but she doesn’t pull away. It is comforting, and at least Agatha didn’t think she was totally clueless. 

“A dental dam can protect you from the other person’s bodily fluids and them from yours, especially if there’s any worry whatsoever about STIs,” Agatha explains. “IUDs are devices they put inside you that work as birth control. Some are inserted into the vagina, there’s an under-the-skin one, and often when people are prescribed them, they aren’t given proper pain management, so there can be a lot of side effects. There are also birth control pills, and condoms do help with that, too. As far as other uses for birth control, it can help regulate your periods, decrease cramps, treat acne — a number of things.”

Deep down, America knows she’s projecting when she worries about being judged for things like this — the lack of real education and her gaps in knowledge her own insecurity. Her intelligence and struggle to focus on certain things a main source of self-consciousness. 

But, she supposed, the only way to combat that was to suck it up and listen. Engage in the conversation so she could learn. She was lucky, really, to have Agatha as a resource, no matter how cringey it all was. 

“Is STI like STD?” she quietly asks. “I read about STDs once — in this medical book at a library. But it was, like, really old and falling apart.”

“Yes.” Agatha nods. “I couldn’t tell you the particulars of when or why they switched the D for an I, but they’re generally the same conditions.”

“Got it.” At least she knew a little about those — the main ones, at least. She bites her lip. “Do gay people get them more often? Some lady handed me a pamphlet that said that once. She was, like, super religious and homophobic, I think, so I took it with a grain of salt, but…was she right?”

“That’s a hard question,” Agatha admits. “Yes, but not because we’re gay. It has to do with a lack of accessible education on these topics and those in power, which is a whole other can of worms.”

America nods — that made sense. It was totally effed up, but it made sense. “Seems like that’s the problem with a lot of things in this universe,” she muses.

“After spending 300 years here, I’d have to agree.” Agatha sighs, face dropping a bit — disheartened and discouraged.

America bites the inside of her cheek, shifting her hand so she’s holding Agatha's on top of the table. “You’re making it less messed up, though. For me, at least,” she says softly. “Even if you can’t change the whole world, you can change certain people’s lives — Mom told me that.”

“Thank you, dear,” Agatha says, squeezing her hand. “I’m certainly trying.”

She gives her a small smile before pursing her lips. “I don’t…think I have any more questions. About what you told me so far. Not right now, at least.”

“Well then, moving on,” Agatha says, snapping back into teacher mode. “You are aware there’s more to sapphic sex than oral. Fingering is common, as is the use of toys, which can all be done safely. Consent is extremely important.”

America tries valiantly not to get flustered, attempting to be mature about this. She mostly — mostly — succeeds. “Right. Yes. Um…I know about…those things.”

“Mhm. What questions do you have then?” Agatha raises an eyebrow.

“Uh…well…I don’t really know. I feel like maybe I’ll figure out more of the…” She searches for a neutral but accurate word. “Logistics? When I’m actually…you know…doing it,” she stutters out. “Because different people like different things, right?”

“Correct. And there are a lot of things to like or dislike. I never want you to feel ashamed for enjoying or not enjoying something.”

“What if I start doing something and I don’t like it? Or I say I want to try something but then change my mind or decide I’m not ready or something? Am I allowed to, like…back out?”

“Absolutely,” Agatha says, voice firm. “Consent can be revoked just as easily as it’s given. If you’re with someone who respects you, they’ll listen to you.”

“Okay, good.” America nods, relieved. “That’s good.”

“Yes, and if anyone violates that — attempts to pressure you or tries to do something anyway — don’t let them make you feel bad,” Agatha says, making eye contact. The kind that said this was important.

“That’s hard, though,” she says, it slipping out before she can stop it. “I mean — it’s not the same thing, and I’ve never…nobody’s ever done anything bad bad to me,” she quickly clarifies. “But people…look and…say things and…you know…‘accidentally’ bump into me or whatever. Like the guy in that gas station when we went to Salem. And it makes me feel gross.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s…it’s off-topic. It doesn't matter."

Agatha grips her hand tightly. “It’s okay to be upset about these things. Unfortunately, a lot of people feel entitled to touch, stare, and say things they shouldn’t. What happens isn’t okay, and in those situations, it’s just about staying safe and having someone there for you.”

“Yeah.” America slowly nods, trying to process this. Process things she hasn’t processed. Focus on breathing, grounding herself, while she does. “And it’s nice that I have people to be there for me now. So if another situation happens, I won’t be alone.”

“That’s right,” Agatha says encouragingly. “Both Wanda and I will always be there for you. You can always talk to us.”

“And now that I know how to better stay safe, it won’t, like, be my fault if something happens,” she reasons, trying to make sense of things aloud.

“Nothing like that has ever been your fault."

“I mean…I don’t know,” America quietly argues, dropping her gaze back down to the desk, picking at the wood with a fingernail on her free hand. “It was maybe a little bit my fault sometimes. In the past. I trusted some people I probably shouldn’t have…and did some things I probably shouldn’t have…” She had to eat, after all. And sleep somewhere.

“No.” Agatha tilts America’s chin up to look at her — her tone and touch somehow simultaneously very gentle and very serious. “None of that was your fault. It's never okay for someone to take advantage of you, but especially not now. You’re a child, and you were even younger then. You couldn’t have known, nor should you have had to. You’re not to blame for any part of it, okay?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “You’re…right, I guess.” Nothing she’s saying is inaccurate, but still, it was hard to reframe those memories after years of having shame attached to them.

“I know I’m right. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it, too,” Agatha vows, softly thumbing her cheek. 

America has no doubt she’ll follow through on that promise — she is wildly persistent. She gives her a small smile, only half-forced, shifting in her seat a little. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can we…go back to the other thing we were talking about?”

Agatha tilts her head, dropping her hand from America’s chin. “Which other thing?”

“You know, like…The Talk or whatever. Something less…heavy than this.”

“We can.” Agatha nods. “Because there are still a lot of things to discuss: kink, negotiating boundaries, safety.”

America suppresses a grimace at that first one — she did literally just ask for this, even if she is regretting it a little now. “I’m all ears.”

“What do you want to start with?”

She doesn’t particularly want to start with any of them. “Uh…you can pick.”

“Well, I guess we’ll go in order,” Agatha declares. “What do you know about kink?”

America winces at the bluntness. “It’s, like…stuff that’s not…” She searches for the word. “Vanilla, right?”

“Yes.” Agatha nods. “It can involve many things. You don’t have to be into it to enjoy sex, but it is fairly common and nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Okay…” She bites her lip, debating on whether to ask a follow-up. Knowing Agatha, she’d probably get it out of her somehow, so she might as well get it over with. “Don’t laugh — and don’t go into specifics, please — but…is it like how it is in Fifty Shades of Grey? I snuck into that movie and saw 10 minutes before I got kicked out, and honestly, I thought it was even worse than the 10 minutes I saw of Cats.”

“God, no.” Agatha shakes her head. “That movie is portraying abuse in so many ways. Kink is healthy and negotiated with your partner, and you always have a safe word.”

America nods, once again relieved. “It seemed…not like how you should do that kind of thing. Even to 10-year-old me.”

“It’s very much not right. No one should ever do that to their partner,” Agatha confirms.

“I would never do anything like that to her. Or anyone,” America quickly promises. She fidgets a little. “Not on purpose, at least,” she says quietly. “Do you think…I mean…is it riskier — with, you know, my powers and stuff? Could I…accidentally hurt someone during…it?”

Agatha shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. There’s always a small possibility, but you just have to be careful. It’s all about communication. If something happens, you stop and have an open, honest conversation to figure out how to avoid it in the future.”

America’s relieved she doesn’t seem too concerned about that aspect of things — this was hard enough without having to worry about how magic could potentially play into it. “Communication.” She nods. “I can do that.” She thinks of how bad she was at doing just that when it came to telling Kamala about her feelings. “Or, well…I’m getting better at it. Working on it, at least,” she amends.

“It’s always going to be a work in progress. Communication can be hard,” Agatha sympathizes.

“Yeah. Harder than math, even,” she says with a small frown. “But I’ll practice,” she vows. “The communication stuff, I mean. The math stuff…we’ll see.”

Agatha raises a brow. “You’ll also practice the math stuff.”

“But not today though, right?” she asks, jutting out her bottom lip. “Haven’t you put me through enough today?”

Agatha sighs, considering for a moment. “Fine,” she caves. “Not today. Tomorrow, though.”

“Wednesday,” America negotiates. “I want to do fire tomorrow.”

“Math before fire,” Agatha’s brow arches higher. “We can do both tomorrow, but math comes first.”

“Ugh. That’s so evil.” She throws her head back dramatically.

“It’s practical,” Agatha corrects, chuckling at the theatrics. “Not evil.”

“Eh, tomayto, tomahto,” she argues with the dismissive wave of her hand. “Is there more to today’s particular lesson, or…?”

“Just one last thing: promise me you’ll be careful and ask questions if you need. Wanda and I aren’t going to police what you do — you just have to be safe,” she says with a pointed look.

“‘Kay. That sounds fair,” she agrees, giving her a small smile. “Thanks for promising not to be mad. And, like, for teaching me this stuff. I mean, you’re kind of the worst, and I hated every second, but…you’re also kind of the best. And I appreciate you being open and sharing your wisdom and whatever.”

“Mhm.” Agatha rolls her eyes playfully, clearly endeared as she pushes herself up from the chair. “Anytime, Star Girl.”

America practically leaps up, very happy this particular lesson is over. She turns, about to dart up the stairs, before Agatha catches her, pulling her into a tight hug. Though it catches her off guard, it’s far from unwelcome, and America easily sinks into the comfort of it. The safety. The conversation has left her feeling a little vulnerable. A little exhausted. “Promise me two other things, too?” she asks, nestling into her.

She runs a hand up and down her back. “What’s that?”

“One: that I’ll always be Star Girl to you?” she asks, a little sheepish. “Because I want to grow up, but…I don’t know. I like being a kid, too. Your kid.”

“You will,” Agatha promises, resting her chin on top of her head, protectively tucking it under. “No matter how old you get, you’re always going to be my little girl.”

“Good,” she says, mouth curving into another grin. “Second thing: promise you’ll teach me fire tomorrow. Even if I completely suck at the math part, which is a real possibility. As long as I try as hard as I can — which I promise to do — fire tomorrow, too. Deal?”

Agatha breathes out a laugh, holding her a little tighter. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

America is very glad she had the foresight to make Agatha promise to teach her fire Tuesday, as the day gets off to a rocky start, with her oversleeping and rushing to get ready. 

In her defense, she’d barely gotten any sleep the past few nights, busy helping Wanda with proposal stuff and staying up late texting Kamala. (Mostly the latter, if she was being totally honest.) When she finally portals into the basement, she's 13 minutes late, and Agatha’s waiting at her desk, as per usual. “Heyyy,” she greets trepidatiously.

Agatha closes her book and looks up at her with a raised brow. “Hello. So glad you’ve finally decided to grace me with your presence.”

America cringes. “I know I’m late, and I’m sorry, but it’s really not my fault,” she insists, sliding into her desk.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what happened, hm?” she prompts.

“Ask your girlfriend! I slept through my alarm, but then she made me sit down and eat a whole proper breakfast — I’m talking eggs and cut fruit and stuff — because I ‘looked tired’ and ‘can’t just live off of Pop-Tarts.’” She air quotes. “Who does that on a weekday? Outside of, like, a sitcom?”

Agatha snorts, tickled by the ‘sitcom’ comment. “Many people.” 

“Well, I’ve never met them…” America mumbles. 

“You need breakfast, so I’m not mad at that, but set another alarm next time.”

“I—” America pauses to stifle a yawn. “—will.”

“And give yourself extra time in the morning as well,” Agatha adds, shuffling some papers on her desk.

“Okay, let’s not push it…” Agatha gives her a pointed look at that. America cowers a little at the expression but doesn’t back down entirely. “You can’t ask me to wake up even earlier — I’m most productive at night,” she reasons.

Agatha scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling texting your girlfriend now?”

“I’ll have you know I was up studying. Math, in fact. To prepare for today.” America raises her chin and squares her shoulders. Agatha doesn’t buy it for a second.

“Do you want to rethink that defense? Bearing in mind you’re not a good liar and I’m not a fan of lying?” she deadpans.

“Okay, okay,” America acquiesces. “I was mostly texting Kamala. But it’s not like I’d be able to get to sleep anyway! I’m a night owl. If I get up earlier, I’ll never sleep. And you and Mom seem to think that’s, like, important.”

“Fine,” Agatha relents with an eye-roll. “I know that’s part of your circadian rhythms as a teenager.”

America blinks — she kind of can’t believe she won that argument. She’s not sure that’s ever happened before. She shakes off the shock. “Exactly. It’s my…cicadas or whatever.”

“But set multiple alarms. And don’t press snooze,” Agatha says sternly, pointing a finger at her.

“You have my word,” America vows, lifting her hand as if swearing an oath in court.

“Mhm.” Agatha narrows her eyes as if she doesn’t quite believe her. Which was insulting but fair. “Anyway: math, then fire.”

“Okaaay,” America grumbles in reluctant agreement. “But I might doze off during the math part. I’m warning you now.”

Agatha sighs, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “No fire if you doze off.”

“What?!” Her jaw drops. “That was not part of the original agreement,” she points out. Agatha, however, doesn’t seem like she’s going to budge, and she knows pushing it probably wouldn’t be wise, especially after her tardiness. She knows when to pick her battles — and when not to. “Fine,” she agrees. “But in that case…” She holds her eyes open. “I’m not taking any chances.”

America does keep her promise to try — and actually manages not to completely suck at it or fall asleep either. But she does also start getting restless after a bit, and no matter how much of an effort she makes to be patient, she can’t keep her leg from shaking or her eyes from wandering to the clock every couple of minutes.

After about an hour and a half, Agatha seems satisfied enough with their progress — or at least knows America’s not going to retain anything past that point. “Okay.” She puts down her chalk. “We can move on now.”

“Yesssss. Finally.” America pumps her fist before unceremoniously slamming her notebook shut and hopping up from her prison of a desk. “Let’s make some flames!” she eagerly exclaims, rubbing her hands together.

“Not so fast.” Agatha points back at the desk. “First, safety and rules.”

“But I already know all that,” America argues. “It’s not exactly the same, but I learned how to make some sparks at Kamar-Taj. And before I was allowed to do that, Strange covered the basics and—" Agatha’s brows shoot up at that, and America slowly sinks back down into her seat, seeing the error of her ways. “—I now realize telling you that part was a mistake.” 

Agatha’s mouth thins into a disapproving line. “He’s an irresponsible man. I’m starting from the beginning,” she declares.

“Of course you are,” America mutters under her breath, sighing and resting her chin in her hand. Agatha hated him so much, America had probably just inadvertently expanded this little safety and rule session to twice its original length.

“First, no large fires,” Agatha begins. “Candles and matches only for right now. Second, make sure there’s nothing immediately flammable nearby should something go wrong. Third, stand at least 20 inches away from the target in case something backfires.”

“Small fires, nothing flammable in range, 20 inches away,” she repeats with a nod and another yawn. “That wasn’t meant to be sassy,” she clarifies. “Just tired — not bored.”

“Mhm. Then I also need you to be aware of your emotional state before you start any fires that may influence your control over it.”

“Emotions always get in the way.” America scowls. “Can’t I just use the same techniques I use for keeping the portals in check? Take a deep breath, identify the feeling, figure out the root of it — all that stuff?”

“Yes, that would work.” Agatha nods. “Just make sure you really take the time to do that — this stuff can be dangerous,” she warns.

“I will,” she promises. “Right now all I'm feeling is sleepy, which isn’t even an emotion, so it should be fine, right?”

“As long as you concentrate on everything you’re doing and don’t lose focus,” Agatha confirms.

“Right,” she agrees, chewing on her thumbnail. That part admittedly made her a little nervous — for a couple reasons. “Okay.”

“You can do it,” Agatha encourages, going to set up a candle across the room. “I’m right here.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to push aside the nerves for the excitement again. “I can do it,” she repeats to herself.

Agatha nods, going to stand next to America’s desk. “I’ll demonstrate,” she says, and with a concentrated look on her face and a few specific movements of her hands, the candle lights before extinguishing.

America’s eyes light up a little bit, that childish wonder still not completely faded despite taking lessons for over a year now. Magic was still…well, magical. “You always make it look so easy.”

Agatha shrugs. “I’ve had 300 years of practice.”

“That’s true,” America says, biting her lip — debating on whether to ask something that’s been on her mind for a while: all the days she can’t seem to sit still or concentrate on her homework or keep track of time. But she’s always been too nervous to voice it, and today is no different.

Agatha must sense she’s holding back, though. “Questions?”

“No,” America says, causing Agatha to cock a skeptical brow. “I mean…yes. Kind of. But it’s a little off-topic. We can talk about it later.” She waves her off.

“It’s all right. Let’s address it now,” Agatha prompts.

America takes a deep breath. “Do you think it’s harder for certain people to do this kind of thing? Like, fundamentally? Not the magic part, necessarily, but…the learning and staying focused on stuff part?”

Agatha pauses for a moment — considering this, tilting her head to consider America — before she nods. “Sometimes it is. Various learning disabilities and neurodivergences can have this effect — ADHD, for instance.”

“I’ve heard of that a little.” She slowly nods. “On TikTok.” 

“What do you know about it?” Agatha inquires.

“I don’t know.” America shrugs. “It makes you, like, more distracted. And restless.”

“Sort of. ADHD is complicated and widely misunderstood. Historically, a lot of research was only done on one type of person.”

“White dudes?” America guesses.

“Correct.” Agatha nods. 

“Racism and sexism strike again.” America rolls her eyes.

“Precisely,” Agatha agrees. “White supremacy, the patriarchy: they seep into everything — especially psychiatry and psychology as institutions. I’ve only very recently seen a push to expand the scope of the research regarding it and mental health.” Agatha goes back over to the blackboard, beginning to chalk down some vocabulary. “As far as ADHD goes, there are actually two main types — inattentive and hyperactive — as well as a mixed type. There are a plethora of other symptoms you can experience beyond the ones you named.”

“Huh. Okay.” America squints, processing all this. “What are the other symptoms?”

“Anxiety, depression, sleep problems.” She thinks for a second. “Time blindness, sensory issues. Sometimes there are somatic symptoms like gut problems.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Once again, 300 years old, dear.”

“Well, it’s definitely interesting.” America nods. And it was. She checked a few of those boxes. There were some coincidences, for sure. But after a moment, the nod turns into shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t have it, though. If that’s what you’re thinking,” she says. Her tone’s not defensive — she’s not bothered by the idea — it’s just…matter-of-fact.

“I’m thinking we should get it checked out,” Agatha says, dropping the chalk back onto the ledge and brushing her hands together to rid it of the residue. “There are things to help you if you do.”

“I mean, okay. Sure. But it feels like a waste of time. Like, that’s a real problem that people have, and I’m just…lazy. Or something. I don't mean to be, but...” That’s what more than one person had said in more than one universe. Those people weren’t particularly nice and didn’t seem particularly interested in her well-being, but she figured the data spoke for itself. “I just need to learn how to try harder.” She shrugs.

Agatha gives her a stern look. “I know just how hard you try. You’re doing the best you can, but looking into this might help make things easier for you.”

America fidgets a little at the Serious Mom Look combined with the Serious Mom Tone. She’s not going to argue more because, frankly, she knows she’s not going to win when those come out. “How do they fix it?” she asks instead. “Or cure it or whatever?”

“There’s no cure because it’s not a disease — even if you have it, nothing would be wrong with you. The whole reason it’s a ‘problem’ today is because society isn’t built to support people who fall outside the norm. But pharmaceutical treatment — medications with stimulants — can help with some of the difficulties. Sometimes therapy can be beneficial.”

America mulls this over — another thing to reframe in her brain. There’d been a lot of that lately. In good but challenging ways. “I’ll get tested, and I’ll take pills if they say to, but I do not want to go to therapy,” she asserts.

“Why not therapy?” Agatha asks, tone softening a bit.

“Um. Because,” America says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You may not think anything is wrong with me, but some rando therapist for sure will. Maybe not because of hypothetical ADHD, but the minute I start talking about my past? Jumping universes?” She gives her a ‘come on’ look.

She feels herself getting more worked up as she thinks of all the people she’d encountered who didn’t believe her abilities, her trauma, her in general. The people that had said her parents had failed her, had said she needed to be locked up somewhere. It had sucked, but that was before she really had anything to lose. She couldn’t risk it now.

“Best case scenario: they think I’m a pathological liar and maybe a little crazy,” America explains. “Worst case scenario: they think I’m a lot crazy and, like, don’t let me live with you guys anymore. That’s how these things work. So you can’t make me go,” she says firmly, giving her another look. “Please,” she adds — a mistake considering her voice cracks a little on the word.

Agatha sits down beside her, taking her hands. “The right therapist isn’t going to think that. The only reason they’d say that is if they don’t have proper knowledge of things like this. We’d make sure to find someone who does. I mean, we live in a universe where the Avengers exist — there are options. It’d be okay.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” she asks, voice cracking again. “What if it’s not okay?” She rips her hands away to wipe at a tear before pushing herself up off the chair. She crosses her arms as she starts to pace — a habit she’d picked up from Agatha. “You said there’s always going to be people who want to hurt people like us. The worst way they could hurt me is by ripping me away from you and Mom. I’d rather just keep suffering than risk telling the wrong person the wrong thing and having everything fall apart. So just…don’t make me go, okay?” she pleads. She knows what it is to trust people she shouldn’t. To put her faith in a system that had failed her over and over again. To lose the people she cared about most.

“Take a deep breath for me,” Agatha calmly orders. America reluctantly, half-assed obliges, though it’s more of a huff. Agatha can sense that. “Another.” She grits her teeth but sucks in — more committed this time. Her chest begins to loosen. “And again.” She inhales deeply without argument this time, letting her breath out slowly. Some of the anxiety goes with it.

Agatha nods, satisfied, before continuing. “They wouldn’t be able to take you from us unless they had proof or suspicion of abuse — that’s how the law works here,” Agatha explains, her tone not condescending but informative. Clinical. That’s what America needs right now. The facts. “It’s true that there are always people who want to hurt us, but a therapist isn’t like that. You go to the first session and get to know them and see if it’s a fit. If not, you can find someone else. We won’t make you go, but it could help.”

She’s still not completely sold on the idea, but she’s not as opposed as before — now that she had some clarity around the process and assurance they weren’t going to force her. “Have you ever gone?” she asks, toeing at the floor with her shoe. “Is that, like…an okay thing to ask? You don’t have to tell me…”

“No, no — it’s okay. Therapy is nothing to be ashamed of.” Agatha sighs, gently reaching out to take one of her hands again. America lets her this time. Doesn’t pull away. Allows her to rub circles on the back of it with her thumb and allows herself to find it soothing. “I’ve…never gone,” Agatha admits. “I’ve thought about it before, but I’ve always been scared. It’s the irrational side of my brain that says it’ll go poorly.”

America thinks this over, biting her lip. After a moment, she sinks back into her desk chair. “I’ll go,” she decides softly. Even if she didn’t end up having ADHD, there was probably still some…stuff that she could use help working out. But there’s a condition attached. She wasn’t about to be the only one. “If you go, then I’ll go, too. Then maybe it won’t be as scary — for either of us.”

Agatha takes a deep breath, trying to quell some of her own anxiety. “We can do that,” she agrees, giving her hand a squeeze.

“It’s a deal, then,” America says, squeezing her hand back — the equivalent of a handshake agreement. 

“You know I’m always here for you, right?” Agatha checks. “That I would never do anything to put you in danger?”

“I do,” she swears. “I trust you — and Mom — it’s just…hard to trust other people.”

“I know,” Agatha sympathizes. “Other people are hard, and it’s a slow process to get there.”

“Yet another thing to work on.” America sighs. “That list is getting freakin’ long. Maybe we can take some stuff off it…like math,” she suggests with a cheeky smile. “Kiddiiiing, kidding,” she says before Agatha can object.

Agatha rolls her eyes, “Unfortunately, life is like that. Believe it or not, math is pretty easy in comparison to a lot of it.”

“Ugh, whatever," America says flippantly, standing from her desk. She shakes her head a little, wanting a lighter topic. Literally. "Time to find out where fire falls on the list.” She cracks her knuckles — preparing. “I’ve been so patient.” A beat. “Okay, I’ve been somewhat reasonably patient-ish,” she amends.

“Do you want to give it a go?” Agatha asks, raising herself up from her chair.

“Yeah.” She nods, feeling more confident, more at ease. “I’m ready now.”

Chapter Text

America squints as she looks at the candle wick, focusing hard as she tries to mimic what Agatha has just done with her hands. To her surprise, it works — a little too well, even — the flame about three times as big as it should be. Luckily, it stays miraculously contained, not setting anything else on fire in the process. “Whoa.”

Agatha blows it out but smiles, giving her a nod of approval. “Good job.”

“That wasn’t so hard,” America muses. “And it was fun." It made her feel powerful. "Can we go upstairs so I can light your fireplace?” she asks eagerly.

“No big fires,” Agatha reminds her.

America scoffs. “Your fireplace is not that big. It’d be, like, a medium fire at most.”

“Small fires,” she repeats.

“Well, what else can I light? Candles are so boring.”

“Matches,” Agatha suggests. “I said matches were allowed.”

“That’s even more boring,” America whines, throwing her head back before righting it again with a mischievous smile. “Blunts are small,” she points out, miming taking a hit. “You have any of those lying around?”

Agatha crosses her arms. “Smoking weed? Around my impressionable 15-year-old daughter? Now does that sound like something a responsible parent who's trying to be a good influence would do?” she asks dryly. Deflecting. Notably not answering the question. America wasn’t naive — Agatha was a stoner. A sneaky one but a stoner nonetheless.

She smirks. “You don’t do it around me. But you do do it, which means you totally have them hidden somewhere,” she says with a laugh. “Don’t worry — I’m not gonna go looking for them if that’s what you’re worried about.” She casually leans against the desk, examining her nails. “I’m more of an edibles person anyway." She shrugs, her tone making it unclear whether she’s bluffing about the last part or not.

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “America Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness, I would really like to know if you’ve actually gotten high on an edible.”

She internally winces at the full name. It was like truth serum. “Like, once,” she admits. “By accident. I thought it was just a regular gummy bear. And it was before I met you. In a different universe, so it really doesn’t even count,” she justifies.

Agatha is unmoved. “You’re too young to be doing that sort of thing in any universe.”

“I mean, yeah,” America says, her face getting hot. Agatha was rarely ever this stern with her. The only time she can remember Agatha scolding her this seriously was at the diner after she ran away. “But like I said, it wasn’t even on purpose.”

“Still, I need you to be careful,” Agatha says firmly.

America raises her palms. "Okay, okay — I will."

Agatha looks at her for a beat before she sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’m not mad,” she clarifies.

America puts her hand to her chest, letting out a breath of relief. “Then why’d you full-name me? Geez.”

“To get your attention. To let you know it’s serious,” Agatha says, making very intentional eye contact. “I know we’ve joked about it before, but in reality, it’s not a game, and I need you to understand that. I know I smoke, and I know that both Wanda and I are casual drinkers, but that sort of thing can be easily abused, and it can easily…” She searches for an appropriate word before deciding to be direct. “...fuck a young person up.”

“No, I know,” she says, straightening her posture so Agatha knows she does have her attention — that she is taking it seriously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, like…make light of it.” She fidgets a little. For some reason, this feels deeper than just general maternal worry. It feels…like maybe she’s speaking from personal experience. She doesn’t want to make assumptions, but her mind can’t help but drift to her son. “You don’t have to worry about me. I promise.”

Agatha seems to relax a bit. “I’m glad. I want you to be safe. In a year or two, if you want to have a glass of something with Wanda and me, that’s a different story.”

“Totally, yeah. That sounds good. Very fair.”

“And I’m not anti-weed, but that’s a longer conversation.”

“And we so don’t have to have that conversation today,” America rushes to assure her. A beat. “Unless you…want to have that conversation today?”

Agatha arches a brow. “About the weed?”

“Yeah.” America shrugs. “Or whatever. If there’s something else you want to discuss? As long as it’s not numbers or—” she lowers her voice, a little embarrassed. “—sex again.”

An amused smile flashes across Agatha’s face at her protesting math and sex ed, but it quickly fades. She purses her lips, carefully choosing her words. “I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve seen what abusing drugs can do. How it can hurt people, even unintentionally. I used to drink a lot, and I saw how my life deteriorated because of it. And—” She stops.

Agatha’s like a tree, America thinks. Sturdy on the outside but with all these rings inside. All these hidden layers she’s accumulated over the years. “And what?” she gently pries.

She takes a deep breath. “I was heavily drinking when I had my son. At that time, everyone was, but that didn’t stop the damage that alcohol does during the first two trimesters. Nick grew up…all right, but he was a sick child and had issues he wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been reckless. Then, he went on to start using drugs. It was the culture back then — nobody talked about mental health.”

America chews on the inside of her cheek, the information — tragic and painful as it is — snapping in another piece of the still somewhat mysterious puzzle that was Agatha. “That must have been really hard,” she quietly sympathizes.

“Yeah, it was.” Agatha nods. “‘But it’s not like I was much better. Just a few decades ago, doctors were prescribing quaaludes to anyone they deemed hysterical or complicated.”

“Mostly women, probably,” America guesses.

“Mm,” Agatha hums in the affirmative. “So he didn’t have a great example. I spent years hooked on those.” She grimaces.

“But you got unhooked eventually,” America points out. “That’s something. More than something — that’s, like, everything. The only thing that matters.”

Agatha gives her a small smile. “That’s true, but doing that is hell. All the withdrawals and cravings, learning how to cope…”

“Yeah…” America cringes. “That does not sound like a road I want to go down.”

“You don’t. That’s why I worry. I know not everyone will go down that road, and not every drug has the same rate of dependence, but it still makes me nervous.”

“I get it,” America says softly, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to take her hand — something Agatha had done for her so many times before. “I promise to take a different road.” A beat. “Metaphorically speaking, of course, since Mom still won’t let me get behind the wheel again,” she lightly teases.

“Good. I’ll hold you to it.” Agatha gives her hand a squeeze. “As for the road thing, this year, maybe we can try again since you’ll be able to get a learner’s permit.”

“Really?!” Her eyes light up. “You mean it?”

“I do.” Agatha smiles.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She grins, throwing her arms around her. “And thank you for telling me all that stuff,” she says more softly. “I think you’re, like, really badass for surviving it. And talking about it.”

Agatha stiffens in surprise for just a second before reciprocating the hug. “Thank you,” she says quietly before kissing her forehead.

America smiles up at her before glancing at the clock. It was late — far later than they usually ended what with two lessons and several detours to boot. “I should probably go home, or Mom’s gonna think you gave me detention for being late this morning."

“Tell her I did — see if she believes you.” Agatha winks.

She smirks. “Okay, I will.” She opens a portal. “You coming with? Or are you hanging here for a bit?” She’s torn — she doesn’t really want her to be alone, especially not after their whole vulnerable conversation, but she did need to loop up with Wanda about top-secret engagement stuff.

“I’ll stay here for a bit.” Agatha waves her off. “I need to check on Señor Scratchy.”

America nods. “Tell him I said hi,” she says, stepping through the portal. “Oh, and make sure you’re home in time for dinner! I convinced Mom to make—” The portal closes behind her, leaving her in the kitchen with Wanda before she has the chance to finish that sentence with ‘tacos.’ “Ah, well. Hopefully, I’ve left her in suspense and she’ll come just to figure out what I was going to say.”

Wanda glances over her shoulder from her place at the counter chopping vegetables. “Well, hello to you, too.”

“Hey,” America says, snagging one of the pepper slices from the cutting board and popping it into her mouth. “Need help chopping stuff? Better yet: need help heating the stove? I can do that now. With my hands." She wiggles her fingers. 

“Small fires only, and this is an electric stove. You can help me cut, though,” she nods to a small pile of ingredients.

“Ugh. You and Mama have a very different definition of ‘small’ than I do,” she says, grabbing a knife and starting on a tomato.

“We just want you to be safe.”

“I know, I know,” she says. “The small fire was still pretty fun. Even if it was bookended by math and detention — thanks for that, by the way.”

“Excuse me?” Wanda’s knife pauses in midair, blinking as she looks over at her. “Detention?”

“Yeah,” America continues with a sigh, laying it on thick. “She was, like, pissed I was late."

“Dear god.” Wanda sighs. “Was she really?” 

“Mhm,” she confirms, pursing her lips to hold back a laugh as she continues to chop. “Totally sucked. Should’ve let me skip breakfast.”

Wanda shakes her head, clenching her jaw as she goes back to chopping — with notably more force now. “Well, Agatha and I are having a talk,” she mutters. “You are not skipping breakfast.”

“Please do. It was awful. She made me clap erasers and write ‘I will not be late’ ten thousand times and color-code and alphabetize every single one of her giant bookshelves,” she says, a small smile creeping onto her face now at the wild exaggeration.

Wanda pauses again to look over at her, narrowing her eyes. “You’re messing with me.”

“I am,” she admits with a giggle. “But in my defense, she put me up to it!”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “Of course she did.”

“I’m sorryyyy,” she apologizes with another laugh. “Don’t worry — we’ll get her back way worse on Saturday with the surprise proposal. I’ve been practicing what I’m gonna say to get her there. Have you been practicing what you’re gonna say before you pop the question?”

“Yeah, I’ve written it down.” Wanda nods. “It’s just a matter of making it perfect — and a matter of me not crying when I do it.”

“Aww, it’s gonna be perfect no matter what,” America assures her. “And also, you’re probably gonna cry no matter what. But, like, that's okay — so will I. I’ll bring tissues.” She whips out her phone, opening the notes app. “What else do we need to bring besides that?”

“I’d also like to get her some flowers. Violets maybe? I think those are her favorites.”

“Well, they’re purple, so there’s an approximately 100% chance you’re right about that.” America nods, adding violets to the list. “I’m taking care of the cake since the one I made for your birthday was such a hit, but you’re gonna need to handle the champagne for obvious reasons. Technically, I could try to do a transmutation spell on liquid again, but last time I did that, the results did not taste great.” She scrunches her nose, remembering the vodka. She knows it’s not necessarily supposed to taste good, but she can’t imagine it’s supposed to taste that bad either. “And also, you weren’t happy with me. So that’s all you.” She types 'cake' and 'champagne.'

“Maybe I’ll get wine instead,” Wanda considers. “Agatha is a wine person.”

“True. Wine it is.” America nods, changing that on her list. “I can get candles, too — romantic ones to line the little path. Plus, they’re small enough that I can magically light them, so no matches required. One less thing to remember to bring," she says proudly. “Can I go to the store with you when you get the violets?” 

“Sure. What do you need?”

America blushes a little as she finishes cutting the tomato, moving on to some avocados. “I want to get Kamala some flowers, too.”

Wanda gives her a smile, reaching over to ruffle her hair. “Aw, that’s sweet. We can go tomorrow after you’re out of class if you want,” she suggests.

“Perfect.” America nods, biting her lip as she chops, debating whether to say the other part. Better say it here than at the store with the risk of an audience, she supposed. “I also…um…might pick up some…like…protection? For…well, you know. I don’t think anything’s gonna happen,” she quickly assures her. “Not yet. Not for a while, probably. But I promised Mama I’d be safe with that stuff, so…yeah. Just, like…just in case.” Her blush deepens.

Wanda takes a deep breath, her smile reassuring albeit slightly strained now. “We can do that. I’m glad you’re being responsible. Your mother’s right — we both just want you to be careful.”

“I will,” she vows. “I’ve promised to be so careful in so many ways. Took a blood oath, in fact. That was part of detention, too,” she teases.

Wanda rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you did. Now would you mind setting the table for me?”

“Sure.” She nods, tossing the chopped lettuce into the bowl and going to the cabinet for plates. “How did Vision propose?” she asks as she starts laying out the dishes. “Or how did you? I shouldn’t assume. Eff the patriarchy.”

Wanda shrugs, a small, melancholy smile on her face. “It was a mutual decision, actually. We were talking about a future together, and we both sort of casually asked each other at once. No rings or anything.”

“That’s really cute. There’s something romantic about being spontaneous and in sync like that.”

“There is,” Wanda agrees, her tone bittersweet.

America finishes setting out the silverware before walking back over to Wanda, resting her chin on her shoulder. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just get curious about you and Mama’s lives before.”

“It’s okay.” Wanda runs a hand through America’s hair. “I don’t mind. It’s just a bit sad to remember everything — even the good stuff.”

“I know.” She nods. And she really, really did. “But only happy vibes from now until Saturday. That’s a big day for both of us — we need positive energy.”

“We do,” Wanda agrees, taking a deep, anxious breath.

“It’ll be perfect,” America promises. “I know it will.”

Chapter Text

Saturday comes fast. They all agree it’d be easiest for Kamala to meet up with them at Agatha’s Westview house, as it’s just a short drive from her own home. (She had a license and a car, which America thought was the epitome of cool.) 

From there, America and Kamala would go to the restaurant under the guise of a date; Wanda would pretend to meet up with Strange for a mission but would join them as well; and Agatha would stay at her place until they were finished setting up, at which point America would call her in fake crisis. America had gone over it a million times in her head, so she wasn’t particularly worried about pulling it off. But meeting Kamala — and Kamala meeting Wanda and Agatha — on the other hand? That terrified her a little, to put it mildly. 

And it probably shows, her leg shaking rapidly as she sits in Agatha’s living room, eyes darting toward the front entrance as she waits for Kamala to ring the doorbell.

Agatha squeezes her shoulder, snapping her from her daze. “It’ll be okay.”

“How do you know? Are you psychic? If so, I’d like future-telling to be the next thing you teach me," she jokes, an undercurrent of nerves woven through her tone.

“I’m not psychic, but from what you’ve told us about her, she sounds lovely.”

“I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” America whines, the assurance doing nothing to relax her. “But I can’t because that would so not be a good first impression.”

“Deep breaths,” Agatha soothes.

America breathes in, blowing a piece of stray hair from her face as she exhales. The doorbell rings before she has time to do another, her eyes widening. “Here goes nothing,” she says under her breath as she stands, legs trembling ever-so-slightly as she grabs the flowers — sunflowers, she'd decided — from the coffee table and makes her way to the door. 

She finally takes that second deep breath right before she opens it. The nerves don’t completely disappear once she does, but they melt into a different kind once she sees her — more excited than panicked. Something tells her that Agatha was right and it would be okay. More than okay. “Hey,” she says, a little breathless, mouth curving into a smile.

“Oh my god — you’re like a real-life person! Not just a picture on my phone!” Kamala says, throwing her arms around her, slightly crushing the flowers between them.

It’s a perfect hug. And a long one. So long, in fact, that Agatha stands from the couch and clears her throat after a moment. “Hi,” she greets.

“Hi!” Kamala calls back, at which point America pulls back from the hug and leads her from the entryway into the living room. 

“That’s Agatha,” America explains. 

If Kamala’s intimidated, she doesn’t show it, sticking out her hand. “Kamala. Nice to meet you. So crazy we’re practically neighbors.”

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Agatha says, shaking her hand. “America can’t stop talking about you.”

“Mama, please,” America mutters, a little embarrassed.

“What?” Agatha shrugs. “You can’t.”

“Ugh, whatever.” America shakes it off as Kamala turns to Wanda. “And this is—”

Kamala freezes, jaw dropping as she looks at her. As if she can't believe what she's seeing. “I know who it is.” She gives America a look. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about your mom?!” 

“I did!” America says defensively. “I talk about her all the time.” 

“Yeah, but you never said she was Wanda. Like, the Wanda. The Scarlet Witch. An Avenger.” 

America shrugs. “It never came up.” 

Kamala looks back at Wanda, suddenly shy and starstruck. “I’m a huge fan, Ms. Maximoff.” 

“Oh.” Wanda blinks in surprise. Confusion. Clearly wholly unprepared for this reaction. America knows that look on her face — the look of someone who doesn’t feel she deserves to have anyone looking up to her because of the things she’s done. “Thank you, sweetheart — that’s very kind.” She gives her a smile, some genuine flattery peeking through the self-loathing. “And you can just call me Wanda.”

Kamala sucks in a breath that seems to say: Holy shit — she’s letting me be on a first-name basis with her? But she tries to keep it somewhat cool with her words. “Of course. You’re literally my favorite.” 

America scoffs. “Captain Marvel is your favorite.” 

“Okay, fine. You’re my second favorite,” Kamala admits. “Can I have your autograph?” 

“Uh...sure. Yes. Of course,” Wanda agrees, once again caught off guard.

Kamala pats her jacket pockets. “Shoot — I don’t have any paper.” 

“There’s some in the kitchen. Come with me,” America says, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the other room. She was glad they were getting along, but she wanted a moment of privacy.

Agatha laughs, glancing at Wanda as they make their way out of the room. “How’s it feel to have a fan?”

“Odd,” Wanda admits. “But sweet.”

“Dude, I can’t believe you kept this from me,” Kamala whispers as they get inside the kitchen. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t do it intentionally,” America justifies.

“I also can’t believe you didn’t mention they’re kinda MILFs.” Kamala wiggles her brows.

“Ew, gross,” America says through a laugh, picking up a dishtowel and slapping her arm. “They’re not to me.” 

“Well, I’d hope not.” 

“Are you more excited to meet them than you are to meet me?” she teases as she grabs some paper and a pen from the junk drawer, a tiny bit of genuine anxiety peeking through. Having two of the most powerful witches in the world for moms had its perks, but it was also a lot to live up to. The pressure and imposter syndrome were real.

Kamala quells that fear quickly, leaning in to kiss her as soon as she turns back around — very quick, very chaste, but to America, still very life-changing. “Of course not,” she promises before bouncing back into the living room.

America stands there for a moment, brain short-circuiting as she tries to process everything that had just occurred. Kamala’s lips — her perfect lips — had touched her own lips. Their lips had touched each other.

She somehow manages to follow Kamala a few beats later, dragging herself back to join her moms again. She’s thankful when she reaches the couch, feeling weak in the knees.

“What does that mean?” Agatha asks, leaning over to whisper to her.

America blinks, still in a first-kiss-induced haze. “Huh?”

Agatha sighs. “MILF,” she says in the same low tone. “What does MILF mean?”

America blinks again, eyes widening. She was very alert now. “Oh…uh. I’ll…tell you later,” she promises, hoping to god Agatha forgets about it and ‘later’ never actually comes. 

“I’m seriously going to frame this,” Kamala says, thankfully oblivious to their hushed conversation. She hands Wanda the pen and paper for her to sign. “And put it next to my bobbleheads. Sorry, is that weird? Knowing people have bobbleheads of you?”

“It’s not weird,” Wanda assures her. “It’s…flattering. Though surprising. I didn’t know people…liked me,” she admits, leaning forward to autograph it on the coffee table. 

“Are you kidding me? People love you. The people with taste, at least,” Kamala says, smiling as Wanda hands the paper back. She folds it carefully before putting it in her pocket. 

“Do I Google it?” Agatha asks, unfortunately hellbent on getting an answer, it seemed.

“No!” America says — too quickly and too loudly. Kamala catches wind of it, turning her head.

“Google what?” she asks.

“Uh…whether she has a bobblehead,” America lies. “She’ll be very disappointed by the results. Sorry, Mama. Anyway, what were we talking about before we went into the kitchen?” she asks, desperate to change the subject.

“She doesn’t want me Googling MILF,” Agatha says bluntly in a way that makes America want to die. “But she also won’t tell me what it means, so I don’t see how I have a choice. Unless you’d like to tell me.”

“Mama!” America groans, dropping her head into her hands. “Oh my god.” 

Kamala gulps, slowly sinking more deeply into the couch. “Did you hear me say that?” She turns to America. “Does she have, like, enhanced hearing?” she whispers. “Dude, you have got to start telling me things.”

“Is it bad?” Agatha asks. “I’m so confused.”

“No, no — it’s not bad. It’s good, actually!” Kamala promises. “It’s just also…not really appropriate.” She cringes. “My parents would kill me if they found out I said it about you. Or anyone.”

“It means you’re hot, okay?” America blurts, unable to stand this any longer. “Are you happy now?” 

“Sorry, Ms...” Kamala realizes she doesn’t know her last name. America had always just referred to them as Mom and Mama, thus being blindsided by Wanda. 

“Harkness,” America helps. 

“Ms. Harkness. Sorry.” Kamala bites her lip. “That was disrespectful.”

Agatha slowly nods, still clearly trying to make sense of it. “You’re all right, dear,” she assures her. “And just Agatha, please.”

“Now that that’s settled, can we please talk about something less awkward?” America asks, shooting a pointed glance at Agatha.

Agatha holds her hands up defensively. “What do you suggest we talk about?”

“Literally anything else,” she says through gritted teeth. 

“I really like your house,” Kamala mercifully cuts in, glancing around. “How long have you lived here?”

“Oh.” Agatha blinks — also not stellar at accepting compliments. “Thank you. For several years. It’s a long story as to why I ended up here.”

“Oh, really?” Kamala asks. “My parents, too. They and my older brother moved here from Pakistan before I was born.”

Wanda gives her a sympathetic nod. “It's complicated, I assume?” she asks gently.

“Very.” Kamala nods. “It was always their dream to move here, but yeah — still really complicated. You can probably relate," she says, giving her a small, slightly sad smile. She knew about her own past. Sokovia.

“Yeah, it’s possible,” Wanda agrees. “Immigrating is difficult at the best of times because of the system but can be even worse when there are extenuating circumstances.”

Kamala nods. “They didn’t speak very much English or make very much money at first even though my dad worked all the time. And my mom and grandma weren’t exactly close back then, so she didn’t have much support. But they’re better now. And my dad doesn’t have to work as much anymore.” 

“What does he do again?” America asks. 

“I don’t know.” Kamala shrugs. “Something at the bank.”

“What’s your dad’s name?” Agatha asks. “Out of curiosity.”

“Yusuf. Why, do you know him?”

Agatha narrows her eyes, pondering for a second. “I think so. I have an account at a bank downtown, and the name sounds familiar.”

“No way.” Kamala laughs. “That’s so funny. Next time you’re there, tell him your daughter’s friends with me — he’ll definitely let you pick two pieces of candy out of the little jar on his desk. Just don’t be surprised if he gives you the third degree. Both my parents are…sort of overprotective,” she explains. “And traditional. America’s so lucky you guys are cool.”

“I’m not sure America would always agree we’re cool,” Wanda teases, glancing in her direction.

“Definitely not ‘always,’” America says, playfully scrunching her nose. “More like ‘rarely.’ Or ‘occasionally,’ if I’m being really generous.”

“At least they don’t make you go to public school. That alone? Very cool,” Kamala points out before turning to Agatha. “Have you always been a teacher?”

She shakes her head. “No. Never actually before America,” she admits.

“Oh, wow.” Kamala nods, impressed. “I kind of just assumed you’d been doing it for a long time since America talks about how good you are at it—”

“Okay, no need to boost her ego by telling her I said that,” America cuts in with a little blush. She was a teenager. She couldn't let them know that, despite complaining about them, she did kind of think the world of them. Bragged about them sometimes.

“I’m glad to know I do a good job,” Agatha laughs, giving America a wink before looking over at Kamala again. “But, no — I’d never really taught before. I’ve just been around long enough to pick things up.”

“Still, it takes skill,” Kamala insists. “My chemistry teacher is, like, 85 — definitely knows chemistry, definitely doesn’t know how to explain it to a bunch of high schoolers.”

“I can imagine.” Agatha nods. “Though chemistry is hard no matter how you put it. I was bored in the 60s once, so I charmed my way into some college chemistry program.”

“For fun?” America asks, horrified. 

“Do you remember any of it?” Kamala asks, hopeful.

“I do, but I hated parts. Physical chemistry and analytical chemistry were the worst. I’m quite good at organic chemistry, though.” She shrugs.

“Would you help me?” Kamala asks. “I have a big test next week, and if I fail it, I’ll be grounded. And if I’m grounded, I won’t be allowed to go to prom. My parents will pay you. My mom even made my last tutor nankhatai. They’re like shortbread cookies, and they’re so good.”

Agatha blinks, taking all of that in — overwhelmed and maybe a little endeared at how quickly and enthusiastically she talked. “I can probably help, depending on what you’re doing. But don’t worry about paying me.”

“Thank you,” Kamala breathes out a sigh of relief. “You’re a lifesaver. If you won’t take their money, my mom’s definitely going to make you, like, 100 cookies. So just be prepared for that. Maybe make some space in your freezer.” 

America blinks, too, caught on another point. “Prom?” she asks quietly. 

“Oh, yeah. Oops. I was going to, like, plan some fancy prom-posal." Kamala grimaces. "Guess I kinda messed that up. Do you...want to go with me?” 

“Yes,” America says quickly, face lighting up. “Obviously. I want to so much.” She looks at Wanda and Agatha. “I can go, right?”

Wanda smiles. “Yes, you can. We’ll discuss a few rules around it later, but yes.”

“Yay!” America and Kamala say at the same time, causing them to look at each other and giggle a little. 

Kamala absentmindedly brushes a piece of hair out of America’s face, which makes her limbs feel all jelly-like and her tongue feel all numb. And then she asks, “Can I use your bathroom?” all casually because she clearly doesn’t realize the power she has. America nods and points down the hall, unable to speak. “Cool — thanks.” Kamala nods, making her way toward it. 

America watches her go as if she still can’t quite believe she’s actually here. A real, physical person. Only once she’s shut the bathroom door does America look back at Wanda and Agatha. “What?” she asks, fidgeting with the hem of her jacket as she clocks Agatha’s expression — brow raised in amusement. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Because you have a look on your face,” she says with a smirk.

“Look? What look? I don’t have a look.”

“You do.”

“Okay, maybe I do. A little bit,” she admits. “But can you blame me? I mean, she’s the best, isn’t she?”

“Kamala is great,” she agrees. “But it’s very cute to see you flustered.”

“Well, I’m only flustered because…” She builds up the courage to say it. “Becauseshekissedmeinthekitchen,” she says very quickly, it bursting out of her.

“Oh?” Agatha’s brow arches higher. “So you had your first kiss?”

“Yes,” she says, face going red yet again. “And it was amazing and perfect — even if it was just by your stove.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Agatha says, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Thank you.” America’s mouth twitches into a smile. “And thank you for being nice to her. Minus the whole ‘asking about what MILF is.’ That was, like, unhinged. Listen to me next time.”

Agatha defensively holds up her hands. “Look, I didn’t know what it was. I still don’t, really.”

America sighs. Probably best to rip the band-aid, at this point. “It’s an acronym, technically. ‘Mother I’d Like to…’ I’ll let you fill in the rest. But it’s not literal. It’s just an expression for a woman who’s, like…older and pretty. Does that make sense? Please make that make sense because I’m scarred enough already.”

Agatha thinks for a second before nodding, it seeming to click. “Ah, yeah. I got it.”

“Thank god,” America mutters before turning to Wanda, fingers fidgeting in her lap. “You get it, too? And…approve…of her?”

“I do,” Wanda assures her. “She’s sweet.”

“Good.” America relaxes a bit. Everyone was getting along. Everyone liked each other.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t still a little self-conscious. 

“I’m scared I did it wrong,” America admits.

Wanda tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

“Like…” She huffs, annoyed for once that Wanda wasn’t exercising her mind-reading power. That she was making her say it. She glances at the bathroom. The toilet hadn’t even flushed — they still had some time. “Like, I’m worried I kissed her wrong. It was my first kiss, but it wasn’t hers, and what if I sucked at it?” She shoots Agatha an accusatory look. “We didn’t go over that in your stupid class about that kind of stuff.”

Agatha shakes her head. “There’s not really a wrong way to kiss someone. And you’ll get better with more experience.”

"By that logic, she's way better because she has way more experience.” America scowls. “This isn't making me feel any better."

“What I’m saying is I’m sure you’re fine,” Agatha calmly promises. “And someone’s ability to kiss should not define a relationship.”

“Well, it seems pretty important to your relationship. You guys make out all the time,” she says, gesturing between her and Wanda. “It’s, like, your favorite hobby and my worst nightmare.”

Wanda scoffs. “We are not that bad.”

America rolls her eyes. “Still reigning Mushiest of All Time champions, and it’s not even close. You two are beyond nauseating.”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “I’m sure we are.”

“Oh, I’m sure, too. You guys are totally disgusting. Thank god your other qualities make up for it.”

Just then, the toilet flushes, and the sink turns on. A few seconds later, Kamala emerges from the bathroom, and America stands before she can take a seat again. “We should probably go,” she says. “Don’t want to miss our reservation.”

Agatha stands as well to see them off. “Are you two excited?”

“Very.” Kamala nods. “It sounds so fancy. The fanciest place I usually go is, like, the gyro spot down the block. And they have plastic silverware.” 

“I’m excited to try it for myself considering I researched it extensively for some other people,” America says pointedly, the small smile still on her face. And it’s so lame and immature, but she gives Agatha a hug anyway. “I’ll tell you all about it after. Promise,” she whispers. 

And it’s kind of a lie considering she and Kamala aren’t actually eating there — that it's all a big ploy for the proposal — but it’s mostly the truth. She would tell her all about how her night with Kamala went anyway. Because Agatha had a knack for being able to get any information out of her but also because she'd want to, deep down.

“Good.” Agatha hugs her back. “Be careful. Be safe.”

America rolls her eyes. “You sound like Mom. But I will.” She hugs Wanda as well — to keep up the act. “At the risk of sounding like you, too, be safe on your mission, okay?”

“I will.” Wanda nods, giving her a squeeze. “Don’t worry.”

Kamala stands by, doing that awkward hovering thing where you’re not sure if someone’s going to go in for a handshake or a hug or neither. She just gives a little wave in the meantime. “Nice to meet you guys. Thanks for the autograph. And for the chemistry expertise.”

“It’s no problem,” Wanda says, going in for the hug — predictable. “We don’t mind.”

“Not one bit, dear,” Agatha agrees, following suit with the hug as well — a less predictable move. Though maybe it shouldn't be. She’d come a long, long way in the past year or so. “You’d better be on your way.”

“Yup.” America nods, taking a moment to focus before punching a portal. “Let’s go.” In a brief flicker of confidence and spontaneity, she grabs Kamala’s hand, holding it as she gently tugs her through to the other side.

Agatha waves them off, a small smile on her face. She was happy for America. 

What she didn’t know was that America was soon about to be very, very happy for her.

Chapter Text

America and Kamala make it to the proposal spot without any trouble. Wanda follows close behind, supplies she stopped and picked up from the cabin in tow: candles, flowers, wine, and the cake America had secretly baked.

“She has no idea,” America says with a smirk once she arrives. “We’re killing it.”

Wanda gives her a smile, though it’s tinged with more than a little nervousness. She looks like she might throw up.

America gives her a more confident one in return, as well as a nod and thumbs-up for good measure. “You got this,” she assures her.

Wanda sighs. “How do I even do this?”

“You just have to tell her how you feel,” she says, taking a few candles from Wanda's hands and setting them around the area. For ambiance. “You know — that thing you’re always telling me to do?”

Wanda rolls her eyes. She hated it when America used her own words against her. America, on the other hand? Big fan. “I’ll try.”

“And you’ll succeed.” America waves her off. “Do you want these candles in a circle or a heart shape?”

Wanda bites her lip, weighing her options. Pondering deeply, as if her choice could mean the difference between Agatha saying yes or no. “Circle,” she finally decides. “Heart is too cheesy.”

“Good point.” America nods, carefully organizing them to form a perfect ring. 

“What about violets?” Kamala chimes in, holding the bouquet of flowers. “Do you want me to rip some of the petals and sprinkle them around? Or keep them all intact?"

Wanda begins to pace. “A few petals.”

“Copy that,” Kamala says with a little salute, delicately plucking a few petals and strategically placing them around the candles. “There are some twigs over there I think could really enhance the aesthetic. I’ll be right back,” she promises, jogging into the trees to retrieve them and realize her vision. 

“Mom,” America says once Kamala is out of earshot, stepping in front of her so she stops stress-walking. “What’s wrong? Why are you freaking out?”

Wanda takes a deep breath. “What if she says no?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

America’s lip juts into a small frown. She’s a little sad she’s worried about that — but she’s a little amused, too. It's kind of sweet how anxious she is. Especially when there’s no reason to be. “There’s, like, a negative percent chance of that happening,” she promises.

“I hope so. Because I do want this. So badly. She’s made me so incredibly happy,” Wanda explains.

“I know,” America says softly. “And you’ve made her happy, too. You both always have. I knew that from literally the first second I saw you two together. I mean, why do you think I freaking masterminded setting you two up?”

“It wasn’t clear at first after everything,” Wanda muses. “But now it is. We balance each other out.”

“Maybe it wasn’t clear to you.” America scoffs. “But it was to me. Crystal. You had an enemies-to-lovers, opposites-attract thing going on from the start. And soon, there’ll be a new trope to add to the list.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, racking her brain. “What might that be?”

“Happily ever after. Duh.” America grins, flipping her hair over her shoulder before turning to Kamala, who’s worked some (not literal) magic with a couple of leaves and branches, adding some flair to the candle/violet petal circle.

Kamala stands up from crouching in the grass, wiping some dirt from her knees. “How’s it looking, boss?” she asks Wanda. “Want us to change anything?"

Wanda’s face curves into a small, genuine smile. “It looks great.”

“So…I can light the candles now?” America asks, eagerly wiggling her fingers.

Wanda’s smile grows, and she gives her a little nod. “Go ahead.”

“Watch this,” America says, nudging Kamala with her elbow before lighting all the candles one by one, just like Agatha taught her. 

“Whoa, that’s so sick.” Kamala grins. “Watch this.” She wiggles her eyebrows before leaping into the air, a stepping stone of purple light appearing under her. She keeps jumping, more temporary steps showing up under her as she makes it to the top of a tree. She wraps some delicate fairy lights around it before stretching her arm wide and enlarging her hand to do the same to another tree all the way on the other side of the circle. The whole thing takes about 20 seconds max, and afterward, she gracefully hops down her temporary light bridge again, resting her hands on her hips in a classic superhero pose. 

America’s jaw drops. “Hooooly shit.” Kamala’s proud smile remains, though her eyes flicker nervously over to Wanda. “Sorry, I know you don’t like cursing.” America raises her hands. “But if there was ever something that deserved a ‘holy shit,’ it’s that, am I right?”

Wanda laughs a little. “It’s okay. That was very impressive.”

“Thanks,” Kamala says, blushing a little. “I can’t believe you think I’m impressive. What is my life?”

“Okay, enough fangirling over each other,” America teases with an eye roll. “Are we ready to do this or what? Should I call her?” she asks, pulling her phone from her pocket.

Wanda takes a deep breath, preparing herself. “Yes. Go for it.”

“Okay. Here we go.” America nods, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath of her own — preparing to perform. Once that’s done, she presses Agatha’s contact info and puts the phone to her ear.

“Hi, dear,” Agatha answers on the second ring. “What’s up?” she asks. America can hear the thinly veiled concern in her voice, which is sweet. She’s also pretty sure she can hear The Real Housewives of Some City in the background, which is hilarious and something she’s definitely going to give her shit for later.

But right now, she has a mission. “Thank god you picked up,” she says, her voice panicked. “I need your help. Like, bad. And like, now. You know how my powers glitch out sometimes when I’m feeling stressed or overwhelmed or whatever? Well, it’s happening, and I have no way to get us home, and we're halfway around the world, and Kamala’s curfew’s in, like, two minutes, and if she’s not home on time, it doesn’t matter what grade she gets on her chemistry test, her parents are gonna be pissed and never let her see me again, but she’s probably never even gonna want to see me again anyway because I ruined her life for the foreseeable future, and this is a disaster, and—” she rambles.

“Okay, take a breath,” Agatha orders. America can hear her standing from the couch. “Where are you? Still at the restaurant?”

“Right outside it," she confirms. "By that area with the trees. Please hurry,” she pleads.

“I’m coming,” Agatha says through a sigh before hanging up.

America slips her phone back into her pocket, looking at Wanda and Kamala with a smile. “She totally bought it. Get ready because she’ll be here in three, two…” 

Like clockwork, a blast of purple light appears in front of them, and Agatha steps out, approaching her and Kamala. “Okay, tell me again what’s wrong,” she instructs. “Slowly this time.”

America’s eyebrows wrinkle as she looks at her. She’s wearing baggy sweats and an old, oversized t-shirt. This was not part of the plan. “What’s wrong is you changed clothes. Why would you do that?”

Agatha stares at her in confusion. “Why would that matter? I was just relaxing at home when you called.”

“Well, because I lied to you,” America admits. “But so did Mom.”

Agatha blinks, taken aback. “Oh?” she asks slowly, dragging the word out to several syllables.

“Yup!” America says cheerfully. “I think maybe I’d better let her tell you herself.” She gestures behind Agatha to where Wanda is standing in the middle of the circle they’d made, ring box in her hand.

Agatha slowly turns, realization dawning on her face. “No,” she whispers in disbelief.

Wanda sucks in a deep breath. “This won’t be eloquent or smooth because you still give me butterflies — even now when your hair is messy and you’re wearing pajamas. In fact, I think you look perfect, so bear with the nerves. I just wanted to ask if you’d marry me. I want you to be my other half forever. I want you to—”

She starts to get down on one knee, but Agatha is pouncing on her before she reaches the ground. The velocity at which she envelops her in a hug nearly sends her to the ground anyway, but she narrowly manages to keep her balance by clutching onto her tight.

“Is that a yes?” Wanda breathlessly checks.

Agatha answers in the form of pulling back slightly and kissing her deeply.

“I think I’ll take that as a yes,” Wanda says when they come up for air. It doesn’t last long, the duo going for round two immediately.

America keeps a little distance, letting them have their space. Their moment. Their biggest moment. Well, until the wedding, at least. 

It’s cheesy, but she can’t help but think about all the moments that led to it. Scheming for them to have their first date. Being very surprised — and a little scarred — witnessing them making out in the living room after it. And those million little looks: ones of longing before any of that, of comfort in Salem, of infatuation when they were dressed up for the quince and even just, like Wanda had said, lounging around watching TV in a ratty t-shirt and sweats. Agatha's legs draped over Wanda's lap; Wanda's head on her shoulder.

Agatha had been right at the hospital after the mushroom fiasco: they were a family regardless. Always had been. But America had been right, too. There’s something that feels special about them making it official like this.

After a few minutes, America clears her throat. “Mom,” she says because, my god, the kissing had gone on a long time, and Wanda had forgotten a key part.

Wanda reluctantly pulls away, a dizzy look on her face. As if she almost forgot America was there — she and Agatha the only ones in the world. “Hm?”

America holds up her hand, pointing to her ring finger. 

“Oh! Right. Uh, I have something for you,” Wanda says, awkwardly opening the small velvet box in her hand to reveal a gorgeous piece of jewelry. The gold band looks like two tangled tree branches woven together, culminating in an amethyst and ruby in the center. “I know it’s not a diamond or super traditional. I hope that’s okay.”

America had assured her it would be. Agatha had enough money to buy an entire diamond mine if she wanted, and nothing about their relationship was traditional. Not even close.

Agatha seems to agree. “Screw diamonds,” she says breathlessly. “Screw tradition. It’s perfect. It’s—”

“Us,” Wanda finishes.

Agatha nods. “Us,” she softly confirms. There’s a beat as she admires the ring — tries to process this grand gesture — Wanda staring at her all the while. It’s magic. A different kind of magic than they’re used to but just as real.

After a moment, Agatha looks up. “Surely you’re not about to make a lady put on her own engagement ring, are you, hot stuff?” she asks with faux indignation, bringing some levity to the moment.

“Oh, shut up,” Wanda laughs, sliding the ring onto her finger before gently cupping her face. Agatha follows suit, and the two look at each other with tears and love and adoration in both their eyes — so much of it that America’s sure it could power entire nations. The power seems to be almost too much for them, Wanda wrapping her arms around Agatha. Like she’s trying to get as close to her as possible. Like she never wants to let go. 

America doesn’t want to interrupt, but she also doesn’t want this memory to be filled with snot for either of them, and Wanda's a snotty crier. The one thing she’d somehow forgotten from her list is tissues, so she snags a few napkins from the table where they’d set up the cake and wine and brings them over to them.

Wanda sniffles and takes the napkin from her gratefully, still wrapped in Agatha, whose face is now buried in her neck. 

America’s not stupid. Though she can’t see Agatha’s expression, she knows she’s crying, too. “Here.” She tucks it into the pocket of her sweats. “Big softie,” she whispers — definitely loud enough for her to hear.

Agatha laughs through her tears, lifting her head so America can see her face. “I can’t believe you planned all this.”

“And I can’t believe you were watching The Real Housewives when I called.” She smirks.

Agatha blinks at her. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“Because it’s funny. Like, what a random thing to be doing right before you get engaged." She playfully crosses her arms. "But it's also hypocritical. You’re always telling me I shouldn’t watch The Bachelor.”

“Okay, but The Bachelor is very boring and very heterosexual,” Agatha huffs. “Not to mention full of misogyny and racism.”

“It’s also full of proposals. Inspiration.” She gestures around at the decorations. “Research, Mama.”

Agatha rolls her eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Be honest: Did you have any clue?” America asks. “Any suspicion at all?”

Agatha thinks for a second. “Something felt a little odd, but I never thought it’d be this.”

“Hmm.” America narrows her eyes. “I think I’ll still take that as a win,” she decides.

Agatha smiles, shaking her head. She finally lets go of Wanda to wrap her arms around America instead.

America smiles, too, hugging back immediately. “I’m so freaking happy for you guys,” she says quietly. “Like, who would’ve thought? I mean, I did. I always knew you were meant to be. But still. It’s wild.”

“You always knew?”

She pulls back to look at her with an expression that says, ‘Come on.’ “The first thing I ever heard you say to her was, ‘Hey, hot stuff.’ You’re a lot of things, but subtle isn’t exactly one of them,” she says dryly.

"Well, I may not have been subtle, but we weren’t on great terms when we met.”

“Neither were Mom and I considering she tried to murder me, but things change. I had a feeling the same would happen for you guys." She shrugs. "There was a vibe.”

Agatha clicks her tongue. “You and your vibes.”

“Hey, don’t knock my vibes.” She playfully nudges her. “You wouldn’t be here without my vibes.”

Agatha holds her hands up. “Fair enough, but I don’t get it. Maybe it’s a generational thing.”

“Probs,” America agrees. “But it’s okay. A few months ago, you didn’t even know what ‘vibes’ meant. You’re making a lot of Gen Z progress. Maybe soon I’ll let you advance to Gen Z first grade.”

“Well, thank you for that.” She laughs.

“You’re welcome.” She smiles. “I guess I should get back to my girlfriend and let you get back to your fiancée.” She wiggles her brows.

Agatha raises one of her own. “So she’s officially your girlfriend?”

She shrugs, the corner of her mouth curving into a small, bashful smile. “I mean, we haven’t made it Facebook official or anything — mostly because nobody under 80 uses Facebook anymore — but I think so.”

“If you’re insinuating that I’m a frequent Facebook user, then you’re wrong — I’m in a few groups, and that’s it.” Agatha chuckles. “But I get it.”

“I would never insinuate you do something that uncool,” America says with mock seriousness, raising her hands innocently. “There are lines even I won’t cross.”

Agatha rolls her eyes. “Good to know.”

“Another good thing to know is that I promise not to pretend to gag whenever you guys PDA today because it’s a special occasion.” She raises her hand as if taking an oath in court. “So, like, enjoy that. But also please don’t abuse my generosity. It’d be pretty mean to torture me after I helped pull this off.”

“Oh, I’m sure that'd just be sooo mean. Forgive me for being affectionate to my future wife.”

“You’re forgiven,” she teases. “But just for today.”

“Mhm.” Agatha grins and pauses for a minute before she pulls America in for another hug.

She hugs her back with a smile. She was happy. Agatha was obviously happy. And, from the sounds of Wanda and Kamala laughing about something by the cake table, they were both happy, too. 

She just hopes it can last.

Chapter Text

The happiness does last the rest of the day, the rest of the weekend, and well into the beginning of the next week, the successful engagement having everyone in high spirits. 

Until Wednesday, that is. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time. To load this particular day — this particular date she was dreading so much — up with stuff so she wouldn’t have time to think about it too much. School in the morning, her first therapy session with Dr. Parker in the afternoon, and Kamala coming over for dinner/some chemistry help/some general hangout time that night. 

But America realizes committing to even one of those things may have been overambitious. Because she can’t make herself get out of bed after the first alarm. Nor the second alarm. Nor when Wanda or Agatha yells her name from the kitchen. She can’t even make herself get out of bed when she hears footsteps in the hallway coming toward her room. She just lays there, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Agatha greets, opening the door and popping her head in.

“Thanks for the knock,” America says flatly, gaze still firmly fixated on the glow-in-the-dark stars above her bed. “I could’ve been changing or something,” she adds, as if she hasn’t exclusively been getting dressed via magic for the past several months now.

Agatha ignores the sarcasm, walking in and perching herself on the edge of her bed. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles, rolling onto her side to face away from her. “Can you please just leave me alone?”

“I can tell it isn’t nothing,” Agatha says plainly.

America sighs. “I just…don’t feel good, okay?” she says more softly. “So I think I should probably just stay in bed the rest of the day, and you should go away so you don’t catch whatever it is.” It’s not a total lie. She doesn’t feel well. It’s just not exactly because of something you can catch.

And Agatha knows that. Agatha can always see right through her. “I think I’m willing to risk it,” she says. “Mind if I lie down with you?”

America considers this for a few moments. It wasn’t one of the best options (Agatha leaving her alone; figuring out how to fast-forward this day entirely), but it also wasn’t one of the worst (getting up; getting yelled at for refusing to get up). “I guess,” she quietly agrees.

Agatha shifts so she’s lying on her side, immediately wrapping an arm around her. “Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?” she gently pries.

Her throat gets all tight the instant she holds her, the contact breaking some kind of emotional dam. “No,” she chokes out, glad she’s still facing away.

“It’s okay.” Agatha runs a hand up and down her arm. “It’s okay. I just want to help.”

“Well, you can’t,” America argues, finally sitting up a bit and whipping her head around to face her. She fixes her with a firm look — as firm as one can be with a quivering lip and watery eyes.

“Why not?” Agatha frowns. “I can at least try…” she stubbornly vows.

“I don’t want you to try. Because no matter what you do, you can’t fix it. But if you try to make me feel better about it, it might work, and I don’t deserve to feel better about it.” America ducks her head, futilely trying to hide her tears.

“Hey, hey — what is ‘it’?” Agatha asks. After a few moments of silence, she tilts her head down to get a better look at her, trying to coax eye contact. “Please?” she presses.

She has to give her something, but she’s determined to keep it vague and short. And it’s not like she can manage much more anyway, the tears turning to full-on sobs as soon as she tries, making it hard to breathe much less speak. “It’s…a bad…day,” she stutters out. “And I’m…a bad…person.”

“You’re not a bad person.”

“Yes, I am,” she argues.

“No, you are not,” Agatha says, voice soft but firm as she wraps America in a hug. America stiffens, not allowing herself to sink into it. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I killed them. Ten years ago.” She somehow starts to cry harder as she finally admits it. Ten years to the day of her first portal opening. Of her moms getting sucked through. She can usually keep the grief and guilt under control, but anniversaries are different. She doesn’t want to feel it, but she needs to — some kind of cosmic punishment.

“You were a child,” Agatha says, gently rubbing her back. “And it was an accident. You had no control.”

“It doesn’t…matter. It’s still…my fault.” This is exactly what she was afraid of — she doesn’t deserve comfort. She doesn’t even deserve to be here. It wasn’t fair they were gone and she wasn’t. “It should’ve been…me,” she frustratedly insists, trying to push out of Agatha’s grasp.

“America Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness,” Agatha says sternly, tightening her grip so she can’t squirm away. “It should not have been you. I will not hear that.”

“Well, sometimes I wish it would have been!” she blurts. It’s not a thought that consumes her all the time anymore, but on days like today, when the survivor’s guilt is this strong, when the pain of loss is this intense…

Agatha softens at that. “Oh, sweetheart…”

They’re at an impasse. She’s not going to change Agatha’s mind about it being her fault, and Agatha’s not going to change hers. She could keep pushing Agatha away, but Agatha’s not going to leave. And as much as she should keep trying anyway, she’s already burned up what little fight she had. She stops struggling, burying her face in her shirt. Finally melting into her embrace. “It hurts, Mama," she whispers.

“Shh, I know,” Agatha says, maneuvering them so they’re lying down again. “I know. Let it out.”

“I can’t do it today,” she says between hitching breaths. “Any of it. School. Doctor. Dinner. I can’t.”

“We’ll worry about that in a second,” Agatha promises, stroking her hair. “Right now just try and take a few breaths for me, okay?”

“We can do two math lessons. Tomorrow. To make up for it,” she bargains, ignoring her instruction and pushing on. “And you can take the doctor. And the dinner. Out of my allowance. I don’t care. But I can’t.”

“America, I said we’ll deal with that in a moment,” she says, voice patient but with no room for argument. “Now breathe for me, please.”

America grits her teeth — annoyed, as always, by her persistence — but focuses on her breaths anyway. On the techniques she’d been reminded of so many times.

Agatha holds her tightly, waiting until she can feel her breaths even out to an acceptable pace before forging on. “Okay. We can take the day off school, and if you want, I can move your therapy appointment,” she decides. “But let’s at least have Kamala over for dinner. She’d want to check up on you."

“No.” America vehemently shakes her head. “No way. We’ve been dating for two seconds. If she finds out I murdered my parents?” her voice cracks again. “She’s gonna hate me. Or be scared of me. And maybe she should hate me and be scared of me, but I don’t want her to.”

“You did not murder them,” Agatha firmly corrects. “You were an innocent child — there was no way there could have been intention there. And Kamala won’t hate you. She’s a sweet girl, and she’ll have empathy for what you’re feeling.”

They’re never going to see eye-to-eye on this — that much is clear. And she’s not as sure as Agatha seems to be that Kamala is going to take this well. “Fine,” she reluctantly agrees anyway. Because 1) she would feel bad keeping it from her. She should have all the facts. The choice to leave while it’s still early. And 2) Kamala does still need help with chemistry if she has any chance of being allowed to go to prom, with or without her. “But I’m not eating anything. I won’t be hungry. I’m never hungry on this day.”

Agatha sighs. “Can you try to have a few bites at least? And drink some water?”

America wrinkles her nose. Both of these things sound very unappetizing.

“Please?” Agatha gives her a squeeze. “At least try for me. I know it’s hard.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she reluctantly agrees, despite her stomach turning at the thought. “When I had that flu in Salem, you told me there was some spell that could make me sleep. Will you do that? And make it last until tonight? Please?” She looks up at her pleadingly.

“Sleeping only helps you run away from problems. I’ll give you a couple of hours, but no more, okay?” She raises a brow.

Yeah, that’s kinda the point, America thinks but resists the urge to say out loud — she didn’t want to piss her off and be left with zero hours of relief from her problems. A couple was better than nothing. “Fine,” she agrees with a sigh.

“It’ll be okay,” Agatha promises, waving her hands in the appropriate spell pattern. “I know today is hard, but it will be okay.”

America immediately starts to get tired — even more so than she was already. “Are you gonna leave now?” she asks as her eyelids grow heavy.

“I’m gonna stay right here and make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ll be fine,” she mumbles, already dozing off, though she subconsciously snuggles in closer to her. She wants her to stay, whether she’ll admit it or not.

“Mhm,” Agatha hums, wordlessly pulling her closer.

America manages to drink a few sips of water and eat approximately one and a half crackers once she wakes up. She also gathers enough strength to walk through the portal to the Westview house where Kamala is set to meet them for dinner, though she immediately crawls back into her bed there once she does. 

Kamala rings the doorbell at exactly 5:30, several dozen of her mother’s cookies in one hand and her chemistry book in the other. “Hi, Ms. Maximoff,” she says once Wanda opens the door — a little starstruck once again.

“Hi, Kamala,” she says with a smile. “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” she says, stepping into the house. “I hope it’s still okay that I’m here. I texted America to make sure, but she didn’t respond. I didn’t want to crash if something came up, but I also didn’t want to flake if she was just busy or her phone died or something.”

Wanda sighs a little. “You’re absolutely welcome here. It’s just a hard day for her.”

Kamala’s brows knit in concern. “Did something happen? Is she okay? We can, like…totally reschedule.” She hovers near the door, torn between turning back toward it and not wanting to leave until she sees her.

“No, no — I won’t have you going home unfed.” Wanda clicks her tongue. “I’m hoping we’ll be able to coax America down for dinner, too, but it’s her choice whether to fill you in on everything.”

“Yeah, of course.” Kamala shakes her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to seem like I was prying.” 

“You weren’t,” Wanda promises. “I was just warning you she may or may not tell you what’s up.”

“Got it. Well, I won’t pressure her about it. Or about anything. I would never,” she quickly adds.

“I know. Don’t worry,” Wanda assures her, her smile falling somewhere between warm and amused.

Kamala gives her a small smile of her own, relieved. You never want your girlfriend’s parents or your heroes to hate you. When that happens to be the same person, you really want to be careful.

Wanda nods toward the kitchen and takes a few steps toward it, inviting her further inside. “Regardless of what America decides to do, I know Agatha is still more than willing to help with your homework.”

Kamala bites her lip before accepting the offer, walking further into the room. “That’d be great if you’re sure she doesn’t mind. I didn't do so hot on the pop quiz yesterday.”

“She doesn’t. In fact, I think part of her is looking forward to it. A bit of a nerd, that one.” Wanda gives her a wink.

“Good — I need all the nerd I can get.” Kamala breathes out a laugh. “In the meantime, can I help with anything? Cooking or setting the table or whatever? Feel free to put me to work.”

Wanda thinks for a second. “No, you’re good for now. I am going to check on America though.”

“For sure.” Kamala nods, setting her stuff down and taking a seat at the table. “I hope she’s all right.”

Wanda gives her another small smile. “Me too.”

America’s drifted off into a light sleep again — without the help of Agatha’s magic this time; crying could really drain the energy from you — but she stirs awake the second Wanda cracks the door. “Hi,” she says quietly, voice hoarse.

Wanda gives her a smile. “Hey.”

She rubs her eyes before tapping her phone on — pretty much for the first time all day. She sees it’s a little after 5:30 and that she has several unread texts from Kamala, which makes her heart drop a little. “Is she here?”

“Yeah.” Wanda nods. “In the kitchen.”

“Okay.” America bites her thumbnail. “I’ll be right there,” she says, though she doesn’t move to get up. She can’t seem to make herself.

Wanda steps in further. “Do you want some help?” she offers. 

America shrugs. And then, after a beat, meekly nods. Wanda gives her another kind smile before offering her hand. America takes it, slowly swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and using it to help her stand. It’s cheesy, but she does feel a little sturdier, a little better, a little less alone. “Did you tell her?” she asks once she’s up.

“No. I said it was up to you to fill her in,” Wanda says, wrapping her in a hug. “It’ll be okay,” she promises.

“Yeah,” America says, not entirely convinced. Nothing feels even close to okay. But it does feel slightly better in Wanda’s arms. “Either way, she deserves to know,” she says quietly.

“Either way, it’ll be all right,” Wanda softly counters, running a soothing hand up and down her back.

America nods, holding on for another moment before somewhat reluctantly letting go. She puts on a small smile before making her way to the kitchen. 

“Hey,” America greets Kamala — and, by default, Agatha, who’d made her way there as well. 

“Hey,” Kamala says as she looks over at her, concern evident. “Are you…okay?” 

“Um…not really,” she admits with a small, humorless laugh, fingers fidgeting in front of her. 

“You can tell me why,” Kamala promises. “Or you can not me why — if you don’t want to. But, like…you can.” Her expression is so, so earnest — so, so caring — it makes America want to open up to her both more and less somehow. She was so kind and good that America felt like she could tell her anything, but she didn’t want to risk losing her in case it didn’t go over as well as she hoped.

“I know.” America swallows hard, taking a seat next to her. “Just…give me a second? It's...hard.” 

“Sure.” Kamala nods. “Take all the seconds you need. Minutes, even. Hours…maybe not because I do have a curfew.” 

America can’t help but smile a little at that — a genuine one. She looks at Agatha. And at Wanda. And then back at Kamala, each giving her soft, supportive smiles back. She forces herself to take another deep breath. “It’s…the 10-year anniversary of when I lost my moms.” 

Kamala’s smile immediately falls at that. “Oh. Oh god. I’m so sorry.” 

“What’s worse—” America makes herself continue before Kamala gives her too much sympathy and before she loses her nerve “—is they got sucked through a portal. My portal. My first one. It was an accident, of course, but I still…you know…feel awful about it.” America had vowed she wasn’t going to cry — thought that would be reasonable considering she didn't think she had any tears left — but she feels her eyes get glassy anyway. “And I understand if you hate me,” she whispers. 

Kamala shakes her head before throwing her arms around her, tears evident in her voice as well. “The only thing I hate is that you had to go through that.”

America’s relieved that Kamala doesn’t hate her — even though there’s still that little voice in her head saying that she should. Even though she still hates herself. 

But she’s able to shut it up for the most part during dinner. Despite swearing she wouldn’t eat anything, she picks at her food, making herself consume just enough that Wanda or Agatha won’t comment, though she can sense their eyes on her the entire time. They all stick mainly to small talk, but even light conversation is enough to drain the little energy she’s mustered. 

“Can I be excused while you guys do the chemistry thing?” she asks once everyone’s done eating, looking between Agatha for permission and Kamala to see if she’s cool with her leaving her alone. She knew Agatha could be…intimidating to those who didn’t know her well.

“If you’d really like to, but it might be good to try and stay up a bit longer,” Agatha says, giving her a once-over.

“I’ll stay up,” America compromises. “Just, like, in my room. In my bed. For a while.” 

“Cool with me.” Kamala nods. “I wouldn’t want to listen to chemistry unless I had to either. I’ll find you when we’re done? Maybe we can watch a movie or something if you’re up for it?” 

“That’s perfect,” America gratefully agrees. Maybe she could charge her social battery for a couple of hours. She bites her lip — because while she wants to decompress, she doesn't want to be alone alone. “Will you come just, like, sit and hang with me?” she asks Wanda.

“Yeah, absolutely.” She nods as she stands, once again holding a literal helping hand out to America.

America smiles, taking it and deciding to be only a little embarrassed about it. She didn’t like needing help, both as someone who’d had to be extremely independent for most of her life and as a typical teenager, but she’d make an exception today.

It’s what her moms — both sets of them — would want.

Chapter Text

“So…” Kamala starts, grabbing her textbook and notes once America and Wanda have disappeared into her room. “Chemistry.”

Agatha puts the final dish in the sink before retaking her seat at the table. “What topic are you covering right now?”

“Well, we just finished a unit about stoichiometry, which I still don’t really get, and we started learning about isotopes, which is…also confusing.” Kamala sighs. “Both will probably be on the test.”

Agatha nods a little. “Okay, which is the hardest for you? We’ll start with that.”

Kamala considers for a moment, chewing on the end of her pencil. “Stoichiometry, probably,” she says, taking the latest quiz — covered with red pen — from her notebook and sliding it over so Agatha can see what she missed. She cringes. “I promise I’m not this bad at every subject. I’m just more of a humanities girl, you know?"

“I trust you, and a 70 isn’t the end of the world,” Agatha consoles, perching her reading glasses onto her nose before scanning over the quiz. “All right, so stoichiometry — when broken down — is just unit conversion going from one compound to another. First, you have to balance your equation, and then one of the reagents will be in excess."

“You use mole ratios to do that, right?" Kamala asks, squinting down at the quiz with her plethora of failed attempts. “To find the excess?"

"Exactly." Agatha nods. "That's exactly right."

"Okay, cool. That part makes sense. It’s after that I mess up."

"Well, let's walk through it. What we're trying to do now is find the limiting reagent. That’s important — once that's run out, the reaction stops. To do that, you first want to convert moles of one compound to another,” Agatha patiently explains, jotting down an example on a piece of scrap paper. “The one you want to eliminate goes on the bottom of the equation. After that calculation, you convert the moles of the new substance into mass using the molecular mass of the new compound."

“This is where I get lost,” Kamala says, pointing to the sheet. “What happens to the excess regent then? And what do you mean by ‘the one you want to eliminate’? Isn't the excess regent the thing you’re trying to eliminate? Since it's excess?” She tilts her head.

"That's sound logic, but no. It’s just there because it’s necessary for the reaction. When you limit one of them, however, that one sets how much product can be formed. The one you want to eliminate is the limiting one.”

“Eliminate the limiting one — that should be easy to remember.” Kamala nods. “And the formula for mass is…density times volume? Or volume divided by density…or density divided by volume…” She covers her face with her hands. “Ahh, I don’t know. My head’s all jumbled.”

“Here's how to remember that,” Agatha says, a magical purple triangle appearing in front of her with a lazy flick of her wrist. Her hand moves over different parts of it. “You cover up the one you’re solving for.”

Kamala removes her hands from her face to look at the triangle, her jaw dropping at the fact it's basically a cheat code. “Shut up.” Her eyes widen, and her hands immediately clap over her mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t actually mean shut up. I just meant, like, wow. That’s life-changing. And is gonna make remembering those so much easier.”

Agatha breathes out an amused laugh, the triangle disappearing. “I’m glad I could help. There are a lot of little tricks like that.”

“And Mr. Johnson is apparently intent on gatekeeping all of them,” Kamala groans.

“Well, that’s what I’m here for.” Agatha gives her a wink.

"Yeah, you’re definitely more girlboss than gatekeep.”

Agatha’s eyebrows furrow, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“So basically, there are the three ‘G’s: gaslight, gatekeep, and girlboss,” Kamala starts — effectively hijacking the tutoring session — before stopping herself. “Actually...I think America would be upset if she didn’t get to explain this one to you. It's, like, one of her favorites."

Agatha narrows her eyes. “I think I’ve heard it somewhere…Instagram, maybe?”

“In a reel, probably.” Kamala nods. “It’s where things go after they’re popular on TikTok but before they make their way to Facebook.”

“Ah. Yes.” Agatha nods in understanding. “America tried to explain that to me. But I like the reels!”

“You’re totally allowed to like the reels!” Kamala assures her, putting her palms up. “My mom’s still in the Facebook stage — and really only to keep in touch with family in Pakistan — so you’re still way ahead of her.”

Agatha smiles, vindicated. “That makes me feel better. America always reminds me how old I am.”

“Well, you don’t seem old at all.” Kamala smiles back — though it’s tinged with a little sadness. “It makes me kinda jealous, actually,” she admits.

Agatha tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Kamala shrugs, beginning to doodle in the margins of her notebook. A coping mechanism — drawing always calmed her down, made her happy. “I love my parents, but they’re not exactly, like, always easy to talk to about stuff.”

“I can understand that. I’m sure if you asked America, she wouldn’t say Wanda and I are always easy to talk to, though I know that isn’t quite your point.” Agatha gives her a sympathetic smile.

“Yeah,” she says softly, eyes still focused on the page in front of her. She and America had a lot in common, but they had a lot of differences as well. In their pasts, of course, but in their presents, too. Their families. Home lives. “I—” she almost elaborates more before thinking better of it, shaking her head and walking it back. “Yeah. No, you’re right.”

“No, what were you going to say?” Agatha gently presses. “I’m happy to listen.”

She sighs, glancing up at Agatha — whose expression is soft and sincere, inviting — before quickly looking back down again. “I’ve…sort of been lying to them,” she says quietly.

“In what way?” 

She bites her lip as she looks up at her again. Debating. “If I tell you, you can’t tell them, okay? Even if that goes against, like, parent code or whatever.”

“I promise.” Agatha nods. “Now what’s up?”

“I haven’t told them about America…” Kamala admits, fidgeting with her pencil. “I mean, I have,” she clarifies. “I told them that we’re friends. Which we were at first, so it’s not like I set out to lie. I just…haven’t exactly updated them about the fact we’re more than friends. And it’s not because I’m embarrassed of her or anything! Not at all. I just…I haven’t told them I’m bi. They’re kinda old-school and religious, and I don’t know how they’d take it.”

Agatha purses her lips sympathetically. “That’s understandable. I couldn’t tell my mother I liked girls, and it was hard. Granted, that was 300 years ago, but I do understand the feeling. I would hope your parents would love you no matter what.”

“I mean, I think they would. They got past the whole superpowers thing pretty quickly,” she assures her. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea of them — they're good people. It’s still just…scary. I don’t want to disappoint them. And like, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t kick me out or anything, but you can never really be positive, you know?” She bites her thumbnail, anxious at the thought. “And on the off chance they did, I don’t know where I’d go. I don’t think I could survive on my own like America did.”

“You wouldn’t be alone if something happened,” Agatha assures her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’d still have America — and Wanda and me if you needed.”

She gives her a small smile — the reassurance does make her feel a little better. “Do you have any…advice, I guess? For coming out? I know you couldn’t tell your mom, but you still must’ve told kind of a lot of people in 300 years.”

Agatha sighs a little. “It’s hard. We live in a world that isn’t always accepting. My best advice is to find people who love you for you and try to make allies.”

“Allies,” she repeats with a slow nod, this sparking an idea. “Do you think…maybe you could be there?” she asks, a little hesitant. It was kind of a big favor. “When I tell them? It might make me less terrified, and they may have questions I don’t know how to answer.”

Agatha blinks, surprised — and maybe even a little honored — by the ask. “I can do that if you’d like.”

“Thank you.” Kamala lets out a breath, some tension leaving her body — as if a weight’s been lifted from her chest, her shoulders. “I seriously really appreciate that.”

“Of course.” Agatha gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Like I said, I know it can be hard, and you deserve support.”

“Still, it’s really nice of you,” she reiterates, flipping a page of her notebook. “Anyway, sorry for the detour. Let's do isotopes now.”

Kamala listens carefully, chiming in every so often to ask a question. But it made actual sense when Agatha was explaining it — didn’t seem as daunting. By the end of it, she feels confident she could get at least a high B on the test — maybe even a low A if the odds were really in her favor. Definitely good enough for prom. “I swear, you could have a seriously lucrative side hustle doing this tutoring thing.”

Agatha laughs a little. “Maybe I could. I’ve been around so long I sort of just do whatever suits my fancy.”

“I can’t wait until I’m old enough to do whatever suits my fancy,” Kamala says wistfully, resting her chin in her hand.

“One day.” Agatha smiles, patting her hand.

“Yeah,” she agrees, giving her a small smile back. She feels…better. About chemistry. About everything. “One day."

Meanwhile, in America’s bedroom (technically, it’s still Agatha's guest room, but America sleeps there every time she’s over at the Westview house, and it’s now full of her stuff), she’s keeping her promise to Agatha to stay up. And Wanda’s keeping her promise to America to stay with her.

America's cross-legged in front of Wanda, who's leaning against the headboard, brushing out America's hair at her request. It needed it, for one — it was basically just one big knot at this point, tangled from long, restless sleep. Plus, America always found it comforting. Calming. “Mom?” she asks quietly after a few moments.

“Hm?” Wanda hums.

“What do you miss most about them?” she asks, picking at the fuzz of her comforter. “Your parents, I mean.”

Wanda pauses, thinking for a moment. “Movie nights,” she finally answers. “My mother’s smile, my father’s joy.”

“Mm,” America murmurs, a small, melancholy smile on her face. She hesitates before sharing her own. “I think…I think mine is their smell. Isn’t that so weird? But it was so comforting. Sort of cinnamony. There was a similar scent walking down the street in universe…17? I think? And it almost made me cry. It just came out of nowhere.”

“That’s not weird,” Wanda gently assures her.

“It’s not? It feels…like a random thing to miss.”

“It meant a lot to you.” Wanda carefully untangles a section of knotted hair. “You can’t control what means a lot.”

“You know you and Mama mean a lot to me too, right?” America asks, turning to face her to emphasize her point. “Like, I know I told her that when I was all emo on my birthday, but I need you to know it, too. I’m sad about them always, but I’m happy about you always. Mama said those could both be true.”

“She's a wise woman, that one.” Wanda nods. “I understand the complicated feelings. I miss my sons and Vision every day, but I’m so grateful for you and Agatha.”

She bites her lip. “Where do you think they are? I mean…what do you think happens? Like…like when you’re…gone?”

Wanda sighs a little. “That’s complicated. I don’t know what I believe,” she admits.

America turns back around, playing with the blanket again. She’s not sure what she believes either, which is why she was looking to Wanda for answers. Between her and Agatha, they seemed to know just about everything. “Do you think they’re…happy, at least? Or…I don’t know…at peace?”

“I think so,” Wanda says, smoothing down one of America's flyaways. “And I think they’re always with us in some way.”

“What way?” she asks, genuinely curious. “Do you ever…feel them?”

“Sort of, I guess. But it’s more I just know that they’re never going to leave me. Because I wouldn’t be me without those people.”

“Huh.” America considers this. She looks down at her hands, as if looking at who she is. “I guess I never thought of it quite like that.”

“It took me a long time,” Wanda quietly confesses. “A lot of perspective.”

“Well, I like it. I’m gonna steal it,” she vows.

Wanda breathes out a laugh. “I think you should.”

“You got any other wisdom I could thieve from you? I’ll really take anything right now.”

“I’m not sure.” She shrugs. “But I’m here when you need me.”

“I need you now,” America softly admits. “And always. But I need you now the most. Even though I feel like I deserve you the least.”

Wanda puts the hairbrush down, wrapping her arms around America and pulling her close. “I’m always going to be there.”

America doesn’t bother trying to push away — she’s already picked too many losing battles today. “But how do I make myself okay with that? The grief is one thing, but the guilt…” She takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to forgive myself.”

“It’s a slow process,” Wanda tells her. “I haven’t forgiven myself for losing Pietro, Vision, my sons. It’s a constant fight.”

“It’s exhausting, though,” America whispers. “Fighting all the time.”

Wanda inhales sharply, clearly struggling with how to respond to that. She settles on the truth. “I know, sweetheart,” she says, kissing the top of her head. “I know.”

America picks at a hangnail — for something to do. Something to feel other than numb. “Did Mama tell you about the…” She pauses for a moment — the word, the concept, still a little scary. “…therapy thing?”

“She did.” Wanda nods. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No, I know. I’m not ashamed — I’m just…nervous.”

“It’s okay to be nervous,” she assures her with a small, encouraging smile. “We’ll be right here to support you.”

“Literally?” America looks back at her. “Like, Mama is coming with and doing a session because that was our deal, but will you come and do it, too? Because if you think it could help me…maybe it could help you?”

Wanda’s smile fades as she bites her lip. “Maybe. I just…I’m me. I worry people are still scared of me.”

America shakes her head. “Mama promised therapists aren’t like that. She said they just want to help and wouldn’t think I’m crazy,” she recites. “Which means they wouldn’t think you’re scary either,” she reasons.

Wanda slowly nods. “Hopefully. And she’s right — they aren’t supposed to be like that.”

“If anyone has the actual right to be scared of you, it’s probably me, and I’m not,” she reminds her, shifting to her side and curling up next to her. “Well, unless you full-name me. But even then, I’m not, like, scared scared.”

“I know.” The corner of Wanda’s mouth curves up again as she runs a hand through her freshly brushed hair. “You’re my fearless Star Girl.”

It’s so far from the truth.

But it makes America feel so warm and happy inside, she can't find it in herself to argue.

Chapter Text

The next week and a half thankfully passes in a much calmer, lighter fashion. There’s even cause for celebration: thanks to Agatha, Kamala manages a 94% on her chemistry test — definitely good enough for prom. 

New Jersey is not particularly known for its amazing selection of prom dresses, but New York City — only about an hour train ride away from Westview — is. And America wasn’t the only one looking for a dress, after all: Wanda and Agatha needed wedding attire. 

Plus, it was Mother’s Day weekend, and NYC had cute brunch spots galore. They’d been talking about taking another traditional, portal-less weekend trip after the mess that was Salem for a while, and this seemed like the perfect time to get away and the perfect place to get away to. So on Friday afternoon, that’s exactly what they do.

The train ride is peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, Wanda falls asleep against the window, snoring softly.

Not that America can hear it. She’s in her own little world — texting Kamala, blasting her music in her headphones probably too loudly. She glances up between messages to see Agatha looking intently at her own phone and smirks. “What are you so invested in? Watching Instagram Reels again?”

“Huh?” Agatha blinks, brow furrowed in confusion as she looks up at her. “Oh. No. I just got an odd text.”

America takes one of her headphones out. “From who?”

“I’m not sure,” Agatha says, showing her the screen.

America narrows her eyes as she reads the short exchange: Is this Agatha Harkness? an unknown number had texted. Who’s asking? she’d written back.

“Weird.” America shrugs, not thinking much of it. “Maybe your number got put on some, like, company or political candidate’s text list. I’m literally always getting messages from Mayor Fulop’s office for some reason, and it’s like, dude, I’m not even old enough to vote.”

“Maybe.” Agatha’s mouth turns down into a small frown, clearly thinking more of it than America. “Though they specifically knew my name.”

“Yeah, but those people have their ways of getting info to manipulate you into donating money. I wouldn’t freak out unless they, like, ask you to meet them alone in a dark alley or something,” America says, popping a gummy worm — one of her many train snacks despite the trip being less than 60 minutes — into her mouth. Her own phone lights up, and she rushes to unlock it. “Oh, get closer for a photo — it’s time to be real.”

“Wait, what? What does that mean?” Agatha asks, though she obliges.

“It’s an app. When the timer goes off, you have to take a picture of yourself and whatever’s around,” she explains, holding up her phone. “Do you think Mom would kill me if I put her on like this?” she asks through a giggle, positioning the camera at her. She’s drooling a little on the glass now.

“I’d beat her to it.” Agatha rolls her eyes, swatting her arm. “Don’t be mean.”

“Fiiine.” America points the camera out the window instead and flashes a peace sign. “Say, ’NYC,’” she says, making sure the two of them are in frame on the selfie side. 

After she posts the photo, she tucks her leg under herself and turns to face Agatha. “So,” she starts, folding her hands together. “Let’s talk itinerary. Tonight, we’re dropping our stuff off at the hotel and then getting dinner, right? I was thinking pizza balls maybe? For old time’s sake?”

“Hotel then dinner, yes. Pizza balls are fine, but what if we found a nice place for dessert since this is a special trip?”

“Ohh, yes!” America nods in eager agreement. “I love a fancy dessert. And it only seems right that we eat fancy food tonight since we’ll be looking for fancy dresses Sunday. What are you in the mood for?”

“Mm…” Agatha hums, considering. “Cheesecake?” she suggests.

“Perfect. A New York classic." America licks her lips. “Okay, so pizza and cheesecake tonight, early Mother’s Day brunch tomorrow, dress shopping during the day Sunday, and then after that, my first musical.” She smiles. “Well, besides the 10 minutes of Cats, which I don’t think counts. What’s the one we’re seeing called again?”

“Six.”

“Right. I knew it was a number." She nods. “Literally going to be the perfect weekend.”

It at least can’t be worse than the last one, she thinks but doesn’t say aloud. Because Salem had actually been good for them — brought them all closer together — despite being painful. And also because she didn’t want to tempt fate. 

Instead, she just rests her head on Agatha’s shoulder, staring out the window as they make their way into the city. Their hotel isn’t too far from the train station, and although the outside doesn’t seem as fancy as The Plaza or as cute as the bed and breakfast in Salem, it’s still nice with some unique character.

“Do I have my own room again?” America asks as they wheel their suitcases into the lobby.

“Mhm. They’re adjoined,” Wanda explains as Agatha checks them in.

“Sweet.” America grins. “Don’t get me wrong, I love hanging out with you, but you snore. Loudly.”

Wanda scoffs. “I do not.”

“Uh, do too,” America insists as Agatha turns around, keys in tow. “Doesn't she snore?"

Agatha smirks. “Like a jackhammer,” she confirms, leaning in to kiss her before she can protest.

America crinkles her nose at the PDA. “I mean, you’ve hogged the blanket whenever I’ve shared a bed with you, so, like, you’re not completely innocent either.”

“I’m not that bad,” Agatha huffs.

“You are,” Wanda cheerfully chimes in, clearly happy that the tables have been turned.

“Yeah, you have fun freezing,” America tells Wanda. “And you have fun plugging your ears all night,” she tells Agatha. “And both of you have fun doing whatever else it is you want to do as long as I don’t hear it through the door that connects our rooms, cool?”

“Fine, fine,” Agatha says through a laugh. “Just don’t play your TikToks too loud.”

“Only if you keep your Insta Reels down,” she retorts as they step into the elevator.

After dropping their stuff off and changing into slightly nicer clothes for the dessert place, they all head to the pizza restaurant. “Isn’t it so weird to be back here?” she asks Wanda. “I have deja vu.”

“A bit, yeah,” Wanda says, looking around. “But it’s nice.”

“It is,” America agrees. She points down the sidewalk. “That’s where that guy bumped into me and you flipped him off.” She nods at the souvenir shop. “And that’s where that giant rat ran in front of us.” Just then, a rodent scurries ahead of them. “Huh. Guess he still lives here.”

Wanda tilts her head, examining him. “In an odd way, he’s kinda cute.” The rat stops at that, seeming to look straight at Wanda. 

“He seems to like you, too…” America crinkles her brows, looking between the two of them. After a moment, her eyes widen. “Oh my god. Wait. What if he’s your familiar?”

Wanda blinks at the idea. “I mean…I don’t know? Maybe?”

“Do you, like…feel a connection?” America asks. “I don’t really know how to explain it…” She looks over at Agatha for help.

But Wanda doesn’t seem to need it. Seems to figure it out all on her own. She stays silent and lowers herself down to the rat’s level. “Hey bud,” she says softly. He cocks his head at her.

Coincidentally enough, a guy bumps into Wanda while she’s crouching. “Seriously, lady?” he asks, annoyed. “Flow of traffic.” 

“Seriously, dude?” America spits back, scowling and flipping the bird — like mother, like daughter. “They’re having a moment.” 

“It’s a rat,” the man deadpans, giving her a look. 

“You’re a rat.” She steps toward him. “Scurry away.”

“Oookay, thaaat’s enough,” Agatha says, reaching out to grab America’s arm — the one connected to the hand that is indeed still flashing the middle finger — and pull her back. “You know I’m all for confrontation, but do pick your battles, darling.” She lowers her voice, subtly nodding toward Wanda. “Especially when your mother’s around. You know she doesn’t approve.” She rolls her eyes. She missed getting revenge on irritating mortal men.

The man rolls his eyes but does indeed scurry away, and America’s scowl is replaced with a small smile as she watches Wanda and the rat. He’s big, the size of a small kitten at least, but gentle as he sniffs at her fingers and explores. They remind her of herself and Carla.

“It seems like he missed you,” America points out. “Like he’s been waiting all this time for you to come back and find him again.”

“Maybe.” Wanda nods. “I’m still being careful, though. I don’t want to spook him.”

“She’s not gonna hurt you, little guy,” America encourages. “I bet if you let her pick you up, she’ll even share some of her pizza balls with you.”

The rat cranes his head up toward America, seemingly considering for a moment before scurrying up to rest in Wanda’s hand.

“Pizza ball bribery. Works every time.” America grins, gently petting his head.

Wanda laughs. “I can’t take him into restaurants, and he needs a bath. How about the two of you grab dinner, and I’ll find you after?”

“I could for sure bully Vinny into letting him come in,” America says confidently.

“That’s sweet but unnecessary.” Wanda smiles. “Get me some to-go, and I’ll meet you for cheesecake.”

“Good plan.” America nods. “See you in a bit.” She gives the rat one last pet. “And see you soon, too. Tell Mom to think of a good name for you.”

Agatha watches Wanda head off with a small smile of her own before turning to America. “Food?”

“Food,” she agrees as they walk the last few steps to the pizza place. “Yo, Vinny!” she says once they’ve made it through the door. 

The perpetually grumpy man glances up. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Thought maybe you’d moved halfway around the world or something.” 

“I did, actually,” she says. “But I’m visiting.”

“Lucky me,” he groans. 

“This is Agatha,” she explains, nodding over to her. “She’s my mom now.” 

“Okay,” he grunts with disinterest. “What do you want?”

Agatha stifles a laugh as she steps up to order. “Pizza balls, please.”

“Nine of ‘em,” America elaborates. “Extra cheese, extra pepperoni.” 

“Coming right up.” He sighs. 

“So,” America starts once they’ve gotten their food and found a booth. “That was kind of wild, huh? How Mom found her familiar like that?”

“A bit, though not unexpected.” Agatha neatly cuts into her pizza balls. “It was unorthodox like she is.”

“Getting Carla was freaking chaotic, too. Unorthodox must run in the family,” America says, taking a bite of pizza ball and burning the roof of her mouth, as per usual. “How’d you meet Señor Scratchy? I don’t think you’ve ever told me. Just that he picked you in Salem.”

Agatha’s mouth curves into a wistful smile. “He hopped through the basement window. My mother wanted to kill him for being in her house. I took a hit or two keeping him, but she gave up eventually.”

America flinches a little at the nonchalance at which she recalls this. “Geez. That’s awful. But I guess…pretty on-brand for all involved.”

Agatha shrugs, desensitized to it. “It was awful for him. He was scared for a long time.”

It was awful for you, too, America wants to say. Unthinkable, even. “Well, I’m glad he’s not anymore," she says instead with a small, forced smile, trying to shake off the disturbed feeling. "He’s safe and happy and completely spoiled.”

“He’s not that spoiled.”

“He’s pretty spoiled,” America insists, her smile growing more genuine as she pops another bite of pizza ball into her mouth. “But so is Carla. She’s gonna be so excited to meet her new brother. I’ll make sure she knows she’s not allowed to eat him. And she probably wouldn’t even be able to if she tried. I mean, did you see him? He’s freaking huge. They’re almost the same size.”

“He is very big.” Agatha laughs. “But Carla is also small.”

“She wouldn’t be as tiny if you let me feed her stuff from the table,” America pouts.

“That would teach her bad habits.”

“But she loves it,” she argues, causing Agatha to raise a brow. “I mean…I bet she would love it,” she quickly backtracks. “I don’t know for sure. Obviously.” 

She did know for sure. She often sneaks her things when Wanda and Agatha aren’t looking. Which, unfortunately, is not very often.

“Uh…anyway,” America continues, squirming a little under The Look. “Cheesecake time?”

Agatha rolls her eyes affectionately. “Let’s go.”

“K great,” she says, hopping up from the table, very glad to have dodged a lecture. “Bye, Vinny!” she calls on the way out, Wanda’s box of pizza balls in tow. The man simply grunts in response. 

When they step outside, they see the sun beginning to go down, the city buildings lighting up. They see a myriad of people — couples young and old, families big and small, people happy and sad — all strolling down the street. They see hot dog vendors and men selling fake designer purses and a couple of rats who are not Wanda’s familiar scampering across the street.

What neither of them see is the phone in Agatha’s pocket lighting up, answering her last text: If you want to find out who I am, you’ll meet me tonight.

And shortly after, a follow-up. A single word: Alone.

Chapter Text

“It’s this one?” America checks as they approach a dessert place just a few doors down.

“Yes.” Agatha nods. “It has great reviews.” America looks at her, puzzled, and she shrugs. “What? I used that Yelp thing you taught me.”

“Sweet.” America chuckles. “Literally.” 

The shop is very small and very crowded — which makes sense for a Friday night — but luckily, they manage to snag an oversized booth. “What kind are you gonna get?” America asks as they scan the menu — it’s as big as the space is small, with a myriad of options ranging from classic to creative.

Agatha hums. “I was thinking something with chocolate.”

“See, I kind of wanted that too, but I feel like I have to try this churro one. I’ll give you a bite of mine if you let me have a bite of yours?” she negotiates with a hopeful smile.

“Deal.”

“Yes.” America pumps her fist. “Should we order for Mom? You know she’s gonna want strawberry. She’s a fruity girly.” A beat. “I mean, we’re all fruity girlies, but you know what I mean." Another beat. "Actually, you probably don't know what that means, do you?"

Agatha narrows her eyes. “Does it mean gay?”

“It does!” she proudly confirms. “Wow, good job.”

Agatha scoffs. “I’m not a complete luddite, you know. I go on the internet.”

“Still, you pay attention. Which is more than a lot of people can say.”

“Well, you do have to learn the culture to blend in — conceal the fact you’re a 300-year-old witch to the untrained eye.”

“Good point. I need to practice my observation skills so I can do the same in 285 years,” America says. She decides now is the perfect time to start, narrowing her eyes and peering around the restaurant. Her brows furrow when she looks toward the door. “Hey, is that Sersi and Yelena?”

America glances up, spying the dark-haired woman and the much shorter blonde. “I think it is. How funny.”

“What are the chances?” America taps her fingers on the table in disbelief. “Should we invite them to sit with us? They’re literally never going to find a table.”

“Sure.” Agatha nods. “That’d be nice.”

America stands. “Sersi! Yelena!” she calls across the restaurant, giving them a big wave.

Sersi looks over at her from the waiting area, giving her a small smile and tiny wave back. She did not seem like the ‘yelling in public’ type.

America, however, had no issue yelling here or almost anywhere else for that matter. “No!” She shakes her head. “I mean: yes — hi! But also, you can come sit with us!” she says, making her waving motion even more dramatic.

At that, Sersi nudges Yelena — focused too intently on the menu to notice before now. America understood. There were a lot of options, and this was an important decision.

Once she does look up, though, she confirms one of America’s suspicions: that she, too, didn’t mind raising her voice in the middle of a restaurant. “Hey!” she exclaims, walking over to them. “Fancy seeing you here. You run away again?” she teases America as she leans against the table. 

America gives her something between a scowl and a smile. “Ha ha. No. I didn’t. We’re just visiting for the weekend."

“Nice to see you both,” Agatha greets.

“You too.” Yelena grins, sliding into the booth once America scoots down to make room. “Girlfriend couldn’t make it? Wanda?” 

“Actually, she’s her fiancée now,” America informs her, wiggling her eyebrows. “And she’ll be here in a sec. She just had to take the rat to the hotel,” she says casually. 

Yelena blinks in confusion. “The what to the what?”

“A rat,” Agatha explains. “A subway rat. He’s her familiar.” 

“Aww, that’s sweet.” Sersi squishes in next to Yelena. “Rats are cute.”

“Don’t get any ideas — we have our hands full with Fanny and Mr. Kitty,” Yelena warns. 

“It can be done," America assures her. "I have a cat, too. And Mama has a rabbit. It’s like a little zoo now.” She peers over to the door, seeing Wanda walk in and look around for them. “And looks like the other zookeeper just got here,” she says, standing and waving.

Wanda walks over, tilting her head as she spies the two strangers. “I feel like I missed something.”

“I’m Yelena,” the blonde introduces herself, sticking out her hand before nodding to her right. “And that’s Sersi.” 

“I met them when I came here after the whole vodka and nose-piercing thing,” America explains with a cringe. Not her finest moment.

“Ah, I see.” Wanda nods, shaking Yelena’s hand and eying her closely as she takes her place next to Agatha. “You’re…you’re Natasha’s sister? Right? I think I remember America mentioning…” she trails off.

“Yes,” Yelena says with a nod, a small smile on her face. “Is me: the annoying little sister. Talked about you all the time.”

Wanda blinks, taken aback by the revelation. “Oh?”

“Mm,” she hums with another nod. “You and Clint Barton. Almost a pity I didn’t try to kill you — could’ve met earlier.”

Wanda furrows her brows. “You tried to kill Clint?”

“I did. Was misunderstanding. Are all good now,” Yelena says casually, waving it off.

“Oh? Okay...” Wanda blinks again. This was a lot of information to process at once. She’d gotten somewhat used to fielding bizarre, rapid subject changes parenting America, but Yelena was on a whole different level. “Why are you in town now?”

“Well, came here for the homicide, actually, but stayed for the romance,” Yelena says, taking Sersi’s hand under the table and smiling at her. “Met her right after murder misunderstanding shitshow and just…never left.”

“How strangely romantic.” Wanda muses. “I know your line of work was the same as your sister’s, but what do you do?” she asks, turning to Sersi.

“Anthropologist,” Sersi answers. “By trade at least.”

Yelena playfully rolls her eyes. “Is being modest. Is one of the most brilliant people I know. Not to mention cutest.” She leans over to give her a peck on the cheek.

America crinkles her nose. “I forgot you guys were just as mushy as my moms. I feel like the fifth wheel."

“Oh, don’t be pouty,” Yelena says. “Will find your other wheel eventually — make angsty teen bicycle.” Her mouth curves into a smirk when she sees America fidget. “Unless you already have?”

Agatha rests her chin in her hand, looking over at her expectantly — clearly enjoying this way too much. Wanda reaches across the table to give her hand a sympathetic pat.

“Nope,” America says, avoiding eye contact with all four of them. “Still unicycling it up.”

“Uh-huh.” Yelena narrows her eyes, amused. “You’re not a great liar, you know this?” 

America huffs, finally looking at her. “Her name’s Kamala, and she’s amazing," she admits. "But we’re not gross like everyone else at this table.”

“Eventually, you will be,” Sersi teases. Because she’s a traitor.

“Nuh-uh,” America vows, shaking her head. “I’ll only ever be…” she searches for the word for a beat before giving up. “Whatever the opposite of gross is.” 

Agatha rolls her eyes. “We’ll see.”

Speaking of the opposite of gross, just then, the waiter comes by to take their cheesecake orders: America commits to the churro one, Agatha goes for dark chocolate, and Wanda selects a red velvet (with strawberry whipped cream, of course). Yelena picks an Irish cream, while Sersi — after much debate and looking overwhelmed — decides on peanut butter.

“You can have some of mine if you don’t end up liking yours,” America promises her as they hand their menus to the waiter.

Sersi gives her a small, surprised smile. “Thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

“Sure. I got you.” She smiles back before turning to Wanda, slapping her hand on the table definitively. “Okay, enough small talk: I need real updates. How did rat’s bath go? Did he like it?”

“He’s doing fine. He’s sitting on the bed, but he wasn’t a fan of losing the grime.” Wanda laughs.

“Aww, I get it. I don’t like washing my hair, either.” America giggles. “Did you figure out a name yet?”

“Mhm.” She nods. “Stanley.”

“Like Stanley Tucci?!” she asks excitedly. “I love Stanley Tucci.” 

“Huh.” Yelena muses. “My mind went to Flat Stanley. Were these books Mama used to read me in Ohio.”

“No, no — like Stanley from Golden Girls,” Wanda explains.

“Ah. Yeah.” America nods. “That makes more sense. Can I call him Stan for short?”

Wanda nods. “I think that’s perfectly acceptable.”

“Amazing. Nickname: Stan the Man. But in, like, a fun, ironic way — not a toxic masculinity, patriarchal way. Did you have pets growing up?” she asks Yelena and Sersi. 

"No." Yelena shakes her head. “But was not for lack of trying. Tried to sneak animals in house all the time — frogs, birds, even class pet hamster once in my pocket — but Mama always caught me and made me put them back." She rolls her eyes. "Kind of hypocritical considering she has, like, 50 pigs now.”

“Pigs?” Agatha questions. “That’s an odd choice.”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “Not really for her. She is odd person. I mean that in good way,” she clarifies. “Used to do experiments on them, but now they just hang out on farm eating all the scraps my papa will give them from his plate.” 

“See? Her animals are allowed to eat people food,” America mutters. 

“Oh, they’re really not,” Yelena clarifies. “Drives Mama crazy.”

“See?” Agatha nudges her. “I’m justified.”

“You’re a buzzkill,” America corrects, rolling her eyes. “Maybe you guys should team up and be buzzkill besties.” 

“She will be in town this weekend for Mother’s Day.” Yelena laughs. 

“Wait, really?” America asks. “So it went okay with her and your dad?”

“Mm,” Yelena hums in the affirmative, giving her a nod. “Just like you said.” She gives Agatha a small smile.

Agatha smiles back. “I never like to say, ‘I told you so…’”

America scoffs. “You always like to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“You’re right. I told you so,” Agatha says, clearly relishing it — giving Yelena a playful wink.

“You should all come to brunch with us tomorrow!” America suggests.

“It’s fine by me.” Sersi glances over at Yelena. “Do you think she’d like that?”

Yelena shrugs. “Could be nice. And…am realizing I forgot to make reservations anywhere, and I doubt there are openings now.” She grimaces. 

“I’ll change the party number!” America says excitedly, pulling out her phone and opening the reservation app. “How many more? Is your dad coming?” 

Yelena shakes her head. “Nah. Will make him buy his own brunch somewhere else. Girls only.” 

America nods. “What about your mom?” she asks Sersi.

“Oh.” Sersi deflates a bit. “She’s…she’s not around anymore.”

“Oh,” America says softly. “I’m so sorry. I know that that’s…really hard.” She bites her lip, mind wandering a bit to her other moms as well.

“It’s okay. I miss her, but the whole situation is complicated.” Sersi nods, clearly trying not to think too hard about it.

“I get it,” America says, giving her a small smile. She changes the reservation from three to six and decides to try and lighten things up again. “Did you have pets growing up? And if so, did you feed them from the table?”

“Well, I didn’t really get to grow up. I’m an Eternal, so some celestial created me,” Sersi mumbles, a hint of uncharacteristic bitterness seeping into her tone as she reaches to squeeze Yelena’s hand. “My mother was more of a mother figure — Ajak.”

“Right.” America shakes her head. So much for lightening the mood. “Sorry, you told me that last time. I forgot that part.”

“It’s all right,” Sersi promises with a reassuring smile. “If you want to know about pets, though, Phastos — someone dear to me in my family — has a husband and son. Their son is trying to convince them to get a cat.”

“Aww, I hope he succeeds!” America grins, relaxing a little. 

“So do I,” Yelena agrees. “That photo they sent of whole family in ugly Christmas sweaters was so cute. Need cat to get matching one.” 

“Oh my god.” America gasps. “If that happens, you have to send me the pic, okay?”

Sersi laughs. “Phastos would be the type to make his cat a sweater.”

“Now I want Carla to have a sweater.” America turns to Agatha. “Do you knit? I feel like you give off the vibe that you know how to knit. I mean, didn’t you have to in, like, the 19th century?”

“Yes, but it’s been a while. And I wasn’t spectacular at it even back then.” Agatha grimaces.

“Ugh, you’re no help. What about you?” she asks Wanda. “You also have vague knitting vibes.”

“I’m okay.” Wanda nods. “Not super experienced, but I know the basics.”

“Good enough for me. You’re gonna teach me. After school. Like an extra-curricular,” she declares. “Please,” she adds after the fact.

“Sure.” Wanda grins, reaching over to wipe some rogue icing off the corner of America’s mouth. “It can be a fun mother-daughter bonding activity.”

“Yes!” she eagerly agrees, so pumped she can’t even bring herself to whine about Wanda cleaning her face like she’s a literal infant. She was already envisioning all the things she could make: a star sweater for Carla. Beanies for herself. Blankets for various holiday presents. Her moms always ate up a homemade gift. 

The cheesecake comes out shortly after, and the conversation dies down significantly, everyone too focused on stuffing their faces to do much chatting. Agatha seems…a little distracted the whole time, but America chalks it up to traveling. Who didn’t get a little weird when they traveled?

Once they’re full (maybe a little too full), they say their goodbyes, with America promising to text Yelena and Sersi the details for the next day. The Maximoff-Harknesses decide to go straight back to the hotel — Wanda needs to check on Stanley, after all, and America had promised to FaceTime Kamala. They all turn in relatively early since they know they have a big day tomorrow. 

A little after midnight, however — once Agatha has peeked into the adjoined room to check that America is safely tucked in and asleep and Wanda is, yes, snoring beside her in bed — she gets another text from the same number as before. The one that’s been clawing at the back of her mind all day for some reason. The reason she can’t seem to get any rest.

Offer’s expiring soon. I’d act quick if I were you.

Agatha sighs, mouth curving into a small frown. She’s losing patience for games, and though she’d never admit it, she’s scared. Not for her own sake but for her daughter’s. For her fiancée’s. Something about this seems off. More personal than a silly prank. Asking again: who is this? And how did you get my number? she responds.

The reply comes fast, as if the other person is waiting for her. The thought sends a chill down her spine. I’ll tell you if and when you meet me.

Agatha purses her lips. She couldn’t put her family in danger. She wouldn’t. She would get to the bottom of this — end it once and for all. Where?

Alleyway outside Ritz Diner. On the corner of 1st and East 62nd Street.

Agatha gulps. She’s never been one to be careful in situations like this. Fine, she types back, fingers shaking ever so slightly. On my way. She carefully sneaks out from the bed, thankful that Wanda’s a heavy sleeper — something else America likes to make fun of her for.

Despite it being the city that never sleeps, everyone seems to be in bed — in this area, at least. And despite the diner being open 24/7, there’s hardly anyone in it. It’s dark. Creepy. Private. Maybe that’s why they picked it, Agatha thinks, a pit settling in her stomach. 

She crosses her arms against the chilly spring night breeze as she heads down the last few steps of the alley. There’s a figure at the end a few paces away, but their face is masked by shadows. Her hands twitch reflexively, readying her magic in case she needs it. “I’m here,” she says once she’s a couple of steps away. “Now stop being a coward and show your face. Who are you?”

Agatha knows the person the moment they step into the streetlight. Knows this man, though she’d only ever known him as a boy. He looks the same, and it nearly knocks the wind out of her. Even after all these years, he looks the same. Sounds the same, too, once he speaks.

“It’s Nicholas,” he says. “It’s your son.”

Chapter Text

Despite the confidence in his texts — the boldness of the meeting location — Nick can’t help but feel nervous when the moment of their reunion finally comes. Can’t help but stand up a little straighter once he lets her see him. Once he sees her.

She hasn’t changed. Not a bit.

Agatha covers her mouth, a sob immediately escaping. “Nick,” she whispers in disbelief.

“Hello, Mother,” he says, tears pricking at his own eyes. He tries to blink them back, swallow down the soreness in his throat. “It’s been a while.”

She slowly approaches him and reaches out her hand. He thinks, for a moment, she might slap him. She’d never laid a hand on him before — never did anything but love him — but things were different now. How could she still love him after all that had happened? All that he’d done with the drugs, the fights, the running away? The making her life hell?

He thinks she might hit him — and he’d more than deserve it — but instead, she gently cups his face. “My beautiful baby boy,” she muses. “Alive.”

He realizes now this was a mistake. He isn’t ready. He can’t do this. A slap would’ve strung, literally and metaphorically, but this? This was so much more difficult. He’d prepared himself for rejection, but acceptance?

“Don’t call me that,” he whispers — voice laced with pain. With shame. He turns away from her grasp. “Please.”

“Why?” Agatha blinks in concerned surprise, though she obliges him and lets her hand drop back down to her side. “Nick, what’s wrong?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, scraping a hand through his hair. “What’s wrong? I don’t know — where do you want to start? Maybe with the fact your 'beautiful boy' is a fuck-up junkie?”

Agatha crosses her arms, expression hardening. “Being a junkie doesn’t make you a fuck-up.”

“A fuck-up and a junkie, then," he says, mirroring her posture. "How’s that?”

“How are you a fuck-up?” she asks — genuinely asks as if it’s not the most obvious thing in the world.

He lets out a bitter laugh. “How much time do you have? I have…how many years' worth of mistakes to catch you up on? No, seriously — how many years has it been? I was too cracked out to remember most of them.”

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, too,” Agatha says, voice soft but firm. “Bad ones. No mistake can stop me from loving my son.”

He presses the heel of his hands into his eyes until he starts to see stars. “This was not how this was supposed to go,” he mutters.

“How was this supposed to go then?”

“I was just supposed to apologize. Make amends.” He sighs. “It’s…part of my program,” he explains. “Step nine.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“For hurting you with my addiction,” he says. It’s a practiced speech — once he’s written and crossed out, written and crossed out. Practiced in the mirror and in his sleep and on the walk here. “All the things I did that stemmed from it. I mean, I didn’t talk to you for years — at first because I was angry. And then because I was too ashamed at what I’d become to face you. So I'm sorry, Mother." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "I'm so sorry."

“I never blamed you,” Agatha assures him, wrapping her arms around him. “I never did.”

He huffs, lightly pushing himself from her embrace. She’s strong, he’ll give her that, but so is he. Especially now. When he absolutely cannot do this. “But I am to blame,” he asserts. “Yes, it’s a disease — I’m…learning that now — but they were still my choices. That’s part of the recovery. Taking accountability. You have to let me take responsibility.”

Agatha frowns at being pushed away, “I don’t have to hate or blame you for you to take responsibility,” she stubbornly insists. “I know what you did fucking sucked — trust me, I know — but my forgiveness is my choice. And I've had a long time to make it."

It’s a lot, hearing her say that. Almost too much. He takes a deep breath to try to calm down — a technique he learned from her all that time ago. One he still remembers. “I don’t…I don’t know what to say to that,” he admits. “Like I said, this isn’t exactly how I pictured this going.”

“How did you picture it going?” she asks quietly, perhaps a little wounded.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. But he does. He imagined this unfolding a lot of different ways, each more brutal than the last, though there was always a common thread. “That you’d hate me. That you’d tell me to fuck off. That I would, and we’d both…go back to our separate lives again. That’s why I wouldn’t tell you who I was. I figured if you knew it was me, you’d never come.” His voice softens. “That I’d never see you again. Get to say a real goodbye, however ugly. However painful.”

Agatha tilts her head. “I could never hate you, dear. You’re my son. I’ve been worried about you, but I could never hate you.”

Nick purses his lips. “I’ve missed you,” he confesses after a moment, a tear finally falling. He wipes it away, but another takes its place right after. “So much.”

Agatha opens her arms a little, inviting a hug if he wants it — more cautious after her last failed attempt. “I’ve really missed you, too.”

He hesitates for a moment before leaning forward, allowing her to wrap him into a tight hug. He can feel her start to cry again, and after a moment, he starts crying in earnest, too. It’s been so long since he’s been held. By his mother. By anyone. He’s a grown man, but in this moment, he feels like a child again. Maybe not beautiful like she said but a boy nonetheless. 

“Could we…can I…” he stutters out. “Would you sit down with me? Let me buy you a coffee or something? Least I could do.”

She gives him a squeeze, holding onto him as tightly as she can — trying to steady them both. All she can do for a moment is nod before she gets herself under control enough to say, “Coffee sounds good.”

“Okay,” he says, letting out a breath — allowing himself to relax a bit. “All right. Coffee it is.” 

He somewhat reluctantly pulls away, walking the few steps into the diner behind them. The fluorescents are aggressive, almost disorienting, after being outside in the dark. 

They slide into a booth, a waitress well into her 70s coming over almost as soon as they’re in the seats. “Two coffees,” he tells her. “You want anything else?” he asks Agatha. “On me.”

Agatha shakes her head, her eyes never leaving Nick — the awed smile never leaving her face — even as she talks to the server. “I’ll have milk and cream in mine.”

“Just black for me, thanks,” Nick says, handing the waitress their menus before returning his attention to Agatha. “What?” His mouth curves into a smile, too. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks with a small laugh.

Agatha shakes her head. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” she says softly.

He clears his throat, the affection — the kindness — still too much for him to bear. “Yeah. Well. You have no idea how disgusted I am to see you still putting all that shit in your coffee. Milk and cream? How do you even drink that monstrosity?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a good combo! I don’t know why you’re so against it.”

“It’s so much dairy. You might as well just order a mug of ice cream with a dollop of yogurt and cheese sprinkles."

“What’s wrong with dairy? You weren’t lactose intolerant growing up.”

“No, but too much makes all that phlegm build up in the back of your throat.” His nose crinkles as the waitress sets their mugs on the table. “I’ll stick to black.”

“What, are you a singer?” she asks, beginning to empty the cursed concoction into her cup and stir it around. “Phlegm is manageable.”

“Manageable, yes. Enjoyable, no — singer or not. And you know I’m not. Didn’t inherit a single ounce of your musical abilities.”

She shrugs in faux modesty. “I mean, I’m not so great either.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. “That’s not true. Your lullabies would have me out like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“That’s just a mom thing,” she argues.

“I doubt that’s the only reason.”

“I don’t know,” Agatha relents as Nick takes a sip of his coffee. “But I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

“I did.” He nods, mouth curving into a small, wistful smile. “Very much.”

“Good,” Agatha says, the corner of her lips lifting to mirror his expression. “I did my best. You deserve the best. You deserve everything.”

Nick slowly nods, his smile faltering. “I do know you did your best. But I don’t know about the other part.” He’s not so sure he deserves anything, really.

“I do,” Agatha says with quiet conviction. “You do.” 

It was getting to be too much again. He has to change the subject — and fast. “All right — enough about me and what I deserve.” He waves her off. “How have you been? What have you been doing? I…tried to do some digging, but your social media was pretty locked down. Even your number was a pain in the ass to find. And I don’t have the luxury of using magic to help.”

“America’s trying to get me to update my socials. I just don’t get the fad. Anyway—” She pauses at his furrowed brows. “America is my daughter,” she explains. “I co-parent her with my fiancée, Wanda. We’re in the process of adopting her. It’s a long story from the last time you saw me to now, but that’s what’s current,” she finishes, smoothing the napkin on the table. Clearly trying to smooth out any confusion, too.

With her explanation comes…a lot of feelings. But unfortunately, not a lot of words. “Wow.” He blinks. “That’s…wow. A daughter, huh? And a fiancée.”

“Yeah.” She nods, a little awkward. “It was accidental. Unexpected. They both kind of came into my life before I knew it.”

“I have…so many questions.” He shakes his head, laughing lightly. “How old is she? Your daughter, obviously — not your fiancée.”

“She’s 15 and a whole, lovable mess,” Agatha says, any awkwardness immediately disappearing as she talks about her. The spark as she thinks about her — the burning love she has for her — melting it away.

“I’ll bet.” He smiles, her joy contagious. “That’s a tough age. It was for me, at least.” It was the beginning of the fights. The beginning of the drugs. The beginning of the end. His smile drops slightly. “Guess I don’t need to remind you of that.”

“I don’t mind it,” she says gently. “With you, there were times I wanted to pull my hair out, but I never stopped caring about you. Thinking about you. Loving you. I still love you now.”

He shifts in his seat, overwhelmed again at the kind of forgiveness and compassion she’s offering. “I love you, too, Mom,” he murmurs, finally dropping the more formal 'Mother.' “Of course I still love you, too.”

She sucks in a breath, a single-syllable, three-letter word causing a powerful wave of emotion to flood through her. “I love you so much.”

He takes a sip of coffee, trying to pull himself together. It was one thing to cry on the street — it was another to lose it in the middle of a diner. 

He sets the mug down on the table with a deep breath. “Back to my questions. How long have you…had her? Or…how long has she been with you?” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m sorry — I don’t mean to be rude. I don’t know the proper terminology.”

She shrugs it off. “It’s perfectly fine. She’s been with me for about a year. She and Wanda kind of came together.”

“Wow, so still pretty new.” He nods. “And Wanda — what’s she like? How’d the two of you meet?”

She shakes her head, fiddling with her napkin. “It’s a complicated story.” And clearly not her favorite. “Wanda is Wanda Maximoff, as in the Avenger and the Scarlet Witch. I met her when she put a town in a false reality to deal with her grief. I tried to trick her into giving me her powers, but I failed, and she put me under a spell and stole my copy of the Darkhold." She scowls, still bitter about either her failure or the destruction of the Darkhold or a bit of both. She shakes her head, snapping back into the story. "After that, she nearly killed America to get to her dead children in another universe. Eventually, they made up and both came to me for magic help.”

“Huh.” He blinks, trying to process this. “You know they have dating sites now, right? Apps? There are easier ways to find a partner,” he teases. “Though I guess you’ve never been one for simple.”

She shrugs again. “I was on them for a couple of years. Didn’t work, obviously.”

“Well, I’m glad this did. Sounds like you finally have the family you always deserved.” He gives her a small smile, though it’s tinged with a hint of melancholy. He was happy for her. He really was. But there can’t help but be an undercurrent of selfish sadness.

She reaches across the table to lay her hand on his. “You can be a part of it if you’d like. I know I would,” she says softly.

“I don’t…I don’t know…” he says, playing with the handle of the mug with his free hand. “You have a good thing going. I wouldn’t want to mess it up.”

She tilts her head. “I don’t think you’d mess it up. I think you’d make it even better.”

He’s not so sure. He seems to have a gift for messing things up. “I’d like to meet them,” he says — a compromise. He could feel it out, and they could go from there. “Would that be okay?”

“That would absolutely be okay.” She nods, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Lunch? Tomorrow?” he suggests — he’d rather it be soon so he doesn’t lose his nerve. “Or…whatever. Whenever. I’ll make it work.”

“We have brunch plans, so how about dinner?”

“That sounds great,” he agrees. “Let them pick the spot. Just text me where to be and when.”

“All right.” She nods, looking at him with that wistful smile again. “I’m so excited for you to meet them.”

“Yeah, I’m excited, too,” he says. And he was. As well as more than a little nervous. He was trying to ignore that part. “I guess I should probably be letting you get back to them. And stop drinking this or I’ll never get to sleep tonight,” he says, holding up his now-empty cup of coffee.

“You have somewhere to stay, right?” she asks, voice laced with concern. “Somewhere safe?”

“Yes, Mom. Don’t worry.” He fishes a few dollars from his pocket to pay for the coffee and resists the urge to roll his eyes out of habit. It was a valid question. One he hadn’t been asked in a while. It is kind of nice, in a way. “I’m crashing with a friend — a sober one. My sponsor, actually.”

She nods, breathing out a small sigh of relief. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “For staying sober.”

“It’s only 34 days — barely a month — so let’s not get carried away,” he says, standing from the booth. “But thank you,” he adds quietly, wrapping her in another hug once she’s up, too.

She holds him tight — so tight it’s like she’s afraid she might not get to again. “That’s still something. I know how hard it is.”

“I know,” he says softly, noting the desperation in her hold. After a moment, he pulls away and gives her a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”

It’s one he intends to keep.

Chapter Text

America may be a late sleeper, but she’s also a light sleeper. Always has been. Well, ever since she can remember, at least. It’s something she had to be to survive all those years she was alone, and old habits die hard. 

So she hears Wanda and Agatha’s door open and shut. Hears Agatha’s footsteps walking away. (Identifying footsteps — another little trick ingrained into her.) 

What she doesn’t hear is their door open and shut a second time. Nor her footsteps walking back toward the room. 

She checks after a few minutes — obviously, she checks. Cracks open the door joining the two of their rooms just to make sure. But it only confirms her suspicions: Agatha’s side of the bed is empty. She’s gone. Longer than it takes to get ice or a drink from the vending machine. 

America goes out into the hallway. She slides down to sit against her door, knees pulled to her chest, and waits. And waits. And waits for her to come back. Hoping she’ll come back. Because there’s always that chance she won’t. The odds look less and less good the longer it takes, and as a result, she feels less and less good.

Eventually, she does come back. After just shy of two hours — one hour and fifty-six minutes, to be exact — she appears in the hall. It takes her a moment to spot America, to snap out of her daze and register her presence, and when she does, she immediately kneels down next to her. “Hey,” she softly greets.

There’s a sense of relief — of course there is — but there’s something else, too. Something less pleasant. 

“Hi,” America replies, giving her a once-over. She looks fine. A little tired, maybe, but nothing like she did when she came back in the middle of the night in Salem. “Are you, like, okay?” she checks, though her tone is bordering on cold.

Agatha nods. “I’m okay. Why don’t we go lie back down, and I can explain where I was,” she suggests, holding out a hand to help her up.

America doesn’t take it, stubbornly pushing herself off the floor sans assistance and crossing her arms. “I don’t want to lie down,” she says. “You just left. For hours. And you didn’t tell me or text me or leave a note or anything.”

Agatha sighs. “I’m sorry. I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up. Do you remember that text from the unknown number I got?”

“Yeah?” America raises an eyebrow. “So?”

“The number was my son. I went to talk with him. He wants to meet you and Wanda,” she says in typical blunt fashion.

America’s eyes blink. Her breath stops. And her heart drops. That’s a bombshell. And about the last thing she expected to hear. It’s hard to even process.

She figures she should start at the beginning. “You knew it was him when he was texting you?” America asks. “Or you thought you were just going to talk to some rando alone at one in the morning?”

“I didn’t know it was him. All I knew was this person had my number, and it could be linked to you or your mom. I wanted to investigate.”

America scoffs. “Okay, well, doing it by yourself without telling anyone is basically the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe so.” Agatha shrugs — an action that is beyond infuriating in this moment. “But I wanted to keep you both safe. I can handle myself if something happens.”

“Yeah, so can I. Did it when I was literally six years old, remember? But that’s not what family does.” America rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I guess that doesn’t even matter now.” 

“I didn’t want to put you in that position again,” Agatha explains.

But America’s not listening. She storms past her — stomping hard enough that the people staying on the floor below them are surely going to file a noise complaint — away from their rooms and toward the elevators. “Hey, hey — where are you going?” Agatha asks, grabbing ahold of her arm. 

America promptly rips it away, continuing to walk with purpose. “Out. Alone. Because apparently, that’s a thing we just do now.”

“No.” Agatha manages to strategically maneuver herself so she’s blocking the doorway right before the elevators. “You’re pissed, and we’re going to talk about it.”

She is pissed. But more than that, she’s hurt. And she wants to hurt her back. “No, we’re not. Move, Agatha,” she spits with as much vitriol as possible. But it’s the word that’s the real knife. She hasn’t called her that since the first day they met. Before 'Mama,' it was at least 'Auntie Ags.'

Agatha flinches at that, but she doesn’t falter. “America, what’s going on?” she asks, some desperation creeping into her firm tone. “You have to communicate with me.”

“I don’t have to do anything with you. You’re not my mother. The adoption hasn’t officially gone through. Must be a relief.” She gives up on leaving the building, turning around to storm back to her room instead.

“Woah, hang on,” Agatha says, reaching out to catch her arm again. “Why would it be a relief? I love you. You’re my daughter.” She frowns.

America yanks away from her grasp again, though she does whip around to face her. “Oh my god — just stop, okay? You have your real kid back. Congratulations. You don’t need your consolation prize anymore.” 

America turns and charges the last few steps to her room, opening the door with her key before slamming it shut. She makes sure the chain is on both it and the adjoining door. She doesn’t want to see her. Nor does she want Agatha to see her bawling her eyes out the second she's alone again.

She can hear Agatha slide down to sit on the other side of her door, occupying the same spot in the hall America just had. After a few moments, she gets a text: You’re not a ‘consolation prize.’ I haven’t been on a quest to get Nick back — this was happenstance. I thought he was dead. You are just as much my child as he is.

America can barely read it, her eyes blurry from tears. 

Part of her does believe her. The rational part. 

But part of her doesn’t. The part that always tells her she’s not good enough, not deserving, not lovable. She chose him, that part says. She chose him tonight by going there, even if she didn’t mean to. She’s always going to choose him. 

That part of her wins in this moment, texting back a simple, passive-aggressive K. 

Except her hands are shaking, so she actually types L first, which is fitting. Loss. So much loss that just keeps coming. 

America almost thinks Agatha has given up when 30 minutes pass without another text, another knock, another anything. 

But of course, she isn’t that lucky. She never is.

She scowls when she sees the flash of purple light appear in the corner of her room. Though it probably looks pretty pathetic considering her eyes are red and swollen, snot all under her nose. Locks and doors were somewhat of a formality considering they could all portal, but there was sort of a tacit agreement, an unspoken rule they wouldn’t do that to each other.

“You don’t have to be so short with me,” Agatha says as she steps through. “I know you’re feeling insecure, but I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t just barge in here like that,” America snaps. “That’s such an invasion of privacy.”

“I know,” Agatha says calmly. America hates that she’s so damn calm. She wishes she would just yell back at her so it would be easier to cling to the anger instead of the hurt. “And normally, I wouldn’t, but your response worried me. I want you to try and talk this out with me.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you. Obviously,” she says, pulling the blankets over her head — a pretty childish move, admittedly, but whatever. The only reason she wasn’t using her own portal to get the hell out was because it’d worry Wanda, and she didn’t deserve that.

“Then we can sit until you’re ready,” Agatha says diplomatically, taking a seat on the chair in the corner of the room.

“That’ll be never, so have fun dying in this hotel room, I guess,” America retorts, the words muffled by the comforter.

Agatha sighs, leaning her head back against the wall. America thinks maybe she can hear her crying softly, but she doesn’t let herself feel sympathetic. She needs to start making herself feel nothing toward Agatha. Soon, America will be nothing to her — once she spends more time reuniting with Nick.

It’s not particularly fun, America quickly finds, to bury your entire body under a hotel comforter. It’s very hot and borderline suffocating, but she’s too stubborn to come out of her sad little cocoon for fresh air. 

Eventually, she falls asleep underneath it — a terrible sleep but a sleep nonetheless — worn out from all the sobbing and yelling.

And across the room — physically just a few feet away but metaphorically in an entirely different multiverse — Agatha eventually falls asleep upright in the chair, feeling distant from the world and sick to her stomach.

Chapter Text

America wakes up early — a little after seven, according to the alarm clock she catches a glimpse of when she pops her head out from under the covers. Before she remembers she wasn’t going to do that. Before everything from last night comes flooding back. 

Agatha doesn’t seem to notice, asleep on the chair. Good, she thinks to herself. 

She uses the opportunity to carefully slide out of bed, tiptoeing to the connecting door. She unlocks and opens it, crawling into bed next to Wanda.

Wanda wakes at the movement, rolling over and intending to go back to sleep. When she realizes it’s America beside her, however, she abandons that idea for the time being. “Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” America quietly replies.

Wanda frowns. “What’s wrong?”

She rubs her temples. “I have the worst headache in the whole world,” she whines. Which is true — her head was pounding from crying all night.

Wanda wraps an arm around her, lip jutting into a sympathetic pout. “I’m sorry. Do you know why?”

America shrugs, cuddling in closer. “I just do,” she mumbles.

“Mm…” Wanda rests her chin on top of her head but narrows her eyes. “Something tells me that’s not the case, Star Girl.”

She huffs. She hates that she always knows when she’s lying. And the nickname always gets her. “Ma—" She stops, correcting herself. “Agatha and I had a big fight last night.”

Wanda blinks in surprise at the use of her name, but she doesn't question it. She figures it'd become apparent soon enough. “About what?”

“She left,” America says, her voice cracking. “She left without even telling me even though she knows how scared that makes me. Even though she gets upset with me for doing the same thing. She’s such a hypocrite.”

Wanda nods, taking a deep breath. “I get why you'd be upset, but have you asked why she did it? I doubt she would have without reason.”

“She told me the reason. And it’s a good reason. A reason that’s better than me,” she mutters, tears pricking at her eyes. She buries her face in Wanda’s shirt.

“Hey.” She runs a comforting hand through her hair. “What reason is that?”

“Nick.” She sniffles. “Her son. Her actual kid. He’s back.”

Wanda freezes for a second — her brain attempting to process this — before recovering. Compartmentalizing it so she can focus on the matter at hand. On America. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

“But not the same,” America insists. “It can’t be the same.”

Wanda tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” America stares down at the comforter, her tears blurring the pattern on it. “She gave literal birth to him. She’s known me for, like, two seconds. There’s a difference.”

“That’s only for her to decide. Not you,” Wanda says, pulling her closer. “I know her. She loves you so much. You are so deeply important to her.”

America takes a deep breath, considering all of this. “I just…I didn’t feel important to her when I saw that she just disappeared.”

“I understand.” Wanda nods. “And your feelings are valid. Though I imagine she’s feeling a lot, too, and she didn’t say anything because of those feelings,” Wanda gently points out.

“Yeah,” America says softly, guilt flooding through her. She had been kind of selfish. Cast a dark shadow over what should have been a great night for Agatha. Hurt her on purpose when Agatha hadn’t meant to hurt her at all. “I said some really mean stuff to her,” she quietly admits.

“What did you say?” Wanda delicately pries.

“Like, really bad stuff. It’s…all kind of a blur, but I know I said that she wasn’t really my mom.” She cringes.

Wanda blows out a breath. “Yeah, that’s…not great. You’re going to have to talk with her and hold space for both your feelings because I can’t forgive you on her behalf.”

“I doubt she’s gonna forgive me on her behalf. I wouldn’t.” America groans, grabbing one of the bed’s extra pillows and covering her face with it to muffle a long, frustrated ‘ugh’ sound.

“I bet you'll be surprised,” Wanda says, giving her leg an encouraging pat.

America reluctantly removes the pillow from her face, shooting Wanda a skeptical look. She throws her head back one last time with one last sigh before she can't avoid the inevitable anymore, sliding out of bed and dragging herself back to the other bedroom.

Fortunately (because she wasn’t and never would be ready to have this conversation) — but also unfortunately (because delaying this conversation was also starting to feel rather torturous) — Agatha is blissfully unaware of America’s presence, still asleep on the chair and twisted into a position that almost certainly cannot be comfortable.

America chews on her thumbnail, hovering by the door for a moment before walking over to the room’s small coffee pot and brewing as much as she can. She sure as hell needs it if only to ease her splitting headache, and she’s guessing Agatha probably will, too.

She’s pouring the second cup of coffee when she finally hears Agatha shift and sit up. She bites her lip and goes to set Agatha’s coffee on the little table next to the chair — avoiding eye contact, physical contact, any kind of contact — before setting her own on the nightstand next to the bed and perching herself against the headboard, wishing it would swallow her whole.

After a few moments, Agatha clears her throat. “How are you this morning?” she finally asks.

“Pretty bad,” America mumbles, playing with a blanket thread. “But it’s my own fault.”

Agatha sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. “Where do you want to start?”

“I want to start with I’m sorry,” America says softly, forcing herself to look up at her. It would be a pretty pathetic apology if she was too much of a coward to do that. “I’m really sorry, Mama.”

Agatha gives her a small smile, relieved they were back on ‘mama’ terms and maybe a little surprised it was that easy. “I appreciate that. I would never abandon you.”

“I’m happy for you. I mean that,” she says earnestly. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m really, really glad he’s okay. It’s just…” She sighs, trying to find the words. “My life has been changing nonstop for as long as I can remember,” she slowly starts. “And finally — finally — when it feels like things are steady, when it feels like things have settled down, this huge, unexpected thing happens. Change — the kind that surprises me, the kind I can’t control — has rarely turned out well for me. And that’s not your fault or his fault or anyone’s fault, so I know it was really unfair to take it out on you, but…it’s true. And it’s really scary.”

“That fear makes a lot of sense.” Agatha lowers her voice. “You want to know a secret?”

America nods vehemently, eyes wide and a little watery.

“I also find change a little scary because I spent so long just trying to survive. But I think we have to try and trust each other, even if it’s hard, because you’re right — taking it out on me isn’t okay.”

“I know,” America says softly, dropping her gaze down to her lap again, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “It won’t happen again.”

“It’s not just that I care about. I’m not angry,” Agatha reassures her. “I’m concerned and upset, yes, but not angry. Next time, communicate what’s going on in your head, hm?”

Anger was so much easier. It’d be so much easier if Agatha was mad at her as opposed to hurt by her. Just like it was so much easier to be mad at Agatha than try to tell her all the complicated thoughts swirling in her head. 

“I’ll try,” she promises anyway, peering up at her again. “You can come sit up here if you want,” she says sheepishly, scooting over to make room on the bed. “That chair doesn’t look like the comfiest thing in the world.”

Agatha lets out a little laugh. “It’s not.” She winces as she stands and stretches before taking a seat beside America, putting a hand on her knee. “I know it’s hard. It’s really hard. But we’re going to get through this together.”

America nods, biting her lip. “So…” she starts after a moment, curiosity getting the better of her. That, and she wanted to try and start making up for last night — ask the things she should have then. “What was it like? Seeing him again?” She peers up at her. “You can tell me the truth. I want to hear the truth. I won’t get jealous or let it hurt my feelings,” she vows.

Agatha considers for a moment — struggling, it seems, to put it into words. “Well, it was overwhelming,” she admits. “I’d always thought he died, but he’s alive, and I’m so happy. Then he mentioned he’s still been struggling with drug dependence, so I felt kind of guilty. I drank when I was pregnant with him and had problems myself. What if I passed those issues down to him?”

America shrugs, thinking back to one of Agatha’s biology lessons. “Even if you did, I don’t think it’s really your fault. I mean, you don’t get to pick what genetics your kid inherits, right?"

“No,” she confirms with a shake of her head. “But I just worry. He’s my son.”

“I get that.” America nods. “Was he…on them last night?" she tentatively asks. "Sorry if that’s, like, insensitive or none of my business — I was just thinking maybe we could help him somehow. Find a good rehab or something.”

“No, he wasn’t high. He’s 35 days sober and clean today,” Agatha says, pride creeping into her voice.

America smiles a little. “That’s great. I’m really glad that he’s getting better. And that he has you again to support him so he can do 35 more, and 35 after that, and 35 after that. One step at a time, do your best every day — you know, all that cheesy stuff Mom always says.”

“She’s right. One step at a time, and things will get better.”

America supposes she actually has to take a step for that to happen. “You said he wants to meet us?"

“He does.” Agatha nods. “Though I think he's rather anxious about it.”

America can understand that — she’s anxious, too. “Did he say when?”

“Dinner tonight.”

“Okay.” She looks down at her lap, picking at a hangnail. On one hand, that was soon — really soon. But on the other hand, she doesn’t know how she’s going to deal with the anxiety twisting her stomach into knots for the next 10 hours. “What if…what if he doesn’t like me?” she asks quietly.

“Then we’ll work through it,” Agatha assures her. “But I’m almost positive he will.”

“What makes you so certain?” she presses, staring at the small bead of blood she’s accidentally drawn on her finger.

Agatha wordlessly grabs a tissue from a box on the nightstand before taking her hand and blotting the tiny wound. “Because he’s a sweet person, who — in some ways — I think is very similar to you.”

“Really?” She looks up at her then, narrowing her eyes curiously. “Like how?”

“You’re both very stubborn, for one. And you care deeply for the people around you. Value your family. I think that’s all very admirable.”

“That’s true. I do care — especially about my family,” she slowly muses, finally scooting close enough to Agatha to curl into her side. “But I’m not stubborn,” she argues stubbornly.

Agatha wraps an arm around her, pulling her close. “You are.”

“Am not,” she protests, turning her head and burying her face in her shirt to hide her cheeky smile.

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

“You know, when you’re two-for-two on stubborn kids, maybe you need to start looking at the common denominator,” she teases.

“Oh, are you suggesting it’s me?”

“I mean, if both shoes fit, might as well wear them.” She smirks. “And then let me borrow them because you have great shoes,” she adds.

“Mhm. Mhm.” Agatha laughs, kissing the top of her head.

America’s smirk fades into a genuine smile for a moment before dropping completely. “I really hated fighting with you,” she says quietly. “And I know it’s my fault, and I’m sorry again.”

Agatha nods a little. “I hated it, too. We’ll do better next time.”

She nods, biting her lip. “I know I’m, like, so not really in a position to be asking you things right now, and I know you’re an adult and can do whatever you want, but could you…tell me next time? Before you go somewhere? Please?” she asks, voice absent of snark, vulnerability creeping in. “Because my mind just goes to the worst places imaginable. I’m like Mom that way," she quietly admits.

“I can do my best to remember that and follow through if you can try to think through some of your words even if you’re upset,” Agatha negotiates.

“Deal,” she quickly promises. “I didn’t mean them. I know it’s not an excuse and they still hurt you, but I just need you to know that.”

“I know.” Agatha hugs her tighter. “I know.”

She relaxes into the hug, grateful that the air is somewhat cleared. “Do you still want to go to brunch with everyone? I can bring you back something if you want to stay in and sleep. I know I didn’t let you get much last night…” She cringes.

“That would be nice, actually.” Agatha breathes a sigh of relief. “I need some real rest.”

“Rest as long as you want — I'll be social enough for both of us. You can even stay here if you don’t want to drag yourself back to your room.”

“Thank you, sweetheart, but I need to chat with your mother,” Agatha says, giving her one last squeeze before climbing out of bed. “Fill her in on what’s going on.”

“Smart.” America nods. The two of them had a lot to catch up on. She forces herself out of bed as well to start getting ready — and to grab a couple of Advil.

She lets the two of them have some privacy, keeping herself tucked away in her own space. By the time she takes a shower, gets her hair under control, and does slightly more makeup than usual, it’s time for her and Wanda to head to the restaurant to meet up with Sersi, Yelena, and Yelena’s mom.

But the only person on her mind is Nick. Nick, who was a part of Agatha’s life again and therefore would be part of her own. Nick, who was apparently like America in so many ways Agatha admired. 

Nick, who she was going to meet for the first time in a single-digit amount of hours now.

Chapter Text

“Is she okay? Like, actually okay?” America asks Wanda once they’re in the hotel lobby — firmly out of earshot of Agatha. Agatha had the tendency to put on a strong front for her, but Wanda usually spoke to her pretty candidly. “And I’m not just talking about our fight,” America clarifies, though that was a big part of it. Even if she wasn’t okay, America would rather know the truth. “The Nick stuff…it’s a lot, I’m sure, even if it’s a good thing.”

Wanda sighs as they push open the door and step out onto the sidewalk, beginning their short walk to the restaurant. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I imagine she’s probably having a lot of different feelings about all of it, but she was fairly tight-lipped.”

“Needs time to process, I guess.” America nods, kicking at a rock on the ground. Could be worse, she supposed. She glances over at Wanda. “How are you feeling about it?"

“A little overwhelmed,” Wanda confesses, which makes America feel a little better. Sort of like it gave her permission to be overwhelmed by it, too. “I’m happy for her and Nick, and I’m excited to meet him, but…” Wanda purses her lips. She can’t bring herself to say it, but she doesn’t have to.

“I know,” America says gently, glancing over at her with a sympathetic frown. Of course, she can’t help but be a little sad for herself, too. A little jealous that she will never get Billy and Tommy back. “I know.”

Wanda takes a deep breath, quick to refocus on her fiancée’s struggles — a complicated topic, to be sure, but still a cakewalk compared to thinking about her own. “I’m worried about her,” she confesses. “This is a big adjustment, having him back. I know it’s conjuring up a lot of emotions — reopening some old wounds.”

“She’ll be okay, I think. She got through losing him, so surely she can get through getting him back, right?” America tries to reason — tries to project confidence — to make them both feel better. “Especially since she has us?”

Wanda gives her a smile, reaching over to give her arm a light squeeze. “I think she’ll be okay. I just know she’s tired of having to be resilient and expect the unexpected.”

“There’s already been a lot of unexpected this trip, that’s for sure.” She thinks of Stan and Yelena and Sersi and Nick. Then she thinks of Salem — of the woods and getting sick and Agatha coming home with scraped arms and matted hair. “Why can’t we ever just have a normal vacation?”

Wanda laughs. “That’s a very good question.”

“Hopefully, unexpected won’t end up meaning unbearable. Maybe it’s actually a good thing I’m meeting Yelena’s mom — it’s, like, a warmup for Nick tonight. Making a good first impression,” she rationalizes.

“Hopefully.” Wanda nods in agreement. “I’m sure it’ll all be all right.”

“Only one way to find out,” America says, opening the door to the brunch spot.

She grins, immediately spotting two familiar faces. “Hi!” she greets, walking over to them. “Nice to see you again," she tells Sersi and Yelena before looking toward the dark-haired woman. She looks nice, but there's definitely somewhat of an intimidating air about her. She sticks out her hand. “And nice to meet you, Mrs…” Shit. She doesn’t remember her last name. Or her first name. And first name felt vaguely disrespectful anyway. “Yelena’s mom,” she finishes awkwardly.

Melina blinks, seemingly a little caught off guard by her enthusiasm, but takes her hand. “Hello. I am Melina. You may call me that.”

“Melina. Hi,” she says, nearly wincing at the strength of the handshake. It’s slightly too firm to be comfortable, but she doesn’t think she’s doing it on purpose. “I’m America Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness. I like saying the full name because part of it’s kinda new, so it’s still kinda exciting. But you can just call me America.”

Melina cracks a small smile at that. “It is nice to meet you, America.”

While Wanda and Melina are making introductions, the hostess grabs a few menus and leads them to a seat near the back. It’s cute — a candle and a small vase of flowers sit atop the floral tablecloth, while white wallpaper patterned with delicate daisies and tulips hangs on the wall. It's highly Instagrammable, not that anyone in this group but her probably cared about that.

“This place seems nice, right? You guys like it?" America looks from Wanda to Melina. "Yelena said you were into gardening and plants and stuff,” she tells her. She did a copious amount of research to find the perfect spot. Not as much as she did for Wanda and Agatha’s first date, but it was pretty close.

“I am. And I do.” Melina nods. It was a no-frills approval, but it seemed like pretty high praise coming from her.

“Me too,” Wanda agrees.

“Me three,” Yelena chimes in, squinting at the decor as they take their seats. “Though kind of feel like I have allergies just by being in here.” 

“Good thing this isn’t your brunch then,” America quips. “Mother’s Day. You’re not a mother, so your opinion’s irrelevant.” 

“And it’ll stay that way,” Yelena says with a laugh, though the people who know her best would be able to tell it’s not quite sincere, a little sadness under the surface of it. Her own mother, for instance.

Melina tilts her head at her — a silent check-in. “This is a nice place,” she says, a subtle attempt to put a button on the topic and move on. 

America, however, is oblivious to it. Just as she’s oblivious to Yelena’s discomfort. The blonde always seemed down to joke around. “Thank you, person whose opinion matters,” she teases before shooting Yelena a pointed look. “If you want a say, you know what to do.” She shrugs. 

“No amount of wanting say will help, I’m afraid,” Yelena says with a smile — a forced one, though there’s no anger to it. “My body…does not work like that anymore.” 

America swallows hard, face going red. God, she was such an idiot. “I’m so sorry. I just…I didn’t…I’m so sorry,” she stammers. They hadn’t even ordered drinks and already she was screwing this up. Apologizing again. Perhaps she should’ve stayed at the hotel, too.

“I’m sorry…can I ask…?” Wanda starts, voice soft and hesitant as she tries to put the pieces together. “Nat mentioned the Red Room and how they…” she trails off.

“Yes,” Yelena whispers with a nod, glancing toward Melina. Someone who understood. "Yes. Is because of that."

Melina takes her hand under the table, straightening her already perfect posture — gathering strength. “It was an awful thing, but we try to live with it.”

“Of course.” America quickly nods. “I really didn’t mean to bring up bad memories — I just…I wasn’t thinking. I have a problem sometimes, my mouth moving faster than my mind.”

“You and me both,” Yelena assures her, breathing out a laugh. “And, you know, is not impossible, I suppose.” She takes Sersi’s hand with her free one and nods toward her. “Are still ways to try. And sometimes don’t even need to try. Sometimes are assigned random kid for undercover operation to steal HYDRA research and get stuck with them for life.” She looks back over at Melina and squeezes her hand. 

“Yeah.” America nods, glancing over at Wanda with a smile. “Sometimes you try to steal all their power and the same thing happens.”

Wanda smiles back, bittersweet at the dark memory clashing with the reality of where they'd ended up. “I’m glad it did.”

“Me too.” America's grin turns mischievous as she looks back at Melina. “Do you have any embarrassing baby pictures of her?”

Melina smirks. “A few. She was a wild child.”

Yelena’s jaw drops as she gasps. “Traitor!” she accuses Melina, letting go of her hand. “Traitor!” she accuses America. “Stop this conspiracy!”

America shrugs, smug smile on her face. “I have no fear of retaliation. One perk of not meeting your parents until you’re 14.”

Melina laughs. “She may have been wild, but she always stood up for people. Once she a punched boy on playground for bullying someone.”

“I love that. And can see that. She and Sersi were really nice to me when I was just some rando who needed help at a diner. And bullies should be punched.” 

“Yes,” Melina agrees. “She was good person from the start, even if she was a tiny Timon.”

America tilts her head. “Like the feral meerkat from The Lion King?” She's glad Wanda had showed her that movie a few months ago so she could get the reference.

Melina nods. “Is the best comparison I have. Heard it once from another mother in Ohio.”

“It’s a good phrase.” America nods in approval. “I’m gonna start using it. Who knows? Maybe it’ll catch on.”

“Seems that’s how it works,” Melina confirms. “A young person uses it, and then it’s popular.”

“Exactly. I’m teaching my mom all the Gen Z slang. Well, my other mom,” America clarifies. “She couldn’t make it, or else I’d totally have her show off everything she knows.”

Wanda bats her arm. “I know plenty of slang without you, thank you very much.”

America looks at her skeptically. “I said ‘rizz’ the other day, and you just looked at me like…” She schools her face into a blank expression, blinking a few times.

“That’s not even Gen Z!” Wanda defends. “That’s more like Gen Alpha.”

“You’re splitting hairs.” America waves her off. “Which is a 17th-century idiom Mama just taught me. Essentially Gen…well, whatever the generation she’s part of is called…lingo.”

“Uh-huh.” Wanda rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure that’s 17th century — I heard it growing up,” she points out. “Which was not in the 17th century,” she adds before America can make a dig.

“But that’s when it originated,” America explains. “It’s just had great staying power. Maybe people will still be using 'tiny Timon' in, like, 2300. That would be cool.”

“Maybe. That’s a long way off, though.”

“It’s only one of Mama’s current lifetimes. I’m telling her you indirectly called her old,” she threatens with a smirk.

Wanda scoff-laughs, slapping her arm again. “Don’t you dare.”

“What’s my incentive to refrain?” America asks, raising a brow. “Because this is pretty good blackmail material.” The art of negotiation. Agatha hadn’t technically taught her in class, but she’d definitely still learned it from her.

Wanda raises a brow of her own, playing ball. “We’ll talk about another piercing. I know there’s a bunch you want.”

America narrows her eyes, considering. “Deal,” she agrees, sticking out her pinky. Wanda locks it with her own, sealing the swear.

Yelena laughs. “Pinky promise. Classic. Used to do same thing with my sister.”

Wanda glances over at her with a small smile. There’s clearly something on her mind — something she’s holding back.

America may be clueless at reading the room, but Yelena is a master of it. She notices Wanda’s trepidation right away. Wanda’s body language — her hesitation — made it obvious to her. Her training made it impossible not to notice certain things, after all. “What?” she gently pries. “Something you are not saying?”

“Nothing.” Wanda shakes her head, a little embarrassed at being caught. “It’s just…Natasha used to talk about you all the time. Tell me little things like that.”

Yelena’s eyes grow wide with surprise and curiosity — an uncharacteristic tenderness taking over. “She did?” she asks softly. “I didn’t…I didn’t know that. What kind of things did she say?”

“She told me about a lot of things. Your whistle, your mac and cheese, playing outside as a child with you. All she wanted was to know that you were okay.”

Yelena’s mouth curves into a small smile at that — a tinge of sadness to it but less than there used to be. The wound had begun to heal. “She mention how I always kicked her ass at backbend contests?”

“No, but she did mention she could run faster than you,” Wanda teases.

“Oh, so she lied to you? That suka.” Yelena’s grin widens despite the harsh language. “She was slower than snail. I was fast as cheetah. You do math.”

“Mm…” Wanda hums doubtfully, egging her on. “I don’t know. I’ve seen her run — she had some speed.”

“Will sprint around restaurant right now,” Yelena says, deadly serious as she begins to stand. “Time me.”

Melina raises a brow at her. “Don’t be impolite.”

“But—” Yelena begins to argue before seeing her expression, sulkily sinking back down in her seat. “Fine,” she reluctantly says. 

“Ha ha,” America says under her breath before Yelena kicks her under the table. “Ow.”

Luckily, the waiter comes to take their orders, interrupting the petty argument going on between them before it can escalate. 

“What should we bring back for Mama?” America asks Wanda as the other side of the table puts their choices in.

“Something we already know she likes — nothing too adventurous. Comfort food, maybe,” Wanda suggests.

“Beef stew?” America asks. Agatha had made them vegetable soup the first time they’d ever had lunch together — and many times after that. It seemed close enough. Plus, it was a special. “It's the soup of the day. That woman loves a soup of the day.”

“Sure.” Wanda gives her an encouraging smile. “That sounds like something she’d enjoy.”

“Perfect.” She nods decisively. “And one of the to-go mimosas? I feel like she could use a drink. Because of last night. And tonight. All the nights, really."

“Mm…maybe not.” Wanda shakes her head. “Drinking to cope isn’t great.”

“It’s not great, but it seems effective," America counters.

“Certainly can be,” Yelena chimes in. It's her turn to be kicked under the table now, Sersi doing the honors. “Ow.”

“I’ll just get her freshly squeezed orange juice sans champagne,” America relents, not looking for an argument. After last night, she was argued out. “What are you getting?”

“The spicy chicken sandwich. And because it’s Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of treating myself to a margarita.”

“Incorrect,” America says. “Because it’s Mother’s Day, I’m treating you to both.”

“Oh?”

“Yup,” she says proudly. “I’ve been saving my allowance for the occasion. Well, and for my tattoo. But I want to do something nice for you and Mama, and since that’s still a few years away, I think I’ll have ample time to replenish the fund before then.”

“That’s very sweet of you.” Wanda wraps an arm around her, pulling her in tight and kissing her forehead. “Thank you — I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, mouth curving into a small smile. Usually, she’d blush and tell her she was so embarrassing for being affectionate in public like this, but since it is Mother’s Day, she holds back just this once. 

Once they’ve all put in their orders and made some more small talk, Wanda slides out of the booth to use the restroom. America bites her lip, swirling her iced coffee around with her straw. There’s been something brewing in her mind since the brunch started, and now is the perfect opening. The only problem is that she’s a little nervous to use it. 

“Can I ask you a question?” she forces herself to say to Melina before she can lose her nerve. “It’s kind of personal, so you don’t have to answer.”

Melina slowly nods. “You may.”

“Is Mother’s Day…hard for you? Because of Natasha?” she asks softly. “I only ask because Mom lost two of her kids,” she clarifies, glancing toward the bathroom. “And she’s good at hiding it, but I think today is probably kind of hard for her. And I want to try and make it less hard if I can.”

Melina takes a deep breath, a wave of emotions she’s clearly been trying to avoid hitting her. After a moment, she nods a little. “It is hard. For a long time, I was unable to celebrate with her, and then when I finally could, she died. Wanda is not me, so I do not know what she needs, but…it makes it easier when I’m able to be with my Lena. When I am not alone.” Yelena places a comforting hand on hers atop the table.

“Okay.” America nods, taking this in. “I can do that. And all that time you weren’t able to celebrate with them…I guess, was it hard when you finally were able to again? Because Mama is dealing with that right now — a kid back in her life. So if you have any advice for how to be, like, supportive in that way…”

Melina hums a little, considering. “It was for many reasons that I’m sure do not apply to Agatha. But I would guess if someone is back in her life, there’s probably guilt for why they were not there for a period of time.”

“Yeah, she mentioned guilt. And, like, her feelings are valid, obviously, but I really don’t think has any reason to feel guilty.”

“I think it’s a mother thing,” Melina explains. “We only want what is best for our children, and when that does not happen, we may blame ourselves for many reasons.”

“I guess that makes sense, even if I wish she didn’t,” America says, frowning a little.

Melina nods. “It is a sad but sometimes true fact.”

“Thanks for the advice, and sorry to bring the mood down — I just…don’t always know what to do when it comes to this stuff. Or who to ask. Google can only help so much.”

Melina shrugs. “Life cannot be happy all the time.”

“That’s true. Most of the time, though, hopefully. Like a 70/30 situation. Even 60/40,” America says, latching onto optimism.

“Maybe so,” Melina says, her smile tinged with sadness.

Melina’s not quite convinced, that much is clear. She’s like Agatha and Wanda and, to a lesser extent, herself that way: always waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Fortunately, the rest of the brunch falls into the happy category. 

She just hopes the dinner with Nick continues the trend.

Chapter Text

America follows Wanda into her and Agatha’s room, to-go bowl of beef stew in tow. It’s good, she supposes, that Agatha’s asleep. That’s what she stayed here to do, after all. But she’s not a particularly heavy sleeper like Wanda, so the fact she’s still dozing upon the noise of their return is…strange. 

“Should we wake her up?” America whispers to Wanda, chewing on her thumbnail. “She should probably eat, right?” 

She glances at the trashcan in the corner of the room, a concerning amount of tiny alcohol bottles stuffed under some tissues. Drinking to cope isn’t great, Wanda’s words from the restaurant echo in her mind. It seemed Agatha either didn’t agree or care about that fact, having done it anyway. Now that the damage was done, all they could do was deal with the aftermath. America’s no alcohol expert — she’d only had sips of champagne with permission a few times and some vodka without permission once and, considering the amount of trouble the latter got her in, she was not planning on having more anytime soon — but she does know food was supposed to help when you’ve had too much. Was supposed to soak some of it up.

Wanda sighs. “Yeah. Give her a couple more minutes — I’ll grab her some Advil.”

“I think I took the last two this morning.” America cringes.

“The shop in the lobby should sell some. I’ll be right back,” Wanda says before disappearing out the door again.

“Okay,” America agrees with a nod, hovering in the entryway for a second. It’s disconcerting seeing Agatha…fragile like this. Almost like in Salem. And this time, it was worse because she was partially to blame for the state. Agatha had forgiven her, but forgiving herself…that was another story entirely. 

She hesitates on whether she should go over to her — whether Agatha would want her offering any kind of comfort right now — but then she thinks of Melina’s words. How everything is easier when Yelena is there. She takes a deep breath before slowly walking over to the bed and climbing in as quietly as possible. Agatha’s hair is wild, tangled from restless sleep, no doubt, and she starts unknotting a few strands as gently as possible.

Her fingers freeze when Agatha starts to shift, grumbling something unintelligible. “Sorry,” America whispers, a guilty blush rising in her cheeks as she pulls her hands away.

Agatha rolls over to face her, it clearly taking a moment for her to register where she is and who’s with her. “It’s okay.”

America blinks at her, eyes wide and concerned. “But you’re not,” she says softly, biting her lip.

Agatha presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, giving them a harsh rub to try and wake herself up. “What do you mean?” she asks, voice thick and groggy — maybe still a little drunk.

“Okay,” she clarifies. “You’re not okay.”

At that, Agatha drops her hands in order to meet America’s eyes. “I’m okay,” she tries to reassure her.

“You’re lying,” she says, the space between her brows creasing into a worried line, tone a combination of firm and scared. “If you were okay, you wouldn’t feel like you had to cope like this. And you definitely wouldn’t resort to the mini bar even though you lecture me all the time about how everything in it is so expensive and overpriced and that you are ‘not paying $12 for a tiny can of Pringles so don’t even think about touching it,’” she says, making air quotes.

Agatha sighs. “I am struggling,” she admits. “I’m exhausted and overwhelmed, but I’ll figure it out.”

“We’ll figure it out. I’ll help you,” she promises. “I don’t know how, but…I will. Somehow. Because I need you,” she quietly adds.

Agatha wraps her arms around America, holding her tight. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that you wouldn’t go on purpose. I believe that now,” America says. And she does after their conversation this morning. “But, like…you don’t always get a choice. My moms didn’t. You met up with a mysterious stranger alone in the dark last night. And you did some stuff when we were gone.” Her eyes dart to the bottles in the trash again. “And I know you're smart, and I know you can take care of yourself, and I’m not judging you or shaming you or trying to be obnoxious, but…” She swallows hard. “I just don’t want you to not have a choice.”

Agatha takes a slow, deep breath, carefully considering her words. “I’ve been around awhile, which means I’ve plenty of time to make mistakes. On the flip side, it means I’ve had plenty of time to learn my limits, too — what I can handle. I understand why me doing these things could be scary for you, but try and trust me when I tell you that I want to stay. And I’ll try my best not to do anything else that might suggest otherwise.”

“Okay,” America says, relaxing a bit at the reassurance. “Okay, good.” That was all she could ask, at the end of the day, and it felt like the truth. “Are you hungry?”

“Mm, I guess.” Agatha gives her an ambivalent shrug. “What are you proposing?”

“Beef stew,” America says, stretching her arm — with great effort — to reach the plastic spoon and styrofoam container on the bedside table without having to leave Agatha’s embrace. “I paid for it with my own money. And with love. So it’s extra delicious, probably.”

A smile flits across her face at that. She gives America a kiss on the forehead and a squeeze of thanks. “I appreciate it. I’ll eat a little,” she decides, sitting up.

“Perfect.” She reaches over to retrieve the orange juice as well. “Because I was going to make you no matter what you said since you always make me.” She rolls her eyes, tracing patterns on the comforter as Agatha starts to eat. “Have you talked to Nick today?” she asks after a moment.

“I sent him a text. Told him I loved him and that I was excited to see him, introduce him to you and Wanda.”

“Okay.” She slowly nods. “Did he say anything back?”

Agatha sighs. “He said he was nervous. Worried about you both not liking him.”

“I’m sure I’ll like him. I mean, you said he was nice. And that he was similar to me. And, like, I’m pretty freaking cool, sooo…” she jokes with a little smirk, it falling quickly as she keeps fiddling with the blanket. Thinking about it. “You can tell him I’m nervous, too,” she says more quietly. “If you think knowing that would make him feel better. Less alone or whatever.”

Agatha gives her a small smile, stroking her hair with her free hand. “That’s very sweet. It might help. I think he just wants to make a good first impression.”

“Well, he shouldn’t worry too much. It’s not that hard to impress me. And it’s really not that hard to impress Mom. She was so proud when I learned to turn the light switch on and off with magic even though that’s, like, the easiest spell ever.”

Agatha breathes out a laugh despite the waves of anxiety radiating off her. “To you it was once hard, though. Wanda’s always going to be proud of you. You’re family.”

“So is Nick now,” America softly muses. “He’s family, too.”

“He is.” Agatha nods. “I hope he knows how loved he is.”

“He will,” she says, hoping her voice sounds confident. Hoping that’ll help make her feel more confident, too. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

They take it easy the rest of the afternoon, mostly lounging around the hotel and mapping out some prom and wedding dress shops for the next day. Before they know it, it’s time to go meet Nick for dinner. They choose an old-fashioned but well-reviewed deli with an extensive menu just a few short blocks from where they’re staying.

Agatha’s still nervous, that much is clear. Though in classic Agatha fashion, she’s valiantly trying to hide it, of course, keeping her arms wrapped around herself on the walk so as not to reveal her shaking hands. 

Nick is already there waiting for them, sitting at a table for four. It’s easy to spot him. He looks a bit like Agatha, after all, around the nose and lips. His hair is a slightly darker shade of brunette, though, his eyes brown and his jaw more squared.

But the mannerisms — that’s where it’s undeniable they’re related. He looks just as on edge as Agatha, his arms crossed protectively around his own chest, a faint worried line between his brows. His leg absentmindedly shakes under the table as he looks down at his menu, though it’s obvious he’s not really reading or retaining anything on it.

“Hey, Nick,” Agatha greets. Nick snaps his gaze up to face her, rising from his chair. Agatha doesn’t waste a second once he’s up, immediately wrapping him in a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Hey, Mom,” he says, hugging back. He can hear his heartbeat fast and loud in his ears — can feel hers racing, too. Like mother, like son. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Of course.” Agatha keeps holding him tight, almost with the same desperation as the night before. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Nick takes a couple of deep, calming breaths before somewhat reluctantly pulling away and turning his attention to the redhead next to her. He forces a smile to mask his anxiety, holding his hand out. “You must be Wanda. I’m Nicholas.”

She gives him a warm smile as she takes his hand. “I am. It’s really lovely to meet you.”

“You as well.” He nods. “It takes a really special person for my mom to want to settle down, so you must be the real deal.”

“This—” Wanda starts, placing a supportive hand on America’s back. “—is our daughter, America.”

“Hey,” he says, giving her an awkward wave. A handshake felt…weird with her. Overly formal.

“Hey,” she says, matching the action. 

“Nicholas.” 

“America.” 

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence — neither quite knowing what to say — before he decides to try something: humor. Vulnerability. Breaking the ice. “But you can call me Nick. He quiets his voice. “‘Nicholas’ is usually reserved for when I’m in trouble with my…” he stumbles, shaking his head. “…our…” he tries, but it ends up feeling a little strange, too. “For when I’m in trouble with Mom,” he settles on. 

America cracks a smile at that. “At least that’s only three syllables. I get ‘America Chavez-Maximoff-Harkness’d, which is…” She quickly counts on her fingers. “Eleven.” 

“Tough break.” He cracks a small smile, too.

Agatha breathes out a relieved laugh. “To be fair, Nick, she is the one who wanted to hyphenate her names like that.”

“That’s true, that’s true,” she admits. “I only have myself to blame.” She playfully sighs. 

“Any nicknames to be aware of?” Nick chuckles. 

“Mm…not really. Well, Star Girl. But that’s not, like, an all-the-time one. And only they really call me it.” She nods over toward Wanda and Agatha. 

“Fair enough.” Nick nods, putting his hands up — taking the hint. “That’s just for you three.”

“You can make one only you’re allowed to call me, though,” she says, not wanting him to feel left out. “If you want to,” she quickly adds — also not wanting him to feel pressure. “And if it’s good,” she teases. 

“That’s very kind.” He lets out a small laugh. “What about…A?” 

America makes the so-so motion with her hand. “Eh…” 

“You’re right — too basic.”

“And Pretty Little Liars.”

“Star? Without the Girl?” he proposes, which makes her scrunch her nose. “Yeah, not distinct enough,” he agrees. “We can do better.” He taps his pointer to his chin, considering. “Mer?” he suggests.

“Like a horse?” America asks, her tone unreadable.

Nick shrugs. “Or that show — Mare of Easttown.”

“Oh, yeah.” America nods. “Kate Winslet was so hot in that.”

“A MILF,” Agatha adds, extremely proud she remembered that acronym.

“Mama, ew,” America whines, extremely horrified it’s one her brain decided to retain.

“Seriously, Mom — gross,” Nick agrees before turning back to America. “I can keep brainstorming if—”

“No.” America shakes her head. “I think I like it. ‘Mer,’” she says as if trying it on a final time before grinning. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“I think so, too,” Agatha agrees, giving America a reassuring smile before turning her attention back to Nick, giving him a once-over. “Have you eaten today?”

“Have you?” he deflects. 

“Yeah,” America answers on her behalf. “I made her.”

Agatha gives an affirmative nod before cocking a prompting brow. “Now. Have you?”

Nick winces, rubbing the back of his neck and averting his gaze to the floor — a ‘no’ without having to actually say it.

Agatha reaches out to take his free hand, guiding him to sit back down at the table. She takes the seat next to him, with Wanda and America going around to the other side. “It’s okay, hon — I’m not upset,” Agatha quietly promises. “Just make sure you eat a lot of your dinner,” she says, her words — her actions — making him feel very much like a child. It was rather embarrassing, really.

“It’s not that I can’t afford food,” he quickly assures her — locking eyes with Wanda and America to tell them, too. It was a pride thing. And so they didn’t get the wrong idea about his sudden reappearance in Agatha’s life. “I don’t need money. I mean, I’m not going to ask for money. That’s not why I called. Texted, technically. I—”

“Shh,” Agatha cuts him off, thumbing soothing circles on the back of his hand. “I know. I believe you.” His stomach had always been like that — twisting itself into knots whenever he was afraid of something. And he’d been afraid since he’d met up with her last night. Been afraid long before that, if he was being honest with himself. Ever since there was no drugs or alcohol to numb it, to make him forget just how scared he was.

“Yeah,” America agrees with an encouraging nod. “We all get it. Honestly, it’s sort of a relief knowing she’ll have someone else around to nag about it." She nods toward Agatha. "Maybe leave me alone every once in a while.” She playfully rolls her eyes.

Agatha scoffs, reaching across the table to bop her with her menu. “Food is important, and you’d forget — you get so focused sometimes.”

“Sometimes. Other times I can’t focus on literally anything at all. We’re thinking maybe it’s an ADHD situation,” she explains to Nick, fidgeting a little. She wanted to be open with him, and she wanted to get better at talking about it, but she still felt…weird. Like some kind of fraud who just didn’t try hard enough. 

Nick shrugs, giving her a smile. “Nothing wrong with that.” 

“Thanks. Yeah. And, like, nothing wrong with your stuff either,” she adds, trying to be supportive. 

It has the opposite effect, though, causing him to deflate a bit. “Oh, you know about—” He shakes his head. “Right. Of course you would.”

Agatha gives his hand a comforting squeeze. “I’ve also told her stories from raising you.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, breathing out a small laugh. “Which ones?”

“Well, I told her how you used to insist Señor Scratchy sleep in your bed with you because he’s a good cuddler. How you were a very picky eater and sometimes a little too blunt with other kids but how that bluntness also got you some cool friends.”

“He is a great cuddler, I wasn’t that picky, and they were cool — although maybe not always the best influences,” he admits, opening his menu.

“You were picky,” Agatha insists. “Not about dessert, though. You always had such a sweet tooth. I remember making cakes together for your birthday every year.”

“I did like baking with you — something those ‘cool’ friends made fun of me for. That is, until they tried the cake and discovered how good it was. Shut them up really fast,” he says with another, more genuine laugh. “We’d do the craziest flavors. Mint chocolate, key lime, Pop Rocks.” 

“Pop Rocks?” America asks, raising her brows. 

“Green apple.” Nick nods. “I was obsessed with green, clearly.”

“You were,” Agatha confirms. “I remember you used to have this forest green shirt you wore until there were holes in it.”

“That was a great shirt,” he muses. 

“I’m more of a blue girly,” America says. “But I like to bake, too. Maybe we could try and make their wedding cake together?” 

“It’s been years since I’ve baked anything — might be a little rusty. But I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. When’s the wedding?"

“October,” Agatha says. “We both wanted a ceremony somewhere in nature and thought the autumn leaves would be nice.”

“Still like six months away. Plenty of time to perfect our recipe,” America reassures him. 

“And I'll need every one of them to process the fact that you're getting married.” He shakes his head, giving Agatha a smile. “I can still hardly believe it. How’d you finally pop the question?”

Wanda cuts in before Agatha can speak. “I was the one who asked actually. She was too nervous,” she teases, nudging Agatha with a wink.

“Really?” He blinks. “My fearless, control freak mother? I’m going to need another six months to process that. You must be even more special than I thought.”

“Well, your mother is intimidated by women she’s in love with, so not totally fearless,” Wanda laughs, giving Agatha a kiss on the cheek. She is, to the untrained eye, completely unamused. To the trained eye, however, she is madly in love.

“Total simp,” America attests with a smirk.

Agatha raises a brow at her. “You’re one to talk.”

America rolls her eyes. “Don’t listen to her, Nick. She’s way worse than me.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says with a playful smile. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll see it soon. Her name’s Kamala — she’s perfect and she’s taking me to prom. What about you, huh?” she asks, turning the tables on him. “Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Special friend of any kind?” 

Nick laughs. “I barely have any regular friends at the moment. Consequences of getting sober while meeting most of them in the party scene.” He shrugs, his smile turning bittersweet.

“Which I’m proud of you for,” Agatha reiterates, pointedly meeting Nick’s gaze.

“I know, Mom,” he says, bashful at the praise. “I know.” 

“Are you trying to stay in New York?” America asks. 

“I’m not sure.” He shrugs. “Somewhere close to it, maybe. But a fresh start would be nice,” he admits, looking out the window. “Lot of memories here. Temptations.”

The table goes silent for a moment, Wanda and Agatha having one of those conversations with just their eyes before Agatha takes a deep breath and speaks up. “I live in New Jersey. You could stay at home for a bit if you wanted.”

Nick blinks, caught off guard by the offer. Just yesterday, he was convinced she would never forgive him, much less this. “That’s so generous, but I—” He shakes his head, glancing at Wanda and America. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to impose on you all like that.”

“I’m offering, so it’s not an imposition,” Agatha promises. “Plus, with magic, our housing situation is all over the place.”

“Yeah, Mom and I spend a lot of time in our cabin in Russia anyway. Westview is mostly for school and when I’m hanging out with Kamala since she lives in New Jersey, too,” America agrees. “Plus, I want to spend time with you. Get to know my big brother.”

Nick can’t help but get a little choked up at that. Big brother. “Well,” he says, trying to clear the emotion from his throat. “How could I say no to my little sister?”

Agatha smiles at both of them. “Excellent. I can’t wait to have you, Nick.”

“Me neither,” America says with an eager grin. “We’re gonna have so much fun. I’ll show you the spells Mama’s taught me. And my room. Oh! And maybe we can even paint yours green! Can we, Mama?”

“Of course.” Agatha nods. “It will be wonderful. I’m sure Señor Scratchy will take up sleeping with you again.”

“I hope so.” Nick laughs. “He’s still the best cuddler I’ve ever met.“ 

“Okay, well once you’re settled, we’re gonna work on finding you someone just as good if not better. A real human person,” America vows. “Like, I love Carla, but it hits totally different with Kamala.”

“Uh-huh. And you said you weren’t a simp,” Wanda teases.

“I’m the exact right amount of simp,” she justifies. “I mean, she promised to give me the best prom night ever. That deserves some level of simp. But I promise not to be super gross with her when you’re around,” she tells Nick.

“That would be great. It’ll all be great,” Nick agrees with a tiny grin of his own, though it seems to America that he’s trying to convince himself. 

She understands — adjusting to family life again after so long alone could be challenging. 

She’d just have to make extra sure he felt welcome.

Chapter Text

The next couple weeks pass by in a busy blur of helping move Nick in, making sure to give Carla extra attention since Stan is new in the house, and America finally having her first therapy session. 

All these things have been good. She and Nick have bonded fast, indeed painting his room a dark green, having movie nights, and bribing him to drive her to get ice cream late at night, scream-singing to music all the while. Carla, Stan, and Señor Scratchy seem to have taken to each other just as well. And therapy is…exhausting, even if it admittedly is probably helping with everything. 

But it’s still been a lot. And dancing her brains out with the best prom date around (even if Kamala told her parents they were just going as friends, not yet ready to come out despite Agatha promising she’d be by her side whenever she was ready) seemed like the perfect way to blow off steam. She was in desperate need of a good night.

“Ready to see the final product?” she calls from the downstairs bathroom of the Westview house, prom dress on, hair and makeup done to perfection.

“I am!” Nick confirms from his place on the living room couch next to Wanda and Agatha, Señor Scratchy on his lap.

Agatha glances at him with a smile. “He’s been attached at the hip to you,” she muses, nodding to the rabbit.

Nick shrugs, smiling and petting Señor Scratchy’s head. “We’ve had a lot to catch up on, too.” 

America theatrically opens the door and struts into the living room, showing off her dress — it’s blue, of course, but more fitted and a darker shade than the one for her quinceañera. More mature. “How do I look?” 

Nick nods approvingly. “Like a very sparkly ink pen.” 

“Ink pen?” America scowls. “Oh, whatever — what do you know anyway?” she asks, punching his arm.

“Ow.” He rubs the wounded area. “Mom, did you see what she just did?”

Agatha lets out a laugh. “Behave, children,” she playfully chastises, kissing Nick’s forehead before she gets up to face America, taking her hands. “You look beautiful, dear.”

“Thank you,” she says, a little sheepish. “I promise I’ll return the favor and help you find the perfect wedding attire eventually,” she vows to both her and Wanda. They’d hit the jackpot on prom dresses but hadn’t had much luck in that department in New York. “And thanks for letting me borrow shoes again.” She lifts one of her feet, showing off a low heel she’d gotten from Agatha’s closet. It’d become a tradition at this point.

“Of course. I want you to feel gorgeous — this is a special night. Can I get a hug?”

“Obvi.” She rolls her eyes, though her smile grows even bigger. “Just watch the hair. It took Mom and me forever,” she says, wrapping her arms around her. “And also, there’s a lot of hairspray in it, so you might die from all its toxic fumes.”

Agatha breathes out a laugh, giving her a tight squeeze. “Well, it looks lovely. I’m so happy for you.”

“I just hope Kamala’s parents like me,” America says softly, nervousness creeping up as she remembers she has one last hurdle before she gets to have the best night of her life — meeting the Khans for the first time. “Or at least don’t totally hate me. Even if they think we’re just friends.”

“I’m sure they will. You’re very likable,” Wanda reassures her.

“You have to say that. You’re my mom,” America points out. “What if they, like…don’t think I’m good enough to hang out with their daughter?” Her voice grows quieter — almost inaudible. “What if they realize I’m not good enough?”

“America.” Agatha pulls back just enough to look her in the eye, her hands on her arms. “You are more than good enough."

"You’re wonderful," Wanda adds. "The greatest kid anyone could ask for.”

“If you say so,” she mumbles, still not entirely convinced. She shakes her head — she couldn’t let these thoughts take over right now. It’d throw her off her game before a very important moment, and she couldn’t afford that. “Even if they think I’m the worst person Kamala could possibly choose to take, at least they won’t be able to deny I’m slaying,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. 

“That’s the spirit,” Nick chimes in.

Wanda stands up to embrace her. “It’ll go great.”

“Fingers crossed,” America says, hugging back tight.  She takes a deep breath before stepping back, looking at both of her moms. “Any last words of advice before I portal to her house?”

“Well, I’m portaling with you, so just relax,” Agatha says.

America gives her a look. “Mama. I love you, but I’m old enough to portal myself. And more than capable, thanks to all your training.”

“I know, but I want to meet her parents.”

“You’ve already met her dad. At the bank. Remember?” she reminds her, though it doesn’t seem to change Agatha’s mind. She sighs. “Once she tells them we’re dating, we’ll do a whole formal meet-the-parents dinner thing with you and Mom, but I want this to be as quick and chill as possible.”

“I understand, but it’s important that one of us meet them in this capacity.”

“I’ll text you the pics,” America promises, lip jutting into a little pout.

“I’ll keep it brief.”

“You know she’s not gonna budge, Mer,” Nick whispers — a brotherly word of advice. 

“Ugh. Okay,” America relents. “Fine. As long as it’s short and sweet. See you later, Nick and Mom and Señor Scratchy and Carla and Stan,” she says before catching her breath. “Wow, this house is full now,” she observes — but her voice makes it clear it’s a happy observation; she likes being surrounded by them all — before punching a hole to Kamala’s house, nervous jitters returning tenfold.

“Kamala? When’s your friend getting here?” Yusuf calls up the stairs as he paces the living room, clearly anxious about his little girl going off to prom.

“Any minute now, Abbu!” Kamala calls back, swiping on the last little bit of lipstick in her room: purple to match her dress. And her eyeshadow. And her shoes. She'd gone all out on the color. 

“She’s late.” Muneeba shakes her head from her place on the couch, clicking her tongue as she glances at the clock: 6:33 when they’d agreed on 6:30.

Yusuf glances over at his wife. “Oh, it’s prom night — I’m sure she’s getting ready with her parents. Give her a minute.”

“I have given her three.” Muneeba shrugs. “You know how I feel about punctuality.” 

Yusuf sighs. “I know, but it’s a big night for the kids. Cut them some slack.”

America gives Agatha a panicked look from the other side of the door, overhearing the tail end of their conversation. “Oh god — her mom already hates me,” she whispers. “Please let me do a spell to turn the clock back three minutes,” she begs, folding her hands. “How much could really go wrong by rewinding three tiny little minutes?”

“America, take a deep breath,” Agatha orders, ignoring her pleas. “It’s okay.”

She gives Agatha a skeptical look, but she has to admit, she is sort of glad she insisted on coming. Relieved she didn’t have to do this alone. She does as Agatha suggests, taking a deep breath and knocking on the door. 

“I’ll get it!” Kamala yells, sprinting down the stairs. 

“No—" Muneeba starts before giving up, seeing she’s already at the door and swinging it open. “—running.” She sighs.

America’s anxiety doesn’t melt away exactly, but it definitely fades into the background when she sees Kamala. Everything does. “Hi,” she manages to stutter out. 

“Hi,” Kamala responds. 

“You look…” Gorgeous. Beautiful. Like I love you. America shakes her head — she couldn’t say any of that. Not in front of Kamala’s parents. They were friends. Just friends. Nothing more right now. “Cute,” she says instead. “Really cute. I love that color on you. And, like, on anyone, I’m sure. It’s just…it’s a really good color,” she rambles.

“I have to agree,” Agatha says with a wink. It was a deep purple — her signature shade — after all.

Kamala’s mouth twitches into an amused grin. “Thanks, Ms. Harkness. And thanks, America. I really like that color on you, too,” she says — as if it’s a code for everything she wants to say as well.

Yusuf peers around Kamala’s shoulder, looking at America with a warm smile. “Hello! You must be this America our Kamala talks about. It’s good to finally meet you.” 

America snaps out of her daze, reluctantly taking her eyes off Kamala to look at Yusuf. She gives him a smile and a reverent nod. “Nice to meet you, sir.” 

He looks at Agatha. “And you must be her mother.” 

“Yes. Agatha.” She nods, shaking his hand. “Her other mother is at home. Pleasure to meet you.”

Muneeba rises from the couch, making her way to the door. “And I’m Muneeba. Kamala’s only mother,” she says, her tone hard to read. Whether she means it as a dig or a joke or just plain fact is unclear. 

Regardless, Kamala shoots her a mortified look. “Ammi, please…” 

“What?” Muneeba asks. “I am. It’s nice to meet you both.”

Agatha gives her a smile — one that’s on the chillier side thanks to her reaction to America having two moms. “It’s good to meet you. Kamala is a joy.”

“She is,” Muneeba agrees with a reserved smile of her own. “Though she can be a handful. And a forgetful one at that. Why didn’t you tell me America’s mother was coming, beta?” She tsks at Kamala. “I would have prepared for more company. Put the kettle on. Made it a proper introduction. You must think us terrible hosts,” she tells Agatha.

Agatha waves her off. “Not at all. I just wanted to drop by and introduce myself.”

“You actually might have already met her and just not known it, Abbu,” Kamala tells her father. “She goes to the bank you work at.”

“Huh.” He tilts his head. “Now that you mention it, I do think I remember you telling off a customer for being rude to one of our tellers.”

“You fought someone at the bank?” America asks, eyebrows lifting in surprise — and amusement. 

“That’s so cool of you,” Kamala says, mesmerized. Her own mother might have been rebellious back when she was young, but Agatha was still sticking it to the man as an adult. That was awesome.

Agatha shrugs. “All I did was tell him that the employees were doing their best so he had no reason to be an asshole.”

“Hopefully not in those exact words,” Muneeba says, frowning in disapproval at the choice of language.

Agatha raises a brow at her. “There’s nothing wrong with my choice of words. I’m an adult, and I don't curse people out unless they deserve it.”

“I don’t ever think there’s a need for swearing,” Muneeba says, smoothing out her blouse. “I try to instill in my children that there are always other, more eloquent ways to express yourself.”

“To me, eloquence means expressing yourself as precisely as possible using the proper terminology for the occasion. Believe me — the situation called for it.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one,” Muneeba says with a forced smile. “But I would prefer that kind of language not be used in my household or by my children. Surely you can understand and respect that?” 

“Ammi. Please,” Kamala repeats.

Agatha gives her a tight smile back, saying nothing. After a moment, she turns to look at America. “Have fun. Be safe. Text if you need anything. I love you.”

“I will. I will. I will,” America says, agreeing to each individual point. “And I love you, too.” 

“Nice to see you again,” Kamala says, giving her an apologetic smile. “And sorry,” she mouths.

Agatha shakes her head with a subtle wink before conjuring a cloud of purple light and disappearing behind it.

Muneeba blinks — mostly unfazed by the magic stuff considering Kamala’s own abilities. “The two of you should probably get going soon. But should we take some photos first? So you can send them to your…moms?” she stumbles slightly over the plurality of the word. 

“And my big brother, yeah.” America nods. 

“Oh, you have an older brother? So does Kamala. His name’s Aamir.” 

“She’s told me about him. Nick is sort of a new addition. He and Mama — Agatha, the one you just met — reconnected recently,” America explains.

 “I’m assuming she and his father got divorced, then?” Muneeba asks, getting the camera on her phone ready as Kamala and America pose together. 

“Mm, no — Mama was never actually married to his dad.” 

“I see. And why were she and Nick estranged?” 

“You don’t have to say. Not if it’s private,” Kamala mumbles at her mother’s prying. 

“No, it’s okay — it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” America squares her shoulders. “Nick had some trouble with addiction and stuff, but he’s clean and sober now. And he’s doing really well.”

Muneeba purses her lips into a thin line, taking in — and not loving — any of this information. “Well, Mashallah,” she says, snapping the picture.

“Your nails are cool,” Kamala tells America after the photos are done, taking her hand in her own to examine the fresh blue polish more closely — something that sends an excited little tingle up America’s body and makes her head grow cloudy. 

She's distracted, which is probably why she says what she does next. 

“Thanks — my moms took me to get them done yesterday. Figured the chipped black I’ve had since we started dating wasn’t going to cut it for this occasion,” she says with a laugh. 

She’s the only one who does, the air seeming to be sucked out of the eerily quiet room. 

“Dating?” Muneeba’s voice breaks the silence. 

America feels like she’s going to throw up, desperately wishing for that rewind spell now more than ever. She can feel Kamala’s hand go clammy in the seconds before she lets go. 

“I can explain,” Kamala promises. 

“Yes.” Muneeba crosses her arms. “I think you’d better.”

“What’s going on, beta?” Yusuf asks gently — his voice much calmer than his wife’s.

Kamala takes a deep breath, looking between her parents. “I’m bisexual,” she admits, taking America’s hand again — for strength and solidarity. “America is my girlfriend.” 

“How long?” Muneeba asks. Kamala swallows hard, earning a hand squeeze from America. “How long, Kamala?” she repeats after a few moments. 

“A couple of months,” Kamala quietly confesses. “I wanted to tell you! I was going to tell you. I was just waiting for the right time and—" 

“Did that woman know?” Muneeba cuts her off. 

“What?” 

“That Agatha woman?” Muneeba clarifies. “Did she know? Did you tell her before your own parents?” 

“Yes.” Kamala winces. “But it’s more complicated than that!” 

“Unbelievable.” Muneeba shakes her head.

Yusuf puts a soothing hand on his wife’s arm. “It’s not our choice when someone wants to come out, meri jaan. Agatha is gay, so it was probably easier.” He looks at Kamala. “Thank you for telling us, beta.” 

Kamala gives her father a soft smile, thankful for the support — grateful she at least has one parent on her side. 

“I don’t care that you’re bisexual,” Muneeba clarifies. “I care that you lied to me. If I had known you were more than friends, I never would have allowed you to go over to her house and do Allah knows what unsupervised.” 

“We were never unsupervised,” America cuts in. “My moms were always home.” 

“Well, you might as well have been unsupervised. They’re obviously completely irresponsible.” Muneeba scoffs. 

“No, they’re not,” America replies, it getting harder and harder to stay calm. “You don’t know them. At all. You’re sitting here judging them, but at least I feel like I can talk to them. At least they didn’t make me feel like shit when I told them I was gay.” 

“Again, with this language.” Muneeba clicks her tongue. 

Kamala squeezes America’s hand again, though it’s more a warning this time. “America, don’t.”

“I don’t think they’re irresponsible — they seem kind,” Yusuf says, attempting to play peacemaker. “Maybe we need to take a step back for a second,” he suggests to his wife.

“I will gladly step back — far back — from them and our disrespectful daughter,” Muneeba says stubbornly, turning to walk up the stairs. 

“Wait,” Kamala pleads. Muneeba does, turning to face her. “Can I still go to the dance?” she asks meekly. 

“You can do whatever you want, Kamala,” she says coldly. “It seems that’s what you’ve been doing for the past couple of months anyway.” She walks up the rest of the staircase without a second glance.

Yusuf sighs, looking at his daughter and her friend. No, her girlfriend — that was going to take some getting used to. “She just needs time to cool down. Go have fun,” he encourages. “It’s nice to meet you, America.” He gives her a smile.

“You too,” America says, forcing one back. 

They get halfway down the driveway before Kamala turns to her, guilt and anxiety clear on her face. 

“I know what my dad said, but I think I should probably stay,” she says. “Try to fix things.” 

“Seriously?” America asks, feeling her heart sink. Her whole body deflate. “But we both got ready. You bought tickets. We’ve been talking about this forever.” 

“I know, I just…I think if I go, it’s going to be worse with my mom in the long run.” 

“Okay…” America bites her lip, racking her brain for solutions. “Do you want me to call Mama? See if she can try and talk to her? Smooth things over?” 

“I really don’t think that would help — they didn’t exactly hit it off.”  

“Right,” America admits, toeing the ground with her shoe. 

“I know it sucks. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. Being outed wasn’t really part of my plan.” 

“I didn’t mean to out you,” America says defensively, a little wounded at the phrasing — on top of being furious with herself. “It was an honest mistake.” 

“I know,” Kamala assures her. Then, more quietly. “But…it still happened, you know?” 

America nods, throat getting choked up. She’s hurt her. Just like she hurt everyone she ever loved. 

“I’m sorry,” America whispers. 

“I’m sorry, too. I’ll text you later? You can portal home?” Kamala checks.  

“Yeah. Sure,” America says as Kamala goes back inside. 

America, in turn, walks further from the house, the uncharacteristically cold spring air hitting her skin. She wants to cry — she feels awful for putting Kamala in that position. Like the dumbest, worst person in the world. She wants to scream — she feels awful for Kamala doing this to her. Not picking her, putting her first. 

But crying and screaming won’t really fix anything. Will still make her feel like this. 

So instead, she texts Agatha the pictures so she won’t get suspicious. And then she texts Nick.  

MER ⭐ [6:53pm]: need weed hook me up 🍃

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [6:53pm]: ??? 

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [6:53pm]: Did you mean to type weed?

MER ⭐ [6:54pm]: yes. not a typo. srs. help out ur little sis. 🙏

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [6:54pm]: Aren’t you supposed to be at prom? What happened?  

MER ⭐ [6:54pm]: shit changes. can u get it for me or not? 

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [6:54pm]: I don’t think that’s such a good idea... 

MER ⭐ [6:54pm]: k. thx for nothing ig. 

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [6:56pm]: Are you OK? Should I tell mom…? 

MER ⭐ [6:56pm]: oh my god NO don’t b a narc. 🙄

MER ⭐ [6:59pm]: if u won’t help will find it myself btw. steal from a dispensary. risk getting caught. or maybe i’ll just buy it from a rando on the street. could b laced or dangerous or smth sooo ur choice.

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [7:04pm]: Fine. Will send you the address of a guy I trust from back in the day (in NYC so you’ll have to portal) and warn him you’re coming. He owes me, so he’ll give some to you no question. Only a LITTLE bit though. And you can’t tell Mom. She’d kill us both. 

MER ⭐ [7:04pm]: thx big bro 🙏

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [7:04pm]: Be CAREFUL, Mer.

MER ⭐ [7:05pm]: k mom 🙄 

BIG BRO NICO 💚 [7:05pm]: I’m serious… 

MER ⭐ [7:05pm]: ik 

She retrieves and indulges in the goods in record time, the high hitting her pretty immediately. It feels nice to walk aimlessly down the streets of New York.  

But not nice enough.  

Luckily, she stumbles upon a club, music blasting. Fine, she thinks. I’ll dance by myself. She didn’t spend all that time finding the perfect dress and doing her hair and makeup for no one to see her. 

She’s good at sneaking into places — always has been. She dips in easily, past the clueless security guard. She dances for a bit until the high starts to wear off. It was honestly pretty weak to begin with. 

She sees a sleazy-looking guy doing coke in the corner. Fuck it, she thinks, easily convincing him to let her try it. It burns her nose, makes her already fuzzy head even more staticky. Her brain can barely remember what she was so upset about.  

Everything fades away. She didn’t need stupid Kamala or stupid Kamala’s mom or stupid prom or anything else. She’d been alone for eight years. She could do it again for one night. 

And she’d have a damn good time doing it.

Chapter Text

America does have a good time for a while. Until she doesn’t. 

It changes in the blink of an eye. In a blur. 

Some things she expected to happen tonight: drinking bad punch out of a bowl. Sweaty teenagers screaming along to Dua Lipa. Her feet hurting from her heels. Sitting with Kamala on the gym bleachers at after prom. Walking into the living room, Wanda and Agatha waiting up for her on the couch, excited to hear all about it. 

Some things she didn’t expect: stealing sips from half-full cups people have left on the bar — beer and wine and mixed drinks and whatever she can get her hands on. A sweaty forty-something yelling at her for accidentally sipping from his when he was “just in the bathroom, you stupid bitch. What are you, 12? Get the fuck out of here.” Her fist hurting from punching him straight in the nose, hearing a crack, seeing blood. Sitting on a rusty metal chair in a dingy, fluorescent-lit office with a stern bar manager. (Darren, America’s pretty sure his name tag says. Or Dennis. There are definitely 'D's and 'N's.) Waiting for Wanda or Agatha to get off the couch and answer the phone so she could tell them they needed to come pick her up. 

The man wasn’t pressing charges, his toxic masculinity keeping him from admitting a 15-year-old girl broke his nose. The bar wasn’t either, legality keeping them from admitting they let a 15-year-old inside in the first place. She logically knows that she should be very grateful for both of these things, that she’s going to be in enough trouble with her parents without getting the law involved, but she can’t bring herself to care. Or even really process what any of it means. 

Her brain is scrambled, and despite the fact that everything about this night is turning out to be an absolute trainwreck, she feels invincible. Floating. Her heart beats loud in her head. The phone rings loud in the room. And she waits for one of her moms to answer.

It goes to voicemail the first time, which is just fine by her and not all that surprising. Her cell phone is dead, so she’s using the one in the office — an unknown number they’re probably assuming is spam. The fact America’s called the home phone instead of one of their own cells probably didn’t help matters either. America constantly clowns them for still insisting on even having a landline at all, but at this moment, she’s a little grateful for it. She’d rather play roulette about which one of them would answer than pick her own poison — each sure to be unpleasant in its own special way.

But while America doesn’t mind delaying the hellish inevitable, Darren/Dennis is getting impatient despite the fact that she promises she’s not playing him — is calling her parents’ real, right number. (At least she thinks she is. Her vision's a liiiittle blurry right now and her memory a liiiittle hazy, admittedly.) 

She’s getting ready to try dialing again when the office phone rings, caller ID confirming it was indeed someone in the Maximoff-Harkness household. “See?” she tells Darren/Dennis. “They’re calling back right now. So get off my ass, dude.” She picks up the phone. “Helloooo?” she answers.

The unlucky caller turns out to be Agatha, who winces — somehow clocking her inebriation in a single word. “America?”

“Hiiii, Mama,” she starts, not saying more until Darren/Dennis motions for her to get to the point. She scowls at him, rolling her eyes. “Soooo, you know when I played that prank on you? When I told you that you needed to come pick me up and then Mom was there to propose?”

“Mhm,” Agatha flatly confirms. “What’s going on? You’re drunk.”

“If you want to get technical, I’m cross-faded,” she corrects. “And this situation is kiiiiind of like that. But also not. I need you to come pick me up, buuuut it’s not a joke. Even though it is kinda funny.” She giggles.

Agatha sighs. America can practically see her pinching the bridge of her nose through the phone. “Where are you?” she asks, her voice that scary brand of calm that means she’s pissed.

“I dunno. Some bar in New York.” 

Darren/Dennis huffs, snatching the phone from her hand. “Jouvay Night Club in Queens," he tells her. "Look, can you get the fuck down here or what? She physically assaulted another patron, and I need her off the premises ASAP.”

Agatha’s voice hardens even more somehow. “I assure you, I am on my way. Now give the phone back to her,” she demands.

He huffs again, and America laughs, thinking about the Big Bad Wolf. “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll bloooow your house down,” she recites to herself. 

Darren/Dennis shoots confused daggers at her as he responds to Agatha. “Fine. Whatever. Just hurry — if the owner finds out about this, I’m gonna get my fucking ass handed to me,” he says before harshly thrusting the phone back in America’s direction.  

America fumbles with it — almost dropping it — before holding it to her ear again. “K cool see ya in a few byeeee,” she says, ending the call before Agatha can say anything back. Savoring the last few minutes of calm before the shitstorm.

Agatha portals in moments later, which nearly gives Darren/Dennis a heart attack. He jumps backward, hip hitting the table. “Whoa, what the fuck? Are you some kind of super-powered freak?” 

“We both are,” America says with a smirk, summoning fire in her palm. Definitely bigger than a small flame. 

Darren/Dennis squeals and retreats back further. “Stay the hell away from me.”

Agatha gives America a stern look. “Flame out. Now. Unless you want to be in more trouble than you already are.” 

“Ugh. You’re no fun,” America accuses, reluctantly putting out the flame.

Agatha glances at Darren/Dennis. “Actually, we’re witches — not animals who can’t control ourselves. Calm down," she retorts, rolling her eyes before opening a portal and firmly grabbing America’s arm.

“Peace out, Darren/Dennis!” America calls.

“It’s Danny!” he yells back.

“Whatevs!” she says as Agatha yanks her through to the living room, where Wanda’s waiting on the couch with her arms crossed.

Agatha points at the spot next to her. “Sit,” she orders.

“Way ahead of you.” America gives her a salute before flopping onto it. The room’s still spinning, but at least she doesn’t have to try and balance now — a next-to-impossible task at the moment.

Agatha sighs, impatiently reaching out to touch America’s forehead. America attempts to bat her hand away, but again, her reflexes aren’t stellar at the moment.  

They get better, though. Pretty damn fast. She feels a strange sensation — some kind of magic, no doubt — before sobering up. Everything comes back into sharper focus: her vision, the pain from a now-pounding headache, her emotions. She hates it all. “No fair," she huffs, annoyed. She'd worked hard for that carefree feeling, only for Agatha to wipe it away just like that.

“What the hell, America?” Agatha snaps. “What the hell was that? What happened to prom?” 

The reminder of what tonight could have been — should have been — hurts. She’s not ready to feel that hurt. So she picks anger instead. “We didn’t go to the stupid fucking prom. Obviously.” She crosses her arms.

“Excuse me?” Agatha raises her brows. “You will not speak to me like that.”

“America, please,” Wanda speaks up, her voice gentler than Agatha’s — more pleading.

For some reason, that frustrates America even more. “Please what? I don’t know why you guys are treating this like it’s some huge deal. It’s prom night. News flash: teens drink and do drugs on prom night. Watch any high school movie literally ever.”

“Enough with the attitude, young lady — you’re on thin ice as it is,” Agatha warns. “You need to calm down and tell us what’s happening."

“Mm…pass.”

“Fine.” Agatha shrugs. “Then you’re grounded. That means no phone, no friends, no magic.”

There’s no way in hell America’s getting into every horrible thing that happened tonight, so she pushes herself off the couch. “Fine. It’s not like I have anyone to text now anyway,” she says, dropping her phone on the abandoned cushion. There’s no way Kamala will ever want to talk to her again. There’s no way Kamala’s mom would let her even if she did. So who cared? Who cared about any of it? “How long?” she asks, raising a challenging brow at Agatha.

“Indefinitely,” she says plainly. “When you decide to talk about this in a reasonable manner.”

That answer feels like a bucket of ice-cold water being dumped over her head. Which is ironic because her blood is boiling with rage. “What?” Her jaw drops, incensed. “I didn’t do anything that you haven’t done. Hell, that most of the people in this house haven’t done.” She throws her hands up, gesturing to Nick’s bedroom up the stairs.

Agatha clenches her jaw. "Really? You think now is the time to be making digs like that?"

"Yes! Because this is so unfair."

"All we're asking is for you have a mature conversation about this," Wanda calmly reasons.

"Yes, and until then, this belongs to me—" Agatha picks up her phone, sliding it into her pocket. "—and you're not stepping one foot outside this house or doing one lick of magic," she says, substantially less calm.

“Whatever,” America huffs with another roll of her eyes, stomping up the stairs to her room — and almost running into Nick, who’s walking down. 

“Hey, Mer,” he greets. 

“Such bullshit,” she mumbles in response. 

“Oookay,” he says, eyes widening a little. The sound of a door slamming hard can be heard as Nick reaches the bottom. “What’s going on? I heard yelling.”

Wanda glances over at Agatha, who flops down on the couch and throws her head back — clearly exhausted from playing disciplinarian. It was far less tiring and more enjoyable to simply murder those who dared to go against her.

“She got crossed at a club in New York, and she didn’t go to prom for some reason,” Wanda explains. “She won’t tell us anything.”

“Oh.” Guilt rises in Nick’s chest. Guilt and fear. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to smoke a little weed, maybe sneak a beer — not…well, this. “Shit.” He takes a seat on the armchair, running a hand through his hair.

“What?” Wanda asks suspiciously.

“It’s my fault,” he quietly admits, hanging his head. “I fucked up. I fucked up bad.”

Agatha sighs, righting her head to look at him. “How?”

“I hooked her up with one of my old dealers,” he confesses, averting his gaze — unable to look either of them in the eye. “A guy I trust. Just for weed. I thought it’d be less dangerous, less risk.”

Agatha rubs her temples, trying to relieve her head of the migraine that suddenly appeared as soon as she answered the phone. “I can understand the logic,” she admits after a moment. “But I’m still frustrated as hell with you. You should have told us.”

“I know,” he admits, dropping his gaze to his lap, the room engulfed in silence for a few moments. He takes a deep breath. “Look, uh…I get it. If you don’t feel comfortable having me live here anymore? I’d understand. I mean, I’m barely even unpacked — I can be gone in a few hours. Less than, probably. I’m sure I could find another couch to crash on…” he trails off.

“No.” Agatha firmly shakes her head. “I don’t want you out. Not now. Not ever. Just do better next time, understood?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I promise.” He bites his lip, finally getting the courage to look up — make eye contact with Wanda. “You’re okay with me staying?” he checks. She barely knew him — had no kind of obligation to him. She'd be well within her rights to tell him to get the fuck out and never come back.

“I am.” Wanda nods. “I’m frustrated, too, but I’m not going to kick family out over a mistake — even a major one.”

“Thank you,” he says, voice soft but emphatic — he really means it. And Wanda calling him family? Well, it felt nice. He stands up from the couch, going to the kitchen to retrieve a large mixing bowl. “I’ll put it next to her bed,” he explains. “I have a feeling she might need it.”

Chapter Text

America very nearly does need the mixing bowl Nick leaves by her bed, waking up more nauseous than she's ever felt in her life. Agatha’s spell may have gotten rid of the fun effects, but it unfortunately didn’t seem to be staving off the negative ones. She’s hungover. Badly.  

She’s not exactly sure what time she runs to the bathroom — she doesn’t have an alarm clock in her room, and she doesn’t currently have her phone either — but the light gray pre-dawn sky she can see out the window tells her it’s early when she finds herself hunched over the toilet, vomiting out a disgusting combination of beer, vodka, tequila, and god knows what else.

She winces when, after a few moments, she hears a knock on the door. It’s a pretty soft sound, all things considered, but with the state of her pounding head, it might as well be a gunshot. “Nick, if it’s you, I’d go use the bathroom downstairs. I’m probably going to be in here awhile,” she croaks out.

“It’s me,” Wanda says, her voice so surprisingly gentle that it makes part of her want to open the door. To burst into tears. To spill everything. 

She had Strange and Wong, of course, but Wanda was the first person who ever really saw her — understood her and cared about her on a deeper level. The first person she really trusted to fully open up to. The first person she let herself call mom after she lost her first set of parents. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, the stubborn, scared, ashamed part of herself battling the vulnerable one. She lets herself do the first thing she’s tempted to, dragging herself across the floor to creak open the door.  

Wanda doesn’t say anything right away, simply taking in America’s pathetic state. America doesn’t say anything either. She doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say, really — not at this point. Her moms wanted the truth and probably an apology, and America wasn’t prepared for either of those things to leave her lips at the moment.

So instead, after a beat, she asks, “Did one of you rune the house so I couldn’t do magic? I had to change into my pajamas manually.” It was hard, too — the zipper on that dress was no joke. She didn’t even bother taking her makeup off. She must look like a mess.

“Agatha did. Can I come in?” Wanda asks softly.

“I guess,” she mumbles, scooting back so Wanda can step in, though she scowls at the admission — she’d been hoping maybe her powers had just glitched out on their own. “She was serious about the whole ‘grounded from magic’ thing? How am I supposed to go to magic school? Is she just gonna make me do all math all the time?”

The realization that this was indeed a real possibility — Agatha seemed pretty pissed, and upping the math was just about the worst punishment she could think of — has her turning and promptly vomiting into the toilet again. That, or it was the universe punishing her for being a brat. Either way, she’s puking and miserable.

Wanda kneels next to her, holding her hair out of her face. “You can do magic school once we’ve had a talk about this.”

“But I don’t want to have a talk about it,” she whines — though it’s more desperate than petulant. “It was so awful.”

“I know, but you have to,” Wanda says, rubbing her back. “That’s how you work through these situations. We can have compassion for you when we know what’s going on. Right now, we only know you broke several laws and did some very dangerous things.”

“Yeah, well that’s not even the worst of it,” she bitterly retorts, flushing the toilet before adjusting to sit against the bathtub. “I’d sneak into a million more clubs and do a million more drugs and punch a million more douchebags in the face if it meant I could take back the worst thing I did."

Wanda tilts her head. “What happened?”

America sighs, considering. She doesn't want to, but she's rapidly becoming too tired to fight. And rationally, she knows she's going to have to tell her eventually. She might as well rip the band-aid. And kill two birds with one stone while she was at it. “Can we at least wait to talk about it with Mama?” she quietly pleads. “I don’t even want to say it once — I definitely don’t want to have to say it twice.”

“We can do that.” Wanda nods. “It’s early, and your mother’s still asleep. Do you want to wash your face and lie back down for a bit? I’ll stay with you if you want,” she offers.

“Okay,” she agrees, pushing herself up from the floor with a wince and going to grab a washcloth. She wrinkles her brow. “Mama didn’t wake up at all? That’s not like her. She’s, like, the lightest sleeper ever.” Her voice gets softer, turning on the sink and wetting the rag. “I thought maybe she just didn’t want to deal with me.”

Wanda sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “No, I don’t think so. She’s just exhausted and frustrated — her body needs the rest.”

“Makes sense,” America says, beginning to wipe her face. She can remember exactly two occasions Agatha didn’t wake up at the slightest sound: in Salem, emotionally exhausted from the trauma of her mother, and more recently in New York, emotionally exhausted from having Nick back.  

And now this. Emotionally exhausted from…well, her bullshit. “Makes total sense,” she repeats, guilt blooming in her chest. She scrubs at her face more aggressively — hard, really — the smudged black of her mascara replaced with an angry pink.

“Take it easy,” Wanda cautions.

“No,” she says, going at it harder — the towel stinging her cheeks. “I have to fix it,” she insists, admittedly probably not just talking about the makeup anymore.

Wanda steps in then, taking hold of America’s hands to stop her. “One step at a time. Rubbing your face raw isn’t going to fix it.”

“It might,” she argues, trying unsuccessfully to pull her hands away. “If you won’t let me feel good like I did at the club, I’d rather hurt on the outside than the inside. Let go.”

“No.” Wanda shakes her head. “Hurting yourself is going to hurt more in the end. Let me take care of you,” she gently encourages.

“No, I can’t let you,” she says, voice cracking as she tries one last time to pull her hands away. But Wanda’s grasp stays firm, and the frustration and the guilt and the pain bubble over, sending the tears with them. She stops fighting and collapses against her, sobbing into her shoulder. “You can’t. I can’t.”

“Hey.” Wanda immediately wraps her arms around her, holding her tight. “Breathe, Star Girl. Nothing you do is going to make you not deserving of love and care.”

“Yes huh,” she argues. “Kamala doesn’t. Love me. Anymore. Or care. And she. Shouldn’t,” she blubbers, the words choppy as she practically hyperventilates in her arms.

“No,” Wanda patiently corrects. “You are always deserving of love. And I’m sure Kamala still cares, whatever happened.”

“No.” America shakes her head. “I ruined. Her life. Ruined everything.” She’d understand when America told her. Once Agatha woke up.  

She tries to think of Agatha now as she struggles to breathe. How she helped her catch her breath the last time this bad of a panic attack happened — the night before her birthday. She’d told her to breathe in slowly for five seconds. Or was it out for ten? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Can’t remember. Can’t remember,” she says frantically, though she’s sure Wanda doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. “Need Mama. Have to ask her. Now. Please.”

Wanda doesn’t question it. “Okay.” She nods, beginning to shepherd her out. “Let’s go. Come on.”

America nods as gratefully as she can manage as Wanda ushers her the short distance down the hall to their bedroom. She feels like her lungs are going to explode. Like they’re going to break through every rib and pop from her chest.

“Mama,” she says, shaking Agatha awake, her own body shaking, too. “I know. You’re exhausted. And I know. It’s my fault. And I know. I’m selfish. For waking you up,” she says as quickly and clearly as she can manage, still gasping for breath. “And you can go back to sleep. After this. But I need to know. How many seconds.”

Agatha blinks awake, her mind barely processing America’s words. Her body reacts, though, catching up more quickly as she instinctively reaches out to hold one of her hands. “Five,” she answers, somehow confident despite her grogginess. “In five, out five.”

“Okay,” America says, relieved to finally have an answer. But it’s short-lived. Her head’s too loud and jumbled to count on her own. “Help? Please? Show me?” she pleads.

“Okay. Okay.” Agatha sits up then, gently tugging America down to have a seat beside her. She places a hand on her sternum, looking her in the eye. “In," she instructs. “One, two, three, four, five. Out.”

She nods, focusing on her voice, her counting, the calming pressure of her touch. After a few minutes of this, her breaths start to come slightly less rapid, though her tears are falling just as hard. 

“I’m not okay,” America whispers, the admission weirdly freeing. “I’m really not okay.”

“I know,” Agatha says softly, wrapping her in a tight hug. “I know. Just focus on breathing for me right now.”

She nods again — focuses until she doesn’t feel like her lungs are going to burst anymore. “It got worse when you left,” she tells her, lip quivering. “It all fell apart.”

“Come here,” Agatha says, shifting them to sit with their backs against the bed’s headboard — America nestled in the middle as Wanda goes to sit on the other side. “What happened?”

America takes a shuddering breath, squeezing her eyes shut. She’d thought they’d sit down in the living room or the kitchen over some coffee to discuss this, but it comes spilling out of her — the dam she’d built last night breaking under the stress of it all. 

“I accidentally told her parents we were dating. Outed her,” she quietly recounts, flinching as she repeats Kamala’s not untrue words. She opens her eyes to look at Wanda — so she’d understand. “Her mom was so mad Kamala didn’t tell her.” She looks back at Agatha. “And she was so mad Kamala told you.”

Agatha cringes, the timeline all falling into place. “That was a big mistake,” she admits. “But that doesn’t mean she hates you or that her family hates her.”

“It might mean that. It literally might mean exactly that,” she argues. “Can I have my phone back now? Please? I need to see if she’s tried to make contact.”

“First, we’re going to finish this conversation.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Agatha cuts her off. 

“To sort things out with her, you need to sort things out with yourself and your family,” Wanda adds, voice gentle but undeniably firm.

America sinks a little lower against the headboard. She almost jokes that she wishes she was a little buzzed for this conversation, but she really doubts either of her moms would find it funny, so she bites her tongue. “Okay,” she agrees instead.

Agatha gives her a tight squeeze. “So tell us what happened after that.”

She takes a deep breath. “Kamala’s dad said we should go to prom — that we should try and have fun — but Kamala thought she should stay and try to smooth things over with her mom. And I just…” She bites her lip, trying to put her feelings into words. “I don’t know. I was so pissed at myself. And part of me was upset with her — that she wasn’t picking me even though she was supposed to be my girlfriend. It all just felt…bad. And I wanted to feel…not bad.”

“And then what?” Wanda prompts.

“I texted N—” She stops herself; she didn’t want to get Nick in trouble. “—nobody you would know,“ she corrects, shaking her head. “Just this guy from Kamar-Taj asking if he could get me weed.” She looks down at her hands, fingers fidgeting on her lap. “And he did. And it all kinda spiraled from here.”

“We know it was Nick — he told us,” Agatha says. America looks up at her, eyes wide and panicked. “We’re not upset with him,” Agatha promises off her expression, which relaxes America just a bit. “I am quite upset with you, even if I understand to an extent."

America’s eyes widen again — this time in surprise. “You do?”

Agatha shrugs. “You were hurting. Kamala seems to love her family a lot, but that doesn’t mean she doesn't care about you, too.”

America picks at a thread dangling off their comforter. “I guess,” she says, unconvinced.

“In the future, can you please call one of us?” Wanda asks. “I know it’s hard, but self-destruction isn’t the answer.”

“But it didn’t feel self-destructive. It felt better. I know it’s a sensitive topic, but it’s not like I’m addicted from doing one line of coke,” she says before immediately regretting it, Agatha openly flinching at the revelation. She probably could have kept that particular detail out. Kept their knowledge to weed and alcohol.

“America. Listen to me,” Agatha says seriously, taking her chin in her hand and forcing her to look her in the eye. “Everyone starts off dependence like that. It is self-destruction — it’s self-medicating.”

“But it was just once. And you even said that everybody reacts differently and that not everyone who tries it gets addicted — it’s not like I could have inherited anything from you, so maybe I would be fine,” she reasons. “Plus, you did that spell to make me all sober again.”

Agatha sighs. “Not everyone does, but the likelihood is higher when you do it to try and numb yourself — to avoid feeling something.”

“Oh." America deflates a bit. Agatha lets go of her face, and she uses the opportunity to stare down at her lap again. “I didn’t know that,” she quietly admits.

“It’s not something to mess around with,” Agatha asserts. “Which is why you’re going to call us next time. Is that clear?”

She takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she promises. While she did feel better at that club, it was admittedly pretty temporary. And admittedly not super worth it what with the vomiting and disappointment. Especially the disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

Agatha nods a little. “Thank you for the apology. I accept and appreciate it.”

“I do, too,” Wanda says. “We just want you to be okay — taken care of. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” America says softly. “I do.” And she did. Kamala’s mom wasn’t a bad person — she clearly loved her, too — but America knew she was lucky in that department. Had two moms who accepted her, listened to her. 

America continues fiddling with the fabric of the blanket. “Am I definitely grounded?” She shakes her head, realizing how that sounds. “Not ‘definitely’ has in ‘for sure’ — 'definitely' as in…’the opposite of indefinitely.’ Am I grounded for a defined length of time?” she clarifies before biting her lip. “Because, like, I learned my lesson, and I’m not going to do it again, so I reeeeally don’t think I need to be,” she tries.

“Two weeks,” Agatha declares. “No friends; no magic; many, many extra chores and assignments.”

“And my phone?”

“You can have it back, but screentime’s limited — very limited." She looks at Wanda. "Be a dear and put one of those passcodes on it, will you, hot stuff?"

"Mm, yes, I am better in the tech department," Wanda quips.

Agatha raises a brow. "I have skills in other areas that make up for that. More important areas," Agatha says, eyes slowly — hungrily — scanning over Wanda's body. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I can't say for sure." Wanda gives her a coy shrug. "I'd need another demonstration."

"That can be arranged."

America opens her mouth to complain — about the punishment and blatant flirting at six in the fucking morning when she's already feeling rather queasy — before promptly shutting it again. This was getting off pretty easy. “That’s fair.”

Agatha reluctantly pulls her ogling gaze away from her fiancée in order to fix her daughter with a stern one instead. She was, admittedly, a pretty phenomenal multitasker. “And if you ever so much as think about doing anything like this again—”

“You’ll rune the house until I’m 30.”

“Mhm,” Agatha mumbles, putting her head back on her pillow.

America uses the opportunity to scoot off the end of the bed, leaving them alone so they can get back to sleep. Or...not get back to sleep. God knows she doesn't want to think about that.

"Advil's in the medicine cabinet," Wanda tells her. "And there should be some Gatorade in the fridge."

"Thanks," America says, pursing her lips as she hovers at the edge of the bed for a few moments.

Wanda raises a brow. "Did you need something else?"

"My phone?" she practically whispers, unable to resist. “Just to see if Kamala said anything reeeeal real quick,” she justifies.

Agatha wordlessly opens her bedside drawer, retrieving the phone and handing it to America without so much as moving her head or opening her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says gratefully, immediately clicking the screen on. There is a text from Kamala, and it makes her heart race. Does she still love her? Does she hate her? Is she even okay? 

But her brow furrows when it becomes clear that it’s not really from Kamala. Nor is it really for her. 

“Uh…” she hesitates, glancing at Agatha. “Sorry — after this, I promise I’ll shut up, but Mrs. Khan wants to know if you’ll go over to their house for lunch today. She wants to talk to you. Alone.” 

Agatha takes a deep breath, dread evident — though whether it's more at the prospect of seeing Muneeba again or the fact this could likely postpone the aforementioned demonstration with Wanda is unclear. “Tell her sure.”

Chapter Text

Muneeba straightens the bowls of mutton korma curry and rice, fussing over them for what must be the tenth time. She looks at the clock — 1:03 pm. Late once again. Perhaps Agatha wasn’t coming to lunch after all — would stand her up. Honestly, part of her hoped that was the case. She didn’t particularly care for the woman.

She sighs, trying to push that thought from her mind. That’s precisely why this lunch was happening. And like her or not, she needed her right now.

At 1:04, there are a few short knocks on the door. She takes a deep breath, smoothing her dress before opening it with what she hopes is a warm enough expression. 

“Hello. Please, come in,” she says. Agatha obliges, and Muneeba ushers her into the kitchen while sizing up her choice of clothing — dark jeans and a sensible sweater. Not as formal as she would have gone for the occasion but admittedly not egregious. “I thought perhaps you would bypass knocking and appear on this side of the door with your magical light.”

Agatha shakes her head. “I don’t know you well. My fiancée informed me that’d be rude.” Wanda had made Agatha promise not to do a lot of things to Muneeba (curse her out, curse her bloodline, homicide) in exchange for letting her do a lot of things to her (kiss her neck, kiss her breasts, kiss her more…southern areas).

“I appreciate that.” Muneeba nods, gaining a tiny bit more respect for her. “And I appreciate you coming. Please, sit,” she says, pulling out a chair for her before taking her own across the table — along with another deep breath. “Speaking of rude, my husband and daughter have informed me I may have been rather impolite to you last night.”

Agatha sits and pauses, carefully weighing her words. Eventually, she decides to go with honesty. “You were.” 

“My Kamala is a special girl. A bright girl with a bright future.” Muneeba folds her hands on top of the table. “But bright futures can be snuffed out with just a few wrong choices. A few bad influences.”

Agatha purses her lips, it taking every ounce of restraint not to lose her shit. Think of Kamala, who needs an ally. Think of America, who was distraught to the point of practical ferality. Think of Wanda, who promised that if she pulled this off, they could have an encore performance of this morning in bed after America had left the room.

“Being queer isn’t a choice,” she finally manages, voice admirably diplomatic. “And I am not a bad influence, nor is my fiancée or daughter. You’re right, Kamala is wonderful and bright, but diversifying the people she knows and the experiences she has isn’t a bad thing.”

“I don’t care that she’s...queer or bi or gay or whatever the word is. Why does everyone assume that's what I care about?” Muneeba huffs, throwing her hands up. “I care that she’s been sneaking around. Hiding things. Lying.”

“She hid things because she thought you wouldn’t accept her. Was worried you’d kick her out. She told me that much.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Muneeba shakes her head. “I would never do such a thing. And the way our family reacts to things — handles things — is a private matter. She shouldn’t have been talking about it with strangers.”

“Kamala isn’t you,” Agatha points out, voice steely. “Your children aren’t you. She has every right to fear coming out — it’s frightening and always has been. She’s her own person who should be able to deal with that fear however she’s comfortable.”

“And how do I know she’s dealing with it in a way that’s not dangerous?” she snaps. “How do I know she’s not drinking and doing drugs and god knows what else under your roof?”

“What is it that you assume about me?” Agatha practically growls. “Please tell me because I would love to dispel any ridiculous notions you have.”

“I’m not assuming anything — your daughter herself told me your son has had issues with both of those things in the past. Very casually, might I add. You’re telling me she’s never experimented with them?” Muneeba scoffs, crossing her arms. “I’m sorry, but I have trouble believing that.”

“When she has, she’s been disciplined. I don’t condone that behavior, and neither does Wanda, but you’re not to judge my son. He’s worked hard to be clean and sober, but it’s not some horrid taboo that he wasn’t for a period of time. Shit happens," she says, pointedly using the swear just to make Muneeba clutch her pearls. This was deeply unpleasant, and she figures she deserves at least an ounce of fun. "I wish more than anything he hadn’t gone through the pain he did in his struggles with his mental health, but I’m not going to sit here and let you speak about him or my daughter this way."

It’s clear she’s holding back, trying not to be overly harsh, and as a result, she’s coming off cold.

Though Muneeba can’t really blame her. Not completely anyway. 

Muneeba clenches her jaw. She doesn’t know how much she buys into the whole mental illness argument — it’s so new-agey, and she’s almost certain the so-called punishments they doled out to America for her rebellion were far too lenient — but it’s clear that Agatha does love her kids. Maybe not in the exact same way she shows she loves hers but just as much. “I’m only trying to protect her,” she says more quietly.

“I know.” Agatha nods. “But insulting me doesn’t do that. I try to listen to my kids — give them as long a leash as they can handle. I had a mother who abused me, so I have specific motivation to make sure I’m never anything like that.” She shakes her head a little. She hates talking about Evanora even briefly, even now. So she changes the subject. “Kamala is a sweet girl, and I think she and my daughter have been good for each other. She’s bright and respectful, and it’s clear how much she cares for America.”

Muneeba feels a lump form in her throat, the progression of the conversation slowly peeling back the real reason why she’s so upset. Bothered by all of this so much. It’d be so much easier if Agatha was as irresponsible and clueless as Muneeba originally thought. If Kamala was looking for a cool older friend to let her do whatever she wanted to do, say whatever she wanted to hear.  

But she’s not. Muneeba had failed so badly as a mother that Kamala was seeking out maternal guidance somewhere else. And she’d found it. And that makes it all harder to swallow.