Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Milliseconds after the man’s soul is bludgeoned from his body by his mistress’s bullet, Rio’s sinister silhouette skulks onto the horizon.

“The end is nigh,” Rio rasps, hornets crawling from her open jawbone. Twin flames burn in the pits of her vacant eye sockets. (It’s always fun to whip out the big guns when she’s reaping a real shithead.) “The waste of your life lies behind you. A desolate path awaits. Rise, sinner, and walk.” 

The man’s wispy essence cowers by his body, the muscles that he’d used to intimidate his many lovers no good to him in spirit form. “There must be some mistake!” he squeaks, which is one of Rio’s favorite reactions. As if she were the afterlife’s customer service department; as if the mortals could go full Karen until they weaseled their way into a coupon for five more years of life. Humans’ hubris never ceases to amaze her. 

“Fate etched your demise in the fabric of eternity itself,” Rio says, sweeping her arms open; spiders skitter from the dark creases of her cloak. “It was written eons before your birth. Now – the time has come to – ”

“The end is nigh, sinner!” says a familiar voice behind her. “It is I, Lady Death! Ooga booga!”

If Rio had eyes right now, they’d be twitching. Slowly, she turns to take in the unwelcome (if increasingly-frequent) sight: Agatha, holding a Ghostface Halloween mask over her ghostly face. Draped over her head in a paltry imitation of Rio’s cloak is a sequined black shawl – Billy’s, Rio guesses. She knows that the kid’s been trying his hand at drag recently. 

“Oh, this is so embarrassing,” Agatha says, flicking a finger in Rio’s direction. “One of us is gonna have to change.” 

“There’s two of you?” the man says weakly. 

Rio sighs. To her endless aggravation, her magically-conjured windstorms – once so useful for battering Agatha across a room – whistle right through ghosts without the slightest impact. In fact, none of her extensive powers can do much of anything to a stubborn spirit who’s insistent on sticking around the material plane past their expiration date. If Rio ever gets to meet her own maker, she’d like to have a word about that considerable loophole.

“Nooooo,” Agatha warbles, flapping her arms spookily. Rio really hopes that Agatha’s amusement at her own supernatural antics fades with time. “There’s just ooooooone, and it’s meeeeee. If you wanna go to heaven, you must kill the copycat. Go, Frank! Attack her! Mush!” 

The man blinks in confusion. “My name’s Fred.”

“Agatha,” Rio says, reflexively pinching the bridge of her nose. (There’s no nose to pinch.) “I’m working.” 

“And you’re doing an awesome job, babe. Five stars. I’ll leave you a Yelp review.” Agatha lowers the mask, grinning. “Wouldn’t you agree, Frank? She’s killing it, right? And I guess by ‘it’, I mean – ”

Rio twists her wrist with a sickening crack; to the man’s left, a column of light appears. “Walk,” Rio instructs defeatedly. She’ll have to save the fun and games for the next abuser to bluster his way into the afterlife. 

“Sorry, did she just call you ‘babe’?” the man says, glancing between them uneasily. 

“Walk,” Rio snarls, amplifying her voice into a howl of unearthly screeches. The man scrambles through the opening, the portal zipping shut behind him. 

“You know, I’m starting to feel like you’re creating a bit of a toxic workplace for us, darling,” Agatha says, readjusting the shawl to fall fashionably around her shoulders. The shock of white hair undulates gently like she’s underwater. “I mean, here I am, helping you on all of these work assignments, and what am I getting out of it? This isn’t Monsters, Inc., you know. I can’t accept the screams of the damned as my paycheck.” 

“Monsters, Inc. does not involve the screams of the damned,” Rio says, which is the least important point that she could possibly address right now. How can Agatha maneuver so thoroughly under her skin when she’s skinless? “That’s a movie for toddlers, Agatha.” 

“Okay, well, Toy Story 3 made the toys confront their little plastic mortality at the bottom of a fucking incinerator. Those movies get dark.” Agatha flips her hair, nudging the man’s body with her toe. “Billy’s got us doing nightly Pixar marathons. It’s a torment more unbearable than anything you ever put me through, for the record.” 

But Rio knows that that’s not true. Like most of what Agatha says, it’s the diametric opposite of the truth. In the two years since their little skirmish cast a lovely green pall in the skies over Westview, Agatha’s flourished in her role as Billy’s – something. Mentor. Friend. I’m like the rich lesbian aunt who buys the kids their beer, Agatha had joked once, but Rio heard the subtext that Agatha couldn’t bring herself to say: I’m sort of like his mom. Not really, though. Not enough. 

Rio doesn’t know why she bothers asking, but: “Why do you keep following me?” 

Agatha presses a hand to her chest, the picture of a deeply-offended do-gooder. “Because I’m a hardworking employee, Lady Death. Dedicated to the mission-critical task of scaring the shit out of the recently-deceased. Even if you refuse to pay me a living wage. …Unliving wage?”

“Is it possible to get through one sentence without making one of your little jokes?” Rio says, shifting to her flesh self. (Again, she doesn’t know why she bothers asking.) 

Agatha’s gaze flits to Rio’s newly-formed lips. “That’ll cost you extra, boss. A ghostie’s gotta make ends meet somehow.” 

Rio considers a quip of her own. You might want to consider a career counselor, because you’re less scary than a kid wearing a white sheet with two eye holes cut out. But if she quips, then Agatha will quip right back, and where will that leave her? Where will that take her? 

Nowhere she hasn’t been before. 

“Please just let me do my job,” Rio says, disappearing in a plume of black smoke. 

“What the fuck is Roxxxy’s problem?” Agatha calls as Billy shuffles into the apartment, his arms straining from the weight of four bursting grocery bags. 

A familiar sight, at this point: Agatha with her translucent feet up on the couch, an old episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race blaring from the TV at full volume. (Billy has some regrets about introducing Agatha to the playground of pettiness and backstabbing that is reality television.) 

“What, you don’t approve of her trying to get in her competition’s head?” Billy struggles to keep the grocery bags from toppling. “Agatha, could you help me put away – ?”

“No can do, kiddo. Wish I could. Why must I be cursed with this incorporeal form!” 

Not true, of course. Agatha can absolutely interact with the physical world, as evidenced by the popcorn that she’s currently shoveling into her low-opacity mouth. Billy rolls his eyes, struggling to unload the milk and eggs onto his cramped counter. 

“I’m all for a little psychological warfare,” Agatha says, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and attempting to catch it in her mouth. (She misses; the piece lands on the floor among a graveyard of similarly-discarded kernels. Billy can’t wait for tonight’s argument about who’s going to sweep all that shit up.) “But Jinkx is even being nice to these bitches. Which she shouldn’t be, by the way. With her talent? She should be parading around the Werkroom with both middle fingers straight up.” 

“You just don’t like it when people are mean to your faves,” Billy reminds her, thinking fondly of Agatha’s borderline-terrifying response to the last asshole who decided to hurl a slur out of his car window while Billy and Eddie were walking home. When the evening news reported a fiery car wreck, Billy didn’t stop Agatha from silently changing the channel back to MTV. “Are you in tonight? I thought you were gonna go bother Rio again.” 

“Tried,” Agatha says with a shrug. “Couldn’t find her. Guess she’s giving me a night off.” Agatha squints at the TV. “Oh, Detox is not serious with that look. Michelle’s gonna ream her ass.” 

Billy fidgets with the canned soup that he’d started to lift into a cabinet. “She’s been hard to find lately,” he says carefully. 

Agatha’s eyes snap to him, chewing her popcorn suspiciously. “Got something to say, O Wise and Powerful Wiccan?” 

“Nope. Nothing.” Billy can feel Agatha’s gaze boring a hole in his back as he shelves the soup. It’s hard to remember which one of them’s the mind reader, sometimes. “It’s just – she doesn’t really seem like she wants you to keep chasing her. It’s been, like…years.” 

“Oh, Billy. Billy, Billy, Billy.” Agatha tosses a heaping handful of popcorn in the air, triumphantly catching a single kernel. (The rest of the pieces rain down onto Billy’s couch.) “It’s a tale as old as time. Girl meets girl, girl shatters girl’s heart into a million jagged pieces, girl spends three centuries stalking girl across the seven continents, girl becomes ghost, ghost forgives girl.” 

Billy grabs a trash bag. As unfair as it is to have to clean up Agatha’s messes, he doesn’t want the apartment smelling like burnt butter when Eddie comes over. “That was…very confusing. Can you start over and just say your names?”

“No I cannot, Billiam.” Agatha rests her hands behind her head. “Today’s life lesson from your mentor: this is just what we do. It’s how we are. I run, she chases. She runs, I chase.”

“But you told her to stop chasing,” Billy says, brushing popcorn into the trash bag. “You told her that you never wanted to see – ”

“Yeah, and then she threw a kitchen sink at my head. C’est la vie. What’s with the judgment, by the way? I thought love is love.” 

“Speaking of,” Billy says, reaching straight through Agatha’s abdomen to unstick a buttery piece of popcorn from a throw pillow. His skin breaks out in goosebumps from the uncomfortable chill. “I thought you were gonna be out tonight, so…” 

“Oh, it’s an Eddie night, huh?” Agatha waggles her eyebrows. “Say no more, loverboy. I’ll go see how the Masons are doing. Bad, I hope.” 

“Please don’t freak them out too much,” Billy says, tying the garbage bag shut. For the better part of a year, Agatha’s chased three separate couples out of the apartment directly above them, rattling floorboards and creakily shifting furniture until each set of renters fled in a panic. The Masons – the newest couple to brave the notoriously-haunted unit – have managed to hold on for much longer than the others. “They’re nice. The wife brought me some raisin bread the other day.” 

“Eugh, raisins. Just for that, I’m possessing her.” Agatha pauses her episode, beginning her ascent into the ceiling. “Remember to wear protection,” she calls as she melds into the plaster. “I’m a sexually-transmitted ghost, Billy. You forget the rubber, I start haunting Eddie’s perky ass instead.” 

“Oh my god,” Billy groans, burying his face in his hands. Agatha’s cackle of delight – disconcertingly echoey, ever since her demise – bounces around the apartment’s thin walls long after her form dissipates from view. 

Agatha finally finds her in a field bursting with blood-red poppies. 

“Damn, someone bit the dust here?” Agatha says, surveying the landscape. “Pretty scenic for a murder. What are we talking? Lovers’ spat? Proposal gone wrong?” 

“There’s no body,” Rio says, gathering a handful of poppies and cleanly snapping the stems. “I’m just taking a moment for myself. Or was, I guess.” 

“Oh,” Agatha says, playing with her broach. Technically, picking flowers counts as unnecessarily ending life – a minor violation against Lady Death’s cosmic orders. While Rio loathes breaking the rules, she’s certainly shimmied around this one before. In the early 1700s, she used to bring Agatha great plumes of daisies and tulips, tying the cuttings together with twine. 

You know you can just make me a flower, a Colonial-era Agatha had reminded her once, pressing the bouquet to her nose. There is no need to commit a transgression against the natural order. Not if it causes you such consternation.

The natural order brings forth blooms more beautiful than my magic could ever hope to replicate, Rio had told her, watching Agatha inhale the flowers’ perfume. (She’d watched her with such hunger, even then.) And you, my sweet, deserve to cherish a beauty that matches your own. 

“So,” Rio says, bending to pluck another poppy. “You found me.” 

Agatha nervously taps at her broach with an ectoplasmic nail. Rio’s voice is oddly flat. Usually, by this point in their cat-and-mouse game, the tension should be thick enough to slice with a scythe. “Took me long enough. Remind me to sew an AirTag into your cloak next time.” 

Rio doesn’t even crack a smile. She gathers her accumulated poppies, tucking them into the pouch at the front of her dress. The outfit’s a real throwback: long and flowing, a dark green hood pinned to the breathable sleeves.

Dark green. The whole look, Agatha realizes – olive and chartreuse and pistachio, different flavors of green intermingling. There isn’t a shred of black in sight. 

“It’s too bad your little girlfriend decided to pull a Library of Alexandria at Wundagore,” Rio says, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I’ve heard that the Darkhold does wonders when you’re trying to go no contact.” 

“Not if the other person has a real can-do attitude.” It’s a little unnerving, Rio looking at her so impassively. “How long’s the cold shoulder gonna last, my love? It’s getting chilly out here.”

Rio exhales slowly through her nose. “I’m not playing, Agatha,” she says. “I’m done.” 

“Ooh, so dramatic. Very L Word. Did you ever watch The L Word? Billy’s got me plowing through all the must-see dyke TV. It’s…not great.” 

“You can keep tracking me down if you want,” Rio says, wrapping her cloak around herself with a satisfying swish. There’s a lovely line of floral embroidery along the edge of the plush fabric. “Pop a whoopee cushion when I’m helping my clients cross over – knock yourself out. But you told me to let you go, and I did. I learned how to grieve, thanks to you. I also learned how to move on.”

“Sure,” Agatha says. “And once Captain Ahab finally caught his white whale, he said you know what, maybe we should just be friends.”

Finally: a smile. “Are you saying that Captain Ahab was fucking the whale?” 

“I don’t know. Ask Billy. Books are for nerds.” 

“Tell Billy I’m looking forward to seeing him again,” Rio says, black smoke forming at her feet. “When his time comes for real.” 

“Rio – ” Agatha reaches for Rio’s arm; her hand passes right through. It gets harder to stay corporeal when her emotions are running high. “Look at me,” she says. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t love me.” 

Agatha awaits the satisfaction of the checkmate. For all of her beloved’s many strengths, Rio’s a terrible liar. 

“I’ll always love you,” Rio says, steadily holding Agatha’s gaze as her form dissolves into threads of black. “I just stopped wanting you.” 

For the first time since shedding her physical form, Agatha feels something akin to a stomachache. There's no trace of a lie in Rio's words; every syllable rings true. 

“Who the hell are you picking flowers for?” Agatha shouts at the dissipating smoke, but it’s too late – Rio’s gone, leaving nothing but a single wilting poppy in her wake. 

Chapter Text

Billy never thought that he’d long for the days of full-volume Drag Race and carelessly-discarded popcorn.

(Then again, Billy never could’ve anticipated most of what it means to have Agatha Harkness as a roommate. Some days, she’s all Don’t forget your chapstick, boys don’t like a crusty mouth and You sure you’re drinking enough water? As the kids say, it’s giving ‘dehydrated,’ fam; other days, despite her lack of a physical need to eat, she goes out of her way to devour the leftovers in the fridge that are clearly labeled ‘Billy.’ As in life, Agatha walks a thin tightrope between tender and terrifying.) 

“Oh, Agatha,” Billy says sympathetically, following the sound of spectral sobs into the living room. “San Junipero again?” 

He never should’ve let Eddie talk him into giving Agatha that list of essential sapphic media. Now he’s got a three-hundred-year-old witch-ghost tearily binge-eating an expired box of Valentine's Day chocolates on his couch, spectral snot dripping all over the decorative blanket lovingly made by his mom. “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” blares from the TV, the credits rolling on the Black Mirror episode that Agatha’s already watched at least five times. 

“I like the costumes,” Agatha says defensively, wiping her nose on her flowy sleeve. “All the different decades. Reminds me of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” 

“You can say ‘Wanda.’ I’m not gonna burst into flames.” 

“I give ‘em two centuries, tops,” Agatha says, biting furiously into a caramel-filled chocolate as she stares at the screen. (Billy assumes that she’s talking about the San Junipero lesbians, frolicking in their digital happily-ever-after. It's not lost on him that Agatha's fixated on a story where two women cheat death to live together forever.) “Eternal love doesn’t exist, ladies. It’s a scam.” 

Agatha punctuates the last word by pitching the box of chocolates square at the TV. One of the meltier chocolates sticks to the glass, leaving a brown trail as it slides hideously down the screen. 

“Big Elle Woods energy,” Billy mutters under his breath, dutifully fetching his handy stash of cleaning products. It’s never a bad idea to keep them close at hand, with Agatha around. 

“Don’t you dare out-gay me right now, Maximoff. I’ll curse your whole bloodline.” 

“You wanna do something today?” Billy says, delicately wiping at the chocolate smears with a paper towel. “Wanna go to the Met? You can make the eyes in the paintings bleed when tourists walk by.”

Agatha’s lip curls. “Oh, don’t trot out my favorite activities like I’m a dog you’re about to put down. ‘Here, champ, let’s go to the park and eat a whole hamburger!’ Patronizing little – ”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t know anything about putting dogs down.” Billy shoots her a pointed look. 

“For the millionth time, I’m sorry about eighty-sixing your fake sitcom dog,” Agatha huffs, using the remote to restart the episode. “Although, if we want to get technical, it was my beloved husband who delivered poor Sparky to the big fire hydrant in the sky.” 

“You can’t keep doing the pity party thing,” Billy says, standing in front of the TV. “It’s not healthy.” 

Agatha cranes her neck, trying in vain to view the screen around Billy’s firmly-crossed arms. “Not all that concerned about my health, Billy. I think that ship sailed when my heart stopped beating.” 

“Did the bad bitchery also stop when your heart did?” Billy says, risking a strategy that Eddie’s been pushing him to try for weeks: straight-up antagonizing Agatha out of her slump. “Because all I’m seeing is a sad bitch.” 

Agatha’s murderous glare loses some of its edge when paired with the fluffy bathrobe and bunny slippers that she’s been living in for the past few weeks. “Look at you, talking like a real drag queen. Very ‘slay the house down boots, mama.’” 

“People break up every day, Agatha,” Billy says. “You can’t wallow forever. Not on my couch, at least.” 

Agatha stands, haughtily wrapping the bathrobe around her transparent midriff. “Fine,” she says, lifting into the air. “I talked you down when Eddie got that horrible buzzcut, but I can see that Relationship Advice Avenue is a one-way street. I’m gonna go kill the Masons.” 

“Don’t – ” Billy splays his hands, creating a makeshift cage of blue magic around Agatha. It’s not enough to hold her permanently, but the energy field acts as a decent forced-timeout when the ghost antics get dangerous. “Do not kill the Masons.” 

Agatha lets out an exasperated groan, swatting at the blue magic like a cat. “Maybe they deserve to be killed. Did you ever think about that? The husband is an insurance salesman.”

“I don’t want Relationship Advice Avenue to be a one-way street,” Billy says, letting the energy field drop. “But to open up that second lane, you need to actually talk to me.” 

Agatha lets out a second, louder groan, descending back to the floor. In the years since that fateful day spent trawling the abandoned transit tunnels beneath Westview, Agatha’s occasionally dropped a fact or two about her long and bloody life. Billy knows that Agatha’s mother was as horrible as the poltergeist version suggested; he knows that Agatha was aboard the Titanic, although she claims that the iceberg was a happy accident; he knows that, at some point in a kinder past, Agatha and Rio shared a small cottage outside of present-day Lawrence, Massachusetts. Extracting details about that implausible domesticity is like pulling teeth from a really mean shark, but Billy’s learned enough to know that the relationship was more than just the occasional sexy knife fight. On the rare occasions that Agatha talks about Rio beyond the usual wisecracks, her eyes mist over, lost in some undisclosed memory. (To respect her privacy, Billy tries his best to shut out her bullhorn of thoughts when the reminiscing starts. Since entering the afterlife, she's not as good at siloing them herself.)

“Then let’s talk,” Agatha says, lying dramatically across the couch. “Go ahead, Dr. Billy. Therapize me.” 

“Do you even want her back?” Billy says, sitting in the armchair that he’d scooped from a yardsale. (With the chair positioned at Agatha’s head, they really are the picture of a psychiatrist’s office.) “Or do you just want her to keep wanting you?” 

Agatha plays with the ends of her hair, staring pensively at the ceiling. “Oof. Tough one. Can I phone a friend?” 

Billy kicks the couch lightly. “Therapy doesn’t go by Who Wants To Be A Millionaire rules.” 

“Do you know how many people she’s crossed paths with since the Big Bang kicked off this whole shitshow?” Agatha says, absently braiding a portion of her hair. “It’s a big number, Billy. A hundred billion, or something. And she watched them live their puny lives, fall in love, sit in trees K-I-S-S-I-N-G, et cetera, et cetera. But she didn’t want. Not the way humans do. Not until…” 

Agatha trails off; her eyes are doing that misty thing. Billy picks at his chipping nail polish, wishing he had something to do with his hands. Write in a big spiral notebook, maybe. PATIENT IS AN ANCIENT WITCH EXPERIENCING PERILOUS LEVELS OF LESBIANISM. I PRESCRIBE FIVE THOUSAND MILLIGRAMS OF PROZAC. 

“Not until you,” Billy offers. 

Agatha startles out of her reverie, glancing at Billy. “Yours truly,” she says, reaffixing the sly smile. “Nothing but an ugly Puritan wardrobe and a dream. I mean, she loved me when I looked like I was two chaste steps off the Mayflower. You think she’s gonna call it quits when I look like this?” 

She gestures to herself grandly. While it’s true that Agatha’s typically the pinnacle of fashion, her point is somewhat undercut by the current robe and bunny slippers. 

“You’re not answering the question,” Billy reminds her. 

“God, people pay for this experience?” Agatha touches her broach, which is peeking out from the robe’s fuzzy pocket. “It’s a dumb question, kiddo. No offense. Rio’s followed me around for, like, twenty of your lifetimes. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve begged her to leave me alone? Which, now that I’m saying it – kind of problematic, wouldn’t you say? Kind of toxic, there, Lady Death. We gotta get on your little apps and cancel her ass.” 

“You wanted her to leave you alone,” Billy says, determinedly ignoring Agatha’s quippy detours. “And now she’s leaving you alone.” 

“Yeah, for now. I beat her back with the Book of the Damned and she was performing a complimentary door removal the second that protection fizzled out. You think a couple years of the cool guy act means anything? Please. She’ll come crawling back. She always does.” 

“Great,” Billy says. “Let’s take a question from the reporter in the back. Wow, The New York Times, so high-profile. Yes, sir? What was that? I think I’m hearing – do you actually love her, Agatha? ” 

A crest of thoughts like a tidal wave, bowling Billy backwards: 

Agatha standing at a rustic stove, closely monitoring a boiling pot; Rio approaching her from behind, hands gentle at Agatha’s waist, nose nuzzling the soft tendrils of hair escaping Agatha’s high ponytail. Agatha in the midst of a joke, her heart picking up speed as Rio throws her head back and laughs. Rio’s head in Agatha’s lap, Agatha’s fingers dragging soothingly through her hair; Rio sighing, her voice barely audible as she says Wicked enchantress, teaching me what it is to know such bliss. What have you done to me, Agatha? What have you given me? What will become of me in its absence? Agatha’s teasing reply of Foolish to think you will ever know my absence, dearest. Years of this, decades of it, the swell of something neither woman thought possible – acceptance, adoration, an equal partner in all aspects of their respective odd existences. (Tugging at the edge of the memories is a pervasive pain and anger, the aftertaste of fights and affairs and bouts of violence; Billy can’t force any of it into focus. Almost like it’s being kept purposely fuzzy.) 

Amid the discordant swirl of remembered voices, one memory punches through the rest, ringing in Billy’s ears at a bruising volume. But it is possible, Agatha is saying, clutching Rio’s arms so tightly that her nails leave indentations in the skin. You could make it so. A child of our own. Born of our love, our joy. Rio’s face, a mask of anguish. The life that I create – the vegetation that sprouts from my hands – it cannot last, Agatha. It lacks the heartiness of true organic matter. Agatha’s nails biting deeper into Rio’s biceps. Could it not last a paltry human lifespan? Surely that bit of sorcery does not exceed the abilities of Death herself. Rio’s mouth twisting around unformed words; she tries to avoid Agatha’s gaze. She can’t. Please, Agatha says, and Billy can see Rio break. Please, Rio. My one. My heart. Grant me this boon and I will ask nothing of you further, ever again. My love for you will find new depths, if such a feat is possible. You do this and I will adore you for eternity. 

“Jesus,” present-day Agatha says, holding her head. “You don’t even knock before you come barging in? Did the Kaplans not pass along any of those famous suburban manners?” 

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, focusing hard on slamming down the walls around his psyche. He tucks away the new insight into the story of Agatha's son for when he has the mental space to process it. “I couldn’t – ”

“ – Control it. I know. Happens to the best of us.” Agatha sits up, wiping a sleeve across her eyes. “Therapy needs to be designated by the UN as a cruel and unusual form of torture. I’ll start a petition.” 

“You guys need to talk,” Billy says. His head is still spinning from the image of a young Agatha, eyes wide and pleading. “Invite her over. I’ll clear out for the night. Eddie’s roommate is on a holistic retreat with her queer improv troupe, so I can crash there.” 

“Eddie’s roommate is lucky I’m having a bad day,” Agatha says. “We’ll be circling back to the queer improv when I’m in the right headspace to tear that nonsense a new one.” 

“Okay, sure, but did you hear what I – ”

“Of all the terrible ideas you’ve ever had, my esteemed pupil, this might be the most terrible-est. Invite her over? To your apartment? You want us to have a heart-to-heart while surrounded by posters of twinks?” 

“It is one poster, and that is Troye Sivan,” Billy says. The framed print, a memento of the first concert that he and Eddie had gone to together, is a non-negotiable centerpiece of the living room. 

“Great. I’m glad the twink has a name. I’ve already forgotten it.” 

“You do love her,” Billy says, moving to Agatha’s side on the couch. “You need to go get your girl, Agatha,” he adds, tentatively taking her hand. “Before it’s too late.” 

Agatha closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. “I liked you better when you were trying to do the cunty drag shtick,” she says, but when Billy squeezes her hand, she squeezes back. “You’re not being very ‘slay the house down boots mama’ right now.”

For what it’s worth, it’s getting easier to track Rio’s zigzagging movements across the globe. 

Agatha would love to think that the increasingly-strong sonar ping on her mystical radar is Rio’s doing – a sign that the I still love you but I’m gonna go pick poppies for some other bitch bullshit is finally winding down – but she gets the sense that it’s more of a ghostly side effect. Ghosts and Death, forever drawn together and propelled apart; they’re like both ends of a magnet in one. 

That peculiar push-pull brings Agatha to a nursing home in Connecticut, where Rio is patiently helping a wrinkled grandmother rise from her adjustable bed toward the awaiting doorway of light. (Ugh, wrinkles. Agatha runs her fingers over her own face, basking in its gorgeous smoothness.) 

“You’re sure they’ll manage without me, dear?” the grandmother is saying, giving Rio a sad smile. 

“They’ll have to,” Rio says. Agatha has never understood how Rio can deliver hard truths with so much warmth. “Have a little faith. You’ve taught them well.” 

The grandmother nods, giving the sterile room a last, bittersweet look. Clinging to Rio’s arm, she moves confidently through the doorway; as soon as she’s through, the portal folds back into nothing. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t pie her in the face on her way to the other side,” Rio says without looking at Agatha. She wraps her cloak – still green, Agatha notes – tighter around her shoulders. 

“Hi to you, too.” Agatha takes in the space with distaste. “Quite the combination of smells in this place. What is that? Urine and yogurt?” 

Rolling her eyes, Rio snaps her fingers, reappearing in the parking lot out the window. Agatha phases through the wall, grateful for the fresh air. 

“What is it this time?” Rio says. She’s still not looking at Agatha, opting instead to examine her removable acrylics. 

“I'm thinking we just get the unpleasant part over with,” Agatha says, spreading her arms. “Blast me.” 

Rio raises her eyebrows. “Sorry?” 

“Or – I don’t know. Get the Ghostbusters proton pack, suck me up into the stupid vacuum. Whatever works to deal a ghost some damage. You’re a smart cookie. I’m sure you’ve got some million-dollar ideas in your back pocket.” 

“And why would I want to – ”

“Because that’s how this works,” Agatha says. Across the parking lot, an ancient man points at them in horror from his wheelchair; his caretaker waves her hand dismissively, continuing to wheel him in the opposite direction. “I hurt you, you pout, you hurt me, we move on. We’ve been on step two for a long time, honey. I’m trying to nudge us along to step three.” 

“I’m the one who pouts,” Rio says with a cackle. She meets Agatha’s gaze, borderline bored. “That’s adorable.” 

“Just – ” Agatha’s arms hang limply by her side. “Tell me what you want me to do,” she says, hating that embarrassing edge of desperation. 

“I want you to do whatever you want,” Rio says, and she has the gall to smile. “Here, there. Up, down. With a goat, on a boat. I don’t care, Agatha. I gave you all the time I had, and now I’m fresh out. Go get what you’re looking for somewhere else.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Agatha says, slipping into the low voice that’s never failed to smash through Rio’s defenses before. “You never liked it when I got it somewhere else.” 

“And did that stop you?” Rio says, taking the smallest step forward. “No. Nothing stops you. Nothing satisfies you. It’s not fun, trying to fill up the Very Hungry Caterpillar. I told you before: I’m done trying.” 

With a sharp gesticulation of her arm, Rio opens her cloak enough to show off the woven belt underneath. Tucked into the pretty straps of leather is a cluster of freshly-picked roses. 

“What a shocker,” Rio says, following Agatha’s stricken look. She extracts a rose from the bunch, smelling it in a performatively-huge inhale. “She’s hungry again.” 

“‘I didn’t know what love was until I met you, Agatha,’” Agatha says, mocking Rio’s stilted 1700s-era manner of speech. “‘You’re the stars in the sky and the pearls in the ocean. When you die, I’ll rip out my obsidian heart and throw it to the wolves. You’re the only woman for me.’ Liar.” 

Rio laughs again. “As if you ever loved me,” she says, biting the rose’s stem between her teeth. 

Agatha feels as winded as when Wanda flung a car at her. “How – Rio - how can you say th – ”

“Because, sweetheart, you’ve given me no evidence to the contrary.” Rio tears a petal from the rose, tossing it into her mouth. “I think you liked me,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “You liked that I gave you attention. You liked the thing I can do with my tongue. But love, Agatha – let’s be adults about this, right? Your love was just another weapon in your arsenal. And you wielded it like a fuckin’ pro, kudos for that. ‘If you do this, I’ll love you more,’ and ‘if you do that, I’ll love you less.’ Man, I took your orders like a puppy, didn’t I? ‘Maybe this time, she won’t put me back in the crate!’ Oh, well. In a couple thousand years, this’ll all be a funny story, those three centuries I wasted on the world’s best con artist. You’re just a blip in my eternal existence, honey bun. A teeny, teeny, teeny tiny one.” 

“Come over for dinner,” Agatha blurts out.

Rio pauses her emphatic chewing. “Pardon?” 

“To Billy’s – fucking – let me make you dinner,” Agatha says, which is just a breathtakingly stupid thing to say. As retribution for Billy’s terrible suggestion, Agatha makes a mental note to spread some ghost slime on that twink poster when she gets home. (What the hell is that pop kid’s name? T-something, S-something. Taylor Swift? No, that can’t be right.) “Give me one night. Three hours, and then I’ll leave you alone. What’s three more hours to get me off your back?” 

“God, the shamelessness never gets old,” Rio says, eating a second petal. “What’s the angle? Does Billy need to steal a second life for his window plant?” 

“I love you,” Agatha says, sounding very small. “I miss you. And I guess I can’t make you want me again, but it’d be nice if you – believed me. Before I fuck off for good.” 

Rio pulls the rose’s head from its stem, popping the whole flower into her mouth. “Dinner when neither of us needs to eat,” she says, the gross pulp of red plant tissue visible with each syllable. “Sure, Agatha. Why not. I’ll take one more home-cooked meal for the road.” 

“Tomorrow,” Agatha says. Out of instinct, she reaches for Rio’s sleeve. “Six-thirty. Bring an appetite.” 

“I’m sure it won’t compare to yours,” Rio says, pulling her sleeve out of Agatha’s reach. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she says, retrieving the rest of the roses from her belt with a flourish, “I’ve got to go drop these off.” 

Agatha tries not to think about the flowers’ recipient, whoever she is, lighting up with glee at the special delivery. She can think about that later – preferably while gouging out that mystery individual’s eyes with dessert forks. For now, her focus needs to be on tomorrow evening, suddenly a high-stakes catering event. Maybe she’ll finally let Billy teach her how the fuck a sous vide works, a lesson he’s been pushing for years. He’ll be thrilled; Agatha can picture his dumb expression now, that big sweet grin. At least one of them will be having a good time.  

Chapter Text

“I hate my hair,” Agatha shouts from the bathroom. 

For the tenth time, Billy puts his book down. He doesn’t know why he bothers trying to read it, as he’s only able to digest a sentence or two before Agatha’s latest outburst ropes him back to reality. 

“What about it?” Billy shouts back. 

“It’s so white. So old. I look like I should be in an Activia commercial.” 

“You are old,” Billy offers, foolishly raising the book again. “Like, the most old.” 

Agatha appears in the doorway of his bedroom, fuming. “I don’t think goody-goody Avenger boys are supposed to doll out sass on the most important night of a person’s life. Don’t make me call Iron Man or whoever the fuck.” 

“Tony Stark is definitely dead,” Billy says, re-closing the book. 

“Okay, well, maybe he came back as a ghost who goes around telling mean children to be nice to me.” Agatha grabs two fistfuls of her hair, shaking the strands. “Why did you let me stay like this for so long? Aren’t gay men supposed to have a spidey sense for fashion?” 

“It doesn’t look bad,” Billy says, using his talking-a-scared-cat-out-of-a-tree voice. “You like this look. You’re just having a freakout moment, and that’s okay. What’s important is that you don’t make any drastic changes while you’re – ”

There’s a puff of purple vapor; Agatha’s hair is suddenly bright blue. 

“Ah,” Billy says, rubbing his forehead. “Hm.” 

“What? Is it bad?” Agatha ducks back into the bathroom; her hideous shriek will definitely earn them a noise complaint from the Masons. “Oh, god! I mean, I’m still stunning, obviously, but – oh, god!” 

“Let’s take a deep breath,” Billy says, hurrying to the bathroom. Agatha is hovering an inch from the mirror, inspecting the damage. “Can you turn it back?” 

“If I could, it would be back by now, wunderkind.” The bathroom light sputters; Agatha can wreak havoc on the utilities when her emotions get out of control. When they watched Up, the entire second floor of their building flooded from every units’ faucets mysteriously gushing on at once. “She’s not gonna take back a smurf, Billy. We need to cancel. Send up a smoke signal.” 

“Absolutely not.” Billy glances nervously at the winking light. He really doesn’t want to deal with another angry visit from their landlord. “Take my hands.” 

Agatha grimaces at his outstretched palms. “Ew.” 

“Agatha.” Billy grabs her arms, dragging her back to the floor. “It’ll help to get you centered. You know I’m right.” 

Grumbling something about students who think they’ve become the master, Agatha reluctantly places her hands in Billy’s palms. It’s an exercise that they’ve repeated a handful of times since the creepy morgue-like trial – usually to unlock some new ability of Billy’s. 

“Close your eyes,” Billy instructs. With an exaggerated eye roll, Agatha acquiesces. “Think about what you want your hair to look like. Hold the image in your mind.” 

“Maybe we should just do my tarot reading instead,” Agatha says. At least she keeps her eyes closed. “You have such a way with the cards.” 

“Hold the image,” Billy says firmly. “You can make it reality. You’ve done it before. Focus on your goal. Everything else is just white noise. I believe in you, Agatha. You can do it.” 

Agatha’s hands relax in his. A trickle of thoughts worm their way past Billy’s mental barricade, disjointed and reverberating: 

Like it was – can never be like it was – but why not, why not – if she’d just – she doesn’t mean it, I know she doesn’t mean it – she has to know I didn’t mean – I said so many things that I never – if I just tell her the truth – would she believe – she was the only one who ever believed – 

“There you go,” Billy says, shaking off the unwanted eavesdropping. “Look at that. Fierce.” 

Agatha’s eyes flutter open. She turns to the mirror, taking in what Billy’s already admiring: her brunette mane, restored to its former glory with one white streak stylishly waved at the front. Billy truly hadn’t minded the full-white, but this? This is a look. 

“Pretty sure that ‘fierce’ went out of fashion with shutter shades and the Harlem Shake,” Agatha says, glowingly taking in her reflection. “Get with the times, kid. You’re supposed to keep me connected to the youth.” 

“Sorry. The new aesthetic is – win-back-your-ex core.” 

“You know, it really is,” Agatha says, winking at herself in the mirror. 

When the doorbell rings, Agatha feels sweat break out on her forehead – a sensation that she hadn’t known was possible in her phantom form.

“We can both walk through walls,” she calls, sprinkling salt into Billy’s biggest pot. The stew’s already been bubbling for the better part of an hour, infusing the apartment with a lovely savory scent. 

“It’s Billy’s place, isn’t it?” Rio says, appearing in the living room. “Didn’t want to give the guy a jumpscare. I know he’s not my biggest fan.” 

“You know those teenage hormones,” Agatha says, forcing herself to tear her eyes from the stew. “I’m sure he’ll come around to – ”

The rest of the sentence withers in her throat. Agatha was expecting the green cloak, the modest garb that Rio’s been favoring lately, but no – tonight’s outfit is a black crop top and Gen Z-chic baggy jeans. Rio’s hair is up, a few choice pieces left out to frame her face. Very Agent Vidal. (Agatha isn’t proud of how often she thinks about Agent Vidal.) 

“Your pot’s boiling over,” Rio says, nodding to the stove. Agatha curses loudly, lowering the heat. 

“You look – ” Agatha glances between Rio and the pot. “Uh, you look – ”

“Yeah, you also look.” Rio gives her a half-smile that does not help the forehead-sweat situation. “Nice hair.” 

“Thanks.” In reaching for the coriander at the far end of the counter, Agatha nearly knocks the pot to the floor. “Shit.” 

“Here,” Rio says, moving to grab the spice bottle. To do so, she needs to shimmy behind Agatha in the claustrophobically-small sliver of Billy’s kitchen; for half a second as she squeezes by, her hands touch Agatha’s hips.

(For half a second, Agatha is back in 1712, cooking a dinner that only one of them needs to consume – Rio comes home, her face tinged pink from the winter air – she sidles up to Agatha’s back, wrapping her arms around Agatha’s waist, resting her chin on Agatha’s shoulder – )

“Huh,” Rio says, extending the coriander as she leans against the counter. “You’re doing a classic.” 

Agatha beams; she was hoping that Rio would recognize the recipe. The stew was a staple of their cottage-centered years – rabbit, potatoes, onions, carrots and leeks, doused in an aromatic blend of herbs and spices. (Billy had been horrified when Agatha came home earlier that day with a non-pet rabbit. The boy still has a fair amount of toughening up to do.) 

“It’ll be done in just a minute,” Agatha says, lifting a ladleful of broth for inspection. “Then we can start the three-hour timer.” 

“No, that’s already started,” Rio says, glancing at her watch. “It’s six thirty-four, by the way. You’ve got a hundred and seventy-six minutes left.” 

Oof. “Then we’ll call it done,” Agatha says, spooning the concoction into two steaming bowls. 

Billy’s dining room table doesn’t deserve to be called a dining room table. It’s barely big enough for two people, two shitty folding chairs bookending the cheap wood. The soup bowls clink against each other when Agatha sets them down; Rio takes a seat, running a finger along the table’s surface. 

“So,” Agatha says, handing Rio a spoon. “How was your day?” 

Rio narrows her eyes. “‘How was my day’?” 

“Reap anyone fun? Is Betty White still alive? I feel like she’d have some good stories on the journey over.” 

“She’s not. And yeah, she was a mensch. You know I’m not kidding about the tight deadline, right?” Rio twirls the spoon between her fingers. “Clock’s ticking.” 

“I know,” Agatha says, blowing on her spoon. “I don’t have, like – a speech. Or a pitch. Unless a pitch would work. I can rustle up a slide deck real quick.” Agatha watches Rio’s half-smile fade; the sadness behind her beloved’s eyes is as weathered as a rock in a river. Shaped by centuries of the same eroding force, over and over and over. “See? You’ve made up your mind. I’m not gonna try to change it. I just want to steal a little more time with you.” 

Rio stares at the coarsely-chopped carrots on her spoon for a long moment before taking her first bite. Her eyes briefly drift closed; Agatha wonders if she’s similarly experiencing a brief vacation to the paradise of 1712. “My day was fine,” Rio says. “A dude blew himself up with fireworks.” 

“You love to see it.” 

Rio grins, taking a second bite before finishing her first. “The body was grody,” she says through a full mouth (as always). “I was like” – she points exaggeratedly – “‘that’s you, man.’ And he was like, ‘what? No! My beautiful gun-shooting fingers!’” 

Agatha laughs, reflexively reaching to mop up a bit of Rio’s spilled soup with a napkin. “You don’t have fingers anymore, bud. You have ten little meat sticks sprayed all over your backyard.” 

“Exactly.” Rio’s foot knocks against Agatha’s under the table. “But yeah,” she says, clearing her throat as she scrapes her chair back a bit. “My day was fine. Normal day. This is really what you want to do for our last three hours? You want to hear about how the worm food is made?” 

“Yes,” Agatha says, resting her chin in her hands. “I do.” 

So Rio keeps talking. She tells Agatha about the car crash in Phoenix and the burst of cancerous cells in Tokyo; she muses on the last words of a Silicon Valley mogul, the defiant pride of a former beauty queen, the quiet confusion of a hitman’s unwitting victim. It’s all new, she tells Agatha, and it’s never new. Nothing’s ever new. It’s all so, so new. 

After they deplete their bowls, Agatha moves them to the couch – separate sides, with one of Billy’s ugly throw pillows sitting between them like a mediator. She asks Rio gentle follow-up questions, only throwing in a joke or two when it doesn’t feel disruptive to the story. When Rio’s water glass gets low, Agatha refills it from the pitcher that she’d loaded with ice and lemon slices before the night began. Her head bobs in a constant, listening nod; for the most part, she manages to keep her eyes respectfully fixed on Rio’s face. (That crop top was a dick move. Rio knows how to fight dirty.) 

“Uh-oh,” Agatha says at the tail end of Rio recounting a circus trick in Germany gone wrong, leading to a virtual clown car of reapings. She touches the watch on Rio’s wrist. “Nine thirty-one.” 

Rio raises the watch to her face, squinting as if she doubts its accuracy. “Kid’s out late,” she says. “Thought he’d be tucked in with a glass of warm milk and a blankie by now.” 

“His boyfriend’s got a place. It’s slightly less of a dump than this, but not by much.” Agatha opens the front door with a wiggle of her fingers. “Shouldn’t you be on your way? Seems like you keep to a military-level schedule, these days. Every minute counts, soldier. Oop – nine thirty-two.” 

Rio chews her lip, drumming her nails against her water glass. Agatha fights to keep the smirk from forming, because if it forms, it’ll be confirmation of what they both know: of course there was a pitch. Of course this was the pitch, the nice, uncomplicated night that Rio doesn’t want to end. (Agatha knows how to fight dirty, too.) 

“Do you know what I miss?” Rio says, still staring fixedly at her glass. “That pot pie thing you used to make. Was that lamb, or – ?”

“Venison,” Agatha says. “Come back next week and I’ll make it for you.” 

Oh, the wheels are spinning so furiously in that pretty head. Too bad they’re solidly on Agatha’s carefully-laid tracks. “Your local ShopRite has venison?” 

“Eh, I’ll hit a deer with Billy’s car.” Agatha slides ever so slightly closer. “Can I pencil you in for Tuesday?” 

Rio tenses. “This doesn’t change – ”

“I know. It doesn’t have to mean anything to you. It’d mean a lot to me, though.” 

“Okay, Agatha,” Rio says softly. Agatha doesn’t quite understand why the sadness in her eyes surfaces anew. “Tuesday. Three hours.” 

“Three hours,” Agatha repeats. She hopes that the crop top will make a return appearance.  

But Rio, like Agatha, is loath to repeat an outfit. 

Tuesday’s look is just as unfair, though: overalls, one of the straps undone, over a Calvin Klein sports bra. While Agatha’s always favored the high-end fashion of any given decade, Rio loves to emulate the grungy cool-kid style du jour. 

The pot pie is another satisfying blast from the past, ricocheting Agatha back to a time of tender evenings spent discussing the day’s atrocities over their cottage’s polished table. (The culinary success is well worth all the shit that Agatha had to take from Billy about once again cramming his fridge full of weird, dripping packages. “Do I need to send you another video essay on the horrors of the meat industry?” he’d said that morning, to which Agatha had ominously responded, “Not to worry! I did not get this from a store.”) 

“She was basically asking me if she could shadow me,” Rio is saying, finishing her second glass of the wine that Agatha had lifted from the Masons’ pantry. “Like, follow me around for a day and take notes.”

“Bring Your Reaped Soul to Work Day,” Agatha says, refilling Rio’s glass. They’re talking about an enterprising young woman who had, upon her death, immediately started pestering Rio about how exactly one becomes the Grim Reaper. 

“If I could let her cover a shift, I would,” Rio says. She laces her fingers behind her head, stretching. (Agatha is looking so respectfully.) “The regular schmoes don’t know how good they have it. You live your one dumb life, you focus on your own dumb problems, and then you peace out.” 

“Luckily for us, we were destined for something higher.” 

“You never wish you could know what it’s like to be a normal person?” 

Agatha scoffs. “After my three-year stint in Westview Penitentiary, population: me?” 

“Right.” Rio swirls her glass. “Well, I think about it, sometimes. Being a total rando in, like – I don’t know. Indiana.” 

“A flyover state. Dreaming real big, I see.” 

“Believe it or not, the flyover state folks are some of the happiest, at the end. Something about that small town charm.” 

Agatha mimes retching. “That’s a nice way to say ‘soccer moms with pill addictions.’” 

“You can’t see me as a townie?” Rio says, smiling against the rim of her glass. “Working a dead-end desk job for the local government? Helping my friend run for city council?” 

“I thought we were done with torturing each other.” 

“Aw, you’re not gonna join me in buttfuck nowheresville?” 

“No, I’ll join you,” Agatha says, pouring the last of the bottle into her own glass. “I’ll run the campaign for your friend’s opponent. I’ll crush your friend’s fucking dreams.” 

“Of course you will,” Rio says. There’s no buffer pillow between them this time; Rio’s curled toward her on the couch, their knees just touching. Agatha’s been afraid to point out that axis of contact for the last fifteen minutes. As long as it goes unacknowledged, she figures, Rio will let it continue. 

Agatha sips the wine, playing with her broach. For the first time since Rio rolled up at six twenty-seven, the conversation stalls. Rio’s never been afraid to let a quiet moment linger; the silence stretches on, only interrupted by the persistent tick of Rio’s analog watch. When Agatha dares to casually look over to her left, she finds Rio staring at her, unabashed as ever. 

“You know what I liked about your stint in Westview Penitentiary?” Rio says eventually. 

“That you got to see me act like a blithering idiot? Thank god they don’t lock women up for hysteria anymore. I’d be all wrapped up in a padded room right about now.” 

“Agnes liked me,” Rio says. “She liked me a lot.” 

“Gee, I wonder why. Did you borrow those clothes from the set of a Law & Order porno parody or what?” Their knees are still touching. Agatha risks shifting closer, throwing one arm over the couch’s back. “You knew what you were doing.” 

“I did.” Rio’s eyes flick to Agatha’s other hand – tentative, the tips of her fingers pressing lightly against Rio’s knee – before returning to her trademark stare. “You didn’t, though. There can’t be any Agatha Harkness mind games when there isn’t any Agatha Harkness. When Agnes looked at me with the big cartoon heart eyes, I didn’t have to wonder if…” 

If there was a second, secret motive. If the love was real or a skillful ploy. Agatha smoothes her hand up Rio’s thigh.

“You don’t have to wonder,” Agatha says, a hair’s breadth from Rio’s face. “I promise.” 

Rio’s eyes are so, so wide. Unblinking. Agatha’s overwhelmed by all the old trappings of humanity – the heartbeat, the flush, the heat in her palms. They won’t have to rush this time. Agatha will kiss her slowly, sweetly, and then she’ll kiss her again, and then – 

“Were you planning on telling me that you left a giant dent in the hood of my car?” Billy says as he barges through the front door. 

Agatha whips around, teeth bared like a Doberman. “For fuck’s sake – do I need to hang a sock on the doorknob, Maximoff?” 

“Oh, shit,” Billy says, clasping a hand over his eyes. Which one of them is the Puritan, again? “Sorry! It’s after ten, I thought – ”

“Time theft is no joke, Agatha,” Rio says, standing. “I know you love to pretend to be Ghost Employee of the Month, but your ass would be so fired by now.” 

“I was just – grabbing – something,” Billy says, eyes darting wildly around the apartment. He grabs a half-drunk water bottle from the top of the bookshelf. “Oh, great! I was looking everywhere for – ”

“Have I taught you nothing about the art form of bullshitting?” Agatha says exasperatedly.

Rio adjusts her watch, sauntering toward the door. “Damn. And she’s the master, too.” 

“It’s not – I’m not – ” Agatha worries at the broach, tracing the carved figures. “It’s not bullshit, Rio. It’s not a lie. It’s not a chess move. I love – ”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you forgive me for Nicky,” Rio says, fixing Agatha with a very different kind of piercing stare. 

Agatha can feel herself flicker; her hand passes through the couch cushion. She’s often worried whether she’ll shimmer out of existence altogether when her emotional state hits rock bottom – maybe today’s the day. 

Behind Rio, Billy clasps his hands under his chin. You can do it, Agatha hears in her head. I believe in you. 

Says the infant who apologizes to the ants that he accidentally squishes on the sidewalk. Billy has no idea what real betrayal feels like. God willing, he’ll never know anything akin to the wrenching, soul-shredding anguish of begging the one woman you’ve ever loved not to obliterate your heart. Or the agony of waking one morning to find that she’s done it anyway. That she’s stolen him in the night like the coward that she is. 

“That’s what I thought,” Rio says with a bitter smile, watching Agatha’s expression morph. “Same old story. Anyway. Always a pleasure, Billy. I’ll see you when I see you.” 

Agatha briefly considers asking Billy to barricade the door – put Rio in his stupid blue timeout cage – something, anything – but it’s too late: Rio’s disappearing in her usual black smoke. Just like that world-ending morning in 1756, Agatha finds that the person she so desperately wants to keep close is already gone.

Agatha conducts a one-woman search party until sunrise. 

She combs through the Tri-State Area, then begrudgingly expands to other states, scaring the shit out of multiple flocks of birds as she racks up more air miles than a professional pilot. While the stench of death sits heavy over the whole globe, Rio’s nowhere to be found. Agatha really should’ve sewn in that AirTag when she had the chance. 

Night falls; morning bleeds back into the sky. Still, Agatha searches, grasping for that sonar blip she’d felt before. “Come on, Lady Death,” she mutters, sweeping over the greenery of Massachusetts. “Maiden, Mother, Crone – spirit, be known.” 

There. She feels it, a magnetic pull to the north. Agatha passes straight through a plane in her haste, grabbing some first-class fucker’s plastic cup of ginger ale for fortification. The pull grows stronger; Agatha begins her descent, praying that the distinct energy doesn’t blink out again. (God, is this what it’d felt like for Rio to chase her? Homegirl’s got stamina, that’s for sure.) 

Agatha lands among a tangle of trees. Rendering herself invisible, she flies above the carpet of moss and grass, following the psychic tug. As the forest whizzes past, she’s struck with a powerful burst of déjà vu. Has she been here before, wherever here is? Very likely, considering how much of the state she’d traversed in her youth. Maybe some of her victims are currently underfoot. If Agatha had time to spare, she’d give them a friendly middle finger. 

To her right, the forest’s gentle soundscape is punctured by a woman’s humming. Agatha stops, straining her ears. The tune is almost – no. Agatha’s imagining things, loopy on too-little sleep. (Not that she needs to sleep. But still.) 

Incrementally, invisibly, Agatha creeps toward the sound. When she sees the green cloak kneeling in the center of a shaded clearing, she almost cries out – but the humming grows louder, undeniably lilting in the Ballad’s familiar chords. Rio’s never been all that fond of singing, but her voice is delicate and sure, her head bent over whatever she’s serenading. 

With another step, Agatha’s heart drops from her chest. She knows exactly what Rio’s serenading.

The stones that Agatha meticulously placed over Nicky’s grave are long gone, but in their place – holding its shape – is an ovular pile of flowers. All of them fresh, all of them picked. Peonies, daisies, roses, daffodils, lilies, irises, dahlias. Some of them native to this area, many of them not. Rio must bring them from all over, Agatha thinks in a stupor. The makeshift garden must be replenished almost daily; only a tiny handful of the blooms show any sign of decay. 

With a deep, shaky breath, Rio’s humming gives way to words. 

“Darling little boy, you were not made to last

But in your borrowed time, a lasting spell you cast

Though taking souls 

Of young and old 

Is what I’m tasked to do 

I did not mourn

‘Til you were born 

Of doting mothers two 

Down, down, down the Road

Down my Nicky’s Road 

Your road was short but joyful, skipping through the fields

The loss is deepened by the memories it yields

A parent’s love

Naught else above

Unchanging as the sea – 

Love she ne’er knew

Yet gave to you 

And for her grief, blames me 

Down, down, down the Road

Down my Nicky’s Road 

My heart belongs to mortals I can no longer hold: 

One beyond my reach, one turned forever cold 

To ease the pain,

Sing a refrain 

That my dear family penned 

Time is a thief

But some relief: 

She’ll see you at the end”

“I know,” Rio says, laying another flower. “My voice isn’t as good as Mama’s. Well, you get what you get and you don’t get upset.” 

Rio cocks her head, almost like she’s listening.

“She’ll grow cold again,” she says. “But it’s alright. It’s who she is. You can’t change your nature.” 

Rio touches the pile of flowers. Her shoulders heave once before she straightens, raising her hood.

“As much as you might want to,” she says, and vanishes from sight. 

Agatha’s left in the woods, her ears ringing. Above her, a bird twitters the same few notes on a loop, pausing after each iteration as if waiting for a response. Billy has some stupid bird-watching app on his phone – against her will, Agatha’s learned a lot about the intricacies of birds’ strategic melodies. The bird’s simple strain, forever hopefully repeated, is a call of either mating or mourning. Agatha can’t remember which.

Chapter Text

Rio’s wrapping up a peaceful reaping in the palliative care unit of an understaffed hospital when she spots the ghostly glow, spookily illuminating the room’s one window. 

“The light,” gasps one of the deceased’s family members, looking at the glass in awe. “It’s – it’s like he’s sending us a message – ”

Rolling her eyes, Rio shifts to the other side of the wall. “This is why I don’t like ghosts, Agatha,” she says, shoving Agatha away from the window. “You mess with people’s reality. Give them all these fake beliefs about how things work. You’re like a spiritual Facebook.” 

Agatha lets herself be shoved, skidding a few feet away before hovering in place. “I just need one minute,” she says.

“Just one minute. I’ve seen you flatten cities in less than sixty seconds, baby doll.” Rio’s glad that she went for a more modern style today, a green jumpsuit with a tasteful cutout at the stomach. She’ll enjoy watching Agatha try to hitch up her eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure? D’you have a little piece of cheese that’s under a box propped up with a stick? Are you gonna tell me it’s one thousand percent safe to reach for, you promise? Cross your heart and hope to stay dead?” 

Agatha bites her top lip, arms crossed. The new hair still looks great, but whatever she’s got going on makeup-wise – it’s very…washed-out, even for a ghost. There are circles around her eyes, a red hue on the delicate skin around her nose. Maybe Billy’s testing out some conceptual looks on her. He’s certainly evolved from his days of raccoon-like eyeliner. 

“I’m gonna leave you alone,” Agatha says.

“Not off to a strong start on that front, are we? Fifty seconds left, by the way. And no, I’m not coming back to Billy’s mold farm of an apartment for another night of playing house. You’re not as good a cook as you think you are. That deer tasted like tires.” 

Not true, obviously. The pot pie was, like everything Agatha makes, the kind of delicious that sits on your taste buds long after it’s gone. Which Agatha will point out, Rio’s sure. She’ll make some annoying innuendo about the other things that Rio’s surely missed tasting, and then Rio will have to counter that with – 

But Agatha’s not quipping. Why isn’t Agatha quipping? 

“I just came to tell you,” Agatha says, and then stops. Her opacity lowers; for a second, Rio can barely see her. “I came to tell you that I forgive you,” she says in the high, reedy voice that means her heart’s split open. 

Throughout the unspooling thread of history, there have only been a smattering of experiences that have truly made Rio feel like the ground was shifting under her feet. Humans, so much more sensitive to the constant reshaping of the cultural clay, undergo this kind of vertigo dozens of times in their short lives; they feel it when wars break out or new boy bands overtake old ones in the zeitgeist. But Rio’s only questioned her understanding of existence itself during the big changes. The meteor that took out the dinosaurs was one. The Black Plague was another, with its obscene influx of clients. Seeing Agatha for the first time. Realizing that Nicky’s hourglass held a single grain of sand. 

And now this: hearing Agatha say the unimaginable. Rio wishes that smelling salts were still all the rage. She could really use some right about now. 

“No you don’t,” Rio says reflexively. 

Agatha makes a wretched sound in the back of her throat. “I do,” she says, her eyes very bright. Rio would dab at the forming tears if she dared to move. “I swear I do. I know you couldn’t – and you still gave – you gave me so much. And then I made you mourn him alone.”

Rio balls and unballs her fists. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. This self of hers, unwieldy flesh and tendon. Painstakingly designed, long ago, to make Agatha look at her. “You mourned alone too,” she says quietly. 

Agatha floats closer, laying a cold hand on Rio’s face. “My beautiful girl,” she says tenderly, her thumb stroking a well-trod path along Rio’s cheekbone. “I’ll always, always love you. But I don’t deserve you. When you find someone else to pick flowers for, you better tell her that she’s a lucky gal.” 

Just as Rio moves to place her hand over Agatha’s, the ghost is gone; Rio’s hand lingers in the air, holding nothing. 

Amid the brew of emotions, a memory pings at the back of Rio’s head. During her last trip to Nicky’s grave, she’d felt a spectral presence concentrated in the overgrown woods. Not a rare occurrence for her – to Rio’s constant chagrin, ghosts are absolutely fucking everywhere. But this presence had been oddly potent, like the spirit was still bursting with unstoppable life. 

Of the billions of lives that Rio’s encountered, one stands out as exponentially more unstoppable than the rest. 

“Are you sure you don’t wanna talk?” Billy asks, deflecting a blast of Agatha’s purple energy. 

“‘Bout what?” Agatha asks innocently, sending two more purple spurts spiraling toward Billy’s face. Billy ducks out of the way; the magic fries the grass behind him to ash. 

The location of their training sessions changes night to night to avoid attracting too much attention. They’ve sparred on high school football fields, in the parking lots of foreclosed businesses, beneath bridges, on trash-strewn beaches – anywhere they can find that feels relatively safe from prying eyes. Tonight’s lesson is taking place beside a set of train tracks that cuts through a swath of underdeveloped land. In the distance, Billy can see the warm lights of people’s homes. 

“You know what. About you and – ”

“Billy, do you think I should try boys?” Agatha says, twisting her fingers in a spidery series of movements. Thin tendrils of magic loop around Bill’s ankles, yanking violently. “I’m gonna level with you, I haven’t heard good things. But I’m willing to be bowled over by a persuasive argument from a card-carrying man-liker.” 

“No, they’re terrible,” Billy says, sending quick bursts of blue at the purple tendrils. It doesn’t work; the blue evaporates on impact. “Shit. Why – ”

“You’re trying to attack it like it’s regular matter,” Agatha reminds him. Right – she’d focused Monday’s lecture on the difference between repelling magical and non-magical threats. “Change your mindset.” 

Billy concentrates. The next set of blue bursts is more lightweight; it snakes around the purple, overtaking the opposing magic until the tendrils flicker and die. 

“Better,” Agatha says, nodding proudly. “You wanna take five?” 

Fetching his water, Billy sits by the train tracks, letting his breathing even out. Agatha levitates a few feet off the ground, dislodging a bit of dirt from her long black coat. (She’s been wearing a lot of black, lately.)

“You’re not serious about trying boys,” Billy says, gulping his water.

“I’m dead serious. Get it, because – ”

“You might be the gayest person I know. And I know a lot of gay people.” 

“Well, it is a competition,” Agatha says, haughtily brushing a lock of hair from her face. 

“Are you seriously done chasing her?” Billy asks. While he doesn’t know exactly what went down after he inadvertently shuttered Agatha’s date night, he does know that Agatha’s been apartment-bound for weeks. “She followed you around for centuries and you’re throwing in the towel after, like, two years?” 

“I seem to recall an opinionated young gentleman informing me that ‘she doesn’t really seem like she wants you to keep chasing her, it’s been years.’ What was that oh-so-insightful chap’s name? Shmilliam Shmaximoff?” 

“No one would wear that weird bra-overall combo to a night with their ex if they wanted to end things for real.” 

“So now she’s asking for it with the way that she’s dressed. Oh, the little apps are gonna hear all about this. You’re going to Woke Jail, Billy-boy.” 

Billy grabs the bottom of Agatha’s coat, tugging her back toward the ground. “I heard a few of Rio’s thoughts when I came in the other night,” he says. It feels a little amoral to share the contents of someone else’s head, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

“Lady Death’s thoughts!” Agatha says. She’s wearing that protective smile that she uses to paper over her more inconvenient emotions. “Look at you go. If you heard anything X-rated, I hope it’ll encourage you to steer clear when the adults are playing next time.” 

“She loves you so much, Agatha,” Billy says, swishing the edge of Agatha’s coat affectionately. 

Agatha wilts. “I know she does,” she says, clearing her throat. “That’s not the issue.” 

“So what’s the – ”

“The issue is smug superheroes who for some reason think that a smidgen of natural talent with the shooty blue hands makes them the Love Doctor. Let’s stick to our strengths.” 

Billy tries so hard to snipe the incoming thought before it breaches his defenses, but Agatha’s thoughts are like battering rams. I came to tell you that I forgive you, he sees Agatha say; she sounds like she did when that shard of glass wedged itself in his gut during Alice’s trial. Absorbing the statement, Rio’s face reminds him of the dogs that he used to tend to while volunteering at Eastview’s animal shelter. Wary, yes, but hopeful of finally being welcomed home for good. 

Billy shakes his head, severing the connection. “Oh, Agatha, I’m so proud of – ”

“Great,” Agatha says, flicking her wrist; purple energy sparks in her palm. “Thanks. You ready for round two? Real bad guys aren’t gonna give you a siesta in the middle of a fight.”

“So are you back together? Were you just waiting to hard launch – ”

“This might be difficult to believe for the go-getter who gave Death herself the old Uno reverse card,” Agatha says, wrapping Billy in a lasso of purple light. “But sometimes, things just don’t work out. Even when there’s love, and forgiveness, and all the nice tasty ingredients you need for one big happy relationship. So you move on. You survive. That’s the only option.” 

Billy struggles against the bindings. “Bullshit. I saw you guys in that cute cottage. You were, like – Disney amounts of in love. You don’t move on once you find that. No one does.” 

“Tough titty, because she has to,” Agatha says sharply. The lasso tightens, cutting off the circulation in Billy’s arms. “Do you know how lucky you are that your special quirk is wiretapping people’s brains? Mine is hurting people. I can’t not hurt people. I can’t. I’ve tried. Even the one person that – All I’ve ever done is hurt her. Imagine you just involuntarily punch Eddie in the face every time he leans in for a smooch. And then he keeps loving you. You’d tell him that he shouldn’t, right? Wouldn’t you tell him to run away as fast as his little legs could carry him?” 

With a crackle of blue, Billy disintegrates the lasso. In a few confident steps, he closes the gap between them, engulfing Agatha in a crushing hug. “Not if Eddie regularly threatened me with a knife and sprayed broken glass in my face,” he says into Agatha’s shoulder. “In that case, I’d be like, wow, love is love.” 

Agatha gives a watery laugh. As Billy rubs her back, he thinks about how close his dysfunctional lesbians came to reconciling after just a few hours cooped up in his apartment. 

“Would you show me the cottage again?” Billy asks. “I might want to do some redecorating and I’m looking for inspiration. The rustic stuff is very in right now.” 

Agatha pulls back, eyes narrowing as she inspects Billy’s face. If she smells something fishy, it doesn’t seem like she’s able to identify the fish. 

“If it means we can take down the twink poster,” she says with a shrug. Billy’s mind fills with images of that quaint cabin, the thatched roof snugly overhanging a single sweet room with tea on the stove and fire in the hearth. Unlike his usual excursions into other people’s memories, Billy doesn’t scramble for the exit. Instead, he starts taking notes. 

The kid flies out of nowhere, slamming into Rio’s side. If Rio currently had lungs, they’d have the wind knocked out of them; fortunately, she’s been favoring skeleton mode ever since Agatha put her hand on Rio’s cheek. It’s easier not to feel the touch’s absence with no face at all. 

“Fuck,” Billy squeaks, springing back. “Sorry, sorry – ”

“What the hell are you – ” 

Rio’s head is suddenly invaded with Billy’s frantic voice. Don’t tell her about Wanda, don’t tell her about Wanda, don’t tell her about Wanda, don’t – 

“Billiam William Maximoff Kaplan,” Rio says, shifting back to skin so she can give Billy a real glare. She hadn’t known that the twerp’s telepathy turned a megaphone when he was having, as the latest parenting books liked to say, big feelings. Useful knowledge to have. “What are you up to?” 

“Nothing!” Billy says, glancing around shiftily. Second life, Rio hears. Second life, new body, second life, second life. 

“Oh, I think the fuck not.” Rio’s not about to let yet another Maximoff waltz back from the great beyond. To do what? Raise her annoying sons in the Sokovian tradition of kidnapping towns and tearing the fabric of the multiverse? Become Agatha’s doe-eyed little mentee? (Rio’s seen the WandaVision reruns. It took her a few tries to get through them, though. She kept smashing the TV whenever Agatha’s eyes dipped below Wanda’s neckline. Which happened pretty goddamn often!) 

Rio makes a grab for Billy’s arm, but he’s already zoomed off in a panic. She blinks and he’s gone. Since when can magical Doogie Howser teleport? 

Newly-formed heart in her throat, Rio pops into Billy’s apartment. Or tries to, anyway. She actually lands in the hallway outside his front door, which definitely isn’t where she meant to land. In her eons of appearing wherever she wants to be across the whole of the earth, Rio’s location selection has never, ever been imprecise. 

“Why – ” Rio hears to her right. Agatha’s floating in the hallway’s stairwell, staring at her in shock.

“Where is he?” Rio snarls, whipping around. Billy’s nowhere to be seen. The door to his apartment is slightly ajar; Rio reaches for the handle. 

“Now?” Agatha says with dismay. “But he doesn’t – he doesn’t seem sick, or – ”

Oh, god. “No,” Rio says quickly. “No, no, no. It’s not his time. I just need to talk to him. Or maybe kill him. Not really. Kidding. Maximoff!” she shouts, storming into Billy’s apartment. 

For the second time in recent memory, Rio feels the ground shift beneath her feet. 

Because it’s not Billy’s apartment. What Rio walks into is a perfect replica of their beloved cottage. The air is perfumed with a wonderful blend of burning firewood and dried herbs; a teapot whistles happily on the stove. Noting a new heaviness bogging down her body, Rio looks down: her sleek outfit is gone, replaced with the layered green dress and matching cape of days long since past. Blinking rapidly, Rio considers the insane possibility that she’s finally cracked how to turn back time. 

“What did you do?” Agatha says from behind her.

Rio turns. Agatha – clad in a muted eighteenth-century frock, that intricately-embroidered pocket hanging from her hip – is bobbing by the coat rack, looking stunned. “Fucking s’cuse me? What did I do? What did you – ”

The front door slams shut and then promptly disappears. On the counter, a vaguely old-timey hourglass materializes, flipping itself so that the sand begins to drain. 

Rio looks at Agatha. In one voice, they both hiss: “Billy.” 

Agatha’s not having the best day. 

To start with, Mrs. Mason’s been getting into reciting a litany of puke-inducing self-affirmations before she starts work from her tritely-decorated home office. I am worthy, she says each morning in a near-shout, the sound bleeding through the ceiling. I am confident. I am powerful. Agatha would love to shout back You are shrill, you are pear-shaped, your husband’s definitely sleeping with his receptionist, but Billy threatened to put up more of his ugly gay decor if she didn’t stop antagonizing the neighbors (and, by extension, the eviction-happy landlord). 

Then, Billy flew off to god knows where, leaving Agatha in an apartment with zero non-shitty snacks. Rice cakes? Banana chips? She knows that Billy’s been on a health kick lately, but man. God forbid the living person lives a little every once in a while. 

And just when Agatha thought that she was settling in for a nice night of Drag Race and choking down banana chips, she was kicked from the couch by unseen forces, booted to the hallway’s stairwell against her will. Could this day get any more idiotic? Agatha had thought to herself. She should’ve known that the universe would take that as a challenge. 

“I’m not part of the coven, Billy,” Rio shouts, scowling at the ceiling of the apartment. (Cottage. Whatever.) “I’m not doing your trial-by-personal-growth. Not gonna happen.” 

Taking a deep breath, Agatha barrels through the spot in the wall where the door should be. Yelping, she stumbles back into the cottage; the space is surrounded by an upgraded model of Billy’s blue timeout cage. It’s much stronger, though – like Wanda’s Hex, it sizzles menacingly, propelling away any ghostly energy. Agatha feels a stab of genuine fear. 

“We have to do it,” she says, swiveling back to Rio. “Look for the – whatever the fuck. The clue. The kickoff.” 

Rio’s lip curls. “Don’t tell me you’re still humoring him. Does he actually think that his Wizard of Oz copyright infringement was the great and powerful Witches’ Road? If he needs a reality check, I’m an expert in breaking bad news. The expert.” 

“No, he knows it was fake. But he’s still figuring out how to hold the reins of all that Chaos magic he got from mommy. It gets out of control, sometimes.” 

“Tell him to put a muzzle on it. I’m out.” The black smoke begins to swirl at Rio’s feet. 

“Rio – ” Agatha grasps for Rio’s arm; no luck. Her hand is fully incorporeal. “You can’t leave.” 

“What’s awesome is I can, actually.” 

“But I can’t.” Agatha gestures to the walls. “He’s ghost-proofed the place.” 

Rio taps her chin pensively. “And that’s my problem because…?” 

Agatha glances at the steadily-draining sand in the hourglass. “Because his trials tend to end with voting somebody off the island.” 

“You’re already dead, Agatha. What, you think he’d banish you? He’s crazy about you. You’re his ghost with the most.” 

“Did you have your fingers in your ears when I said he’s been known to lose control? He liked Alice, didn’t he? He liked Lilia.” 

Rio presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You planned this, didn’t you. You and your sidekick. Was the Wanda thing your idea?” 

Agatha doesn’t have time to contemplate what the Wanda thing is. Rio gets so weird whenever Wanda comes up. “So you just don’t believe anything I say anymore? Is that how it’s gonna be?” 

“I mean, if the witch keeps crying wolf…” 

“Fine,” Agatha says angrily, fighting the instinct to beg Rio to stay. She’s begged Rio for enough. “Go. Don’t be surprised if you feel one less abomination floating around the airways in half an hour. How nice for you.” 

Rio gives her a long, probing look. With that dress on, her hair half-up in the style that Agatha used to do for her, it’s immensely difficult not to think of Rio at their first few meetings: always in the distance, across a stream or behind a tree. Always watching Agatha with big, reverential eyes. Is there still more to see, spirit? Agatha had teased her once, sensing Rio’s presence as she raised a pail of water from a well. Have you not memorized each flake of skin and follicle of hair by now? 

If I have, the wonder of your body will soon bring forth more of each, Rio had said shyly, watching Agatha lift the pail. Alas: my work is never done. 

“There’s a scroll,” Rio says, nodding at the replica of their dining room table. “You think it’s an invitation to Cinderella’s ball?” 

Agatha hurriedly unfurls the scroll, squinting at the loopy handwriting: 

ADD THE INGREDIENTS

MIX WELL 

GOOD LUCK AND DON’T FUCK IT UP 

“You’re not RuPaul, dickhead,” Agatha shouts at the reenforced walls. “But you might be the hilarious Ross Matthews, because you’ve got to be fucking joking.” 

Rio slams open the cabinets. “What ingredients? There’s nothing here.” 

“The boy never shops,” Agatha says, irritated. “Check by the spice rack. That’s where – ”

“Right,” Rio says, already moving toward the spot where they used to pile freshly-picked vegetables from their garden before putting them away. But every surface in the cottage is antiseptically clean.

“Maybe it’s a potion,” Agatha says, pacing back and forth. (Floating back and forth.) “‘Mix well…’ That arthritis antidote we used to sell requires a hell of a lot of mixing. Ironically.” 

“Why would he want us to make that? His bones are two seconds old.” 

“Don’t yuck my yums if you’re not gonna offer an alternative.” The air smells like herbs. Agatha darts to the spice rack; a few glass bottles boast a small amount of dried plant matter. “Get me a pot.” 

“There’s nothing here,” Rio repeats, splaying her arms. “It’s like a cardboard cutout version of a house. We push on it, I bet the entire thing falls over.” 

“The teapot,” Agatha says, struggling to pick up a bottle with her transparent hands. She really needs to figure out how to stop losing her solidity whenever shit hits the fan. “Get the lid off.” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” Rio says, giving Agatha an exaggerated military salute as she plucks the lid from the pot. The water inside bubbles boisterously. 

“Dump those in,” Agatha instructs, pointing at the bottles escaping her grasp. Judging by the scents, they’ve got mugwort, thyme, and nettle. 

“Ah, the potion of Smells Good,” Rio says, emptying each bottle into the water. “You’ve done it, Detective Agnes. You solved the big case.” 

The hourglass is already halfway gone. There’s no way that Billy’s giving them as long as his other trials. “Are you gonna help or are you just gonna be a bitch?” 

“Mm.” Rio thinks. “Second one.” 

“Of course,” Agatha says, ducking under the bed in her desperation to find something – anything – of use. “I should’ve known. Lady Death’s but a passive observer to the follies of the rest of us. Would you like to take a breather while I figure out how to not get banished forever? Maybe put your feet up?”

“Might as well, since you’re gonna do whatever you want anyway,” Rio says, flicking the hourglass. “What I want doesn’t usually factor into the Agatha Harkness master plan.” 

Agatha pauses her frantic pawing through their dresser. “You want to do this now?” 

“No time like the present, since you’re leaving me alone.” 

“Because you told me to,” Agatha says, stalking back toward the dining room table. She wishes that her hands would become substantive again, if only so she could strangle Rio. 

“Yeah, and then you dropped a nuclear bomb and fucked off immediately. Would it have re-killed you to let me get one single word in, for once?” 

Agatha points to the hourglass. “By all means, make a speech.” 

“I love you with every fiber of my being, you stupid piece of shit,” Rio snaps. “The only way I got myself to stop pining after you so hard that my fucking teeth ached is by telling myself you would never, ever say what you said. And then you said it. And then you left! You and your PMS seesaw moods. ‘I’m gonna hate you for eternity.’ ‘Sike, let me just cup your face in this creepy movie backlot-ass forest and try to kiss you.’ ‘Double sike, I never want to see you again, even when I die.’ ‘Whoops, now I’m sucking your face off your skull and I’m committing the weirdest goddamn suicide of all time.’ ‘Surprise! I’m in my ghost era, let’s get back together.’ ‘I love you, beautiful angel princess, but I don’t deserve the thing that you’ve been explicitly pleading with me to accept for the past three centuries.’” 

“I don’t think I called you a princess.” 

“Jesus Christ, Agatha.” Rio digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. “In the middle of the thirty different schemes to get me to give you your precious attention again, did it ever occur to you to just ask me what I want?”

“What do you want?” Agatha asks. She’s close enough to see each strand of the delicate lace at Rio’s collar. 

“You,” Rio says, her voice breaking. “I want to pick flowers for you.”

The hourglass is a distant memory. There’s a painful lump in Agatha’s throat. “But you deserve more than – ”

“I don’t care. A hundred billion people, Agatha. A hundred billion people and it’s only ever been one asshole witch for me. And don’t go all high-and-mighty on the ‘deserve’ stuff. I’ve done shit, too. I’ll do shit again. So will you.” 

“You kept him company,” Agatha says waveringly. Getting each word out is a battle. “You wrote him your own verses. How can you even look at me?” 

“All I ever want to do is look at you,” Rio says, soft and feverish. She presses her hands to Agatha’s cheeks. (Look at that! Corporeal again.) “I just – I can’t do this if there’s a part of you that’s only gonna see him when you look back.” 

“I’m always gonna see him when I look at you,” Agatha says, threading her hands through Rio’s hair. Rio deflates, her eyes downcast. “Just like I always saw you when I looked at him. Because he was yours. He had your – everything. But I’m not gonna see what you had to do to him. Not anymore. I’m gonna see what you did for him. For me.” 

“You promise?” Rio whispers, still staring at the floor. 

Agatha tips her chin up with a finger. “Cross my heart and hope to stay dead,” she says, kissing her as the last of the sand lands at the bottom of the hourglass. 

If Agatha were to open her eyes, which she doesn’t, she’d see the cottage stretching and contracting back into Billy’s living space. If her hands weren’t so enthusiastically knotted in Rio’s hair, she might feel their clothes reshaping themselves back into more modern patterns. Even if she did bear witness to the room’s return to normal, though, she wouldn’t care. The signifiers of the time period matter as little to her as time itself. Once the precious commodity that she stole and bargained for and outran, time now yawns before her in an endless supply. To make up for the centuries of separation, Agatha plans on spending every single moment of her newfound eternity kissing Rio senseless. 

“Love and forgiveness,” Billy says from the reformed doorway. “Quick-and-easy two-ingredient recipe.” 

If Billy’s waiting for a response, he’s gonna be waiting for a while. Agatha wasn’t kidding about spending every single moment with her tongue in Rio’s mouth. 

“Uh,” Billy says. “I can – I’ll – I’ll come back later.” 

“Go take a spin around the ShopRite, kid,” Rio says over her shoulder. “Pick up some Gatorade while you’re there. We’re gonna need to replenish electrolytes.” 

“Oh, gross,” Billy groans as Agatha throws her head back in a cackle. “Just stay away from my bed, okay?” 

“I’m gonna break your bed like a KitKat,” Rio says seriously. “That’s what you get for fucking with a primordial being. Little life lesson from me to you.” 

As Billy retreats back out the door with a grimace, Agatha opens her mind. Not bad, young Padawan, she broadcasts. 

Relationship Advice Avenue got that second lane opened up, Billy sends back. I’m really happy for you, Agatha. You guys are perfect for each other. Please don’t let her destroy my bed. 

You can’t fight Death, Billy, Agatha thinks, collapsing back into Rio’s arms. The woman gets whatever she wants. 

Milliseconds after the man’s soul is expelled from his body by the seizing of his cholesterol-clogged heart, Rio appears in her full skeletal glory.

“The end is nigh,” she rasps, worms inching from her eye sockets. “The pain that you’ve caused now returns to you tenfold. The time has come to heed its call.” 

“You’ve got the wrong guy!” the man squeaks, attempting to shove himself back into his physical form. Considering that the man spent most of his life pretending to be other people while cold-calling strangers – assuming the identity of their bank, their sick relative, anything to con a stranger into forking over their sensitive information – it’s not surprising that he’d have a bit of an identity crisis at the end. 

“Waste not your explanations on me, accursed soul,” Rio says, pointing a long, bony finger to the horizon. “For I am not the one holding your doomed future in my hands.” 

In a storm of purple fire, Agatha appears in a long red ball gown and a headband adorned with glitter-encrusted horns (both items filched from Billy’s steadily-improving drag closet). “What’s up,” Agatha says, striking a pose. “I’m the devil.” 

“She’s the devil,” Rio says, nodding. 

“You’re – ?” The man’s eyes sink way too low for Rio’s liking. “Huh. Well, if I gotta go with you, I guess I gotta – ”

Rio’s entire form bursts into radiant green flames. “Accumulating sins until the bitter end, I see,” she booms. “Do you know the punishment in hell for coveting another’s wife?” 

“Ooh, I know this one,” Agatha says, raising her hand. “It’s fingernail removal. Not my specialty, by the way, so it might take me a couple thousand tries.” 

The man glances between them. “Wait, the devil is someone’s wife – ?”

“Here’s what I’m gonna do for you, Steve,” Agatha says, throwing an arm over the man’s shoulders. (His name definitely isn’t Steve.) “Just because I’m feeling generous, I’m gonna give you a ten-second head start through the portal.” 

Rio snaps her fingers; a column of light appears to the man’s right. 

“Use those ten seconds wisely,” Agatha says, thumping the man on the back. “Because once they’re up, I’m comin’ for those fingernails, and I’m very fast. (Not at the fingernail stuff, though. That’s gonna take eons.)” 

The man rockets into the portal, giving Agatha a horrified look over his shoulder as he disappears. As Agatha doubles over laughing, Rio reconstitutes her flesh with a nasty snick sound. 

“You’re a natural, my love,” Rio says, snaking her hands around Agatha’s waist. 

“Hey, not so close,” Agatha says, playfully pushing Rio back. “I can’t let the other ghosts know I’m sleeping with the boss. Can you imagine the water cooler chatter?” 

Rio pulls her back in, risking a kiss despite the pop of red lipstick that Agatha chose for the occasion. “What time is Billy’s thing?” she asks. They’d received a cordial invitation to Billy’s first real drag gig, which is taking place in the basement of a skeevy-looking gay bar in Brooklyn. Rio can’t wait to freak out the baby gays. 

“Not ‘til nine,” Agatha says, tilting Rio’s wrist to check her watch. 

“Oh, cool,” Rio says. Her watch informs them that it’s only five forty-two. “So we’ve got time.” 

“Yeah,” Agatha says with a smile, gently brushing a bit of Rio’s hair from her face. “We’ve got time.”

Artwork by LaserLazuli