Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Of all the places Agatha Harkness thought she would possibly be at 42 years old, pregnant, single, and looking for a roommate on Craigslist wasn’t one of them.

She was chewing on the end of her pen as her hands hovered over the keyboard, mid-way through trying to write an ad that didn’t make her sound like a complete loser, and of course, failing spectacularly.

The cursor on the screen blinked maddeningly at her, as if questioning her choice of words:

Looking for a roommate to share my 2br, 2ba Williamsburg apartment. Spacious, clean, and close to subway stations. Living with me: a woman, 40s, single, who works from home. Must be tidy and respectful of shared spaces. Not looking to make new friends, just to pay my mortgage.

It was truthful, at the very least. Short and maybe a bit curt, sure. But she didn’t want to inspire the kind of people looking to braid each other’s hair and watch rom-coms together—all she needed was a cash cow. Someone to fill the Ralph-shaped void that had been left in her mortgage account, and nothing more.

Agatha sighed, running a hand through her wild, wavy hair and leaning back in the leather office chair. She looked around at her apartment—cozy, mid-century, the perfect Brooklyn gem she’d spent so long looking for—and sunk her teeth into her lower lip, absentmindedly chewing in contemplation.

She couldn’t lose this place, and this was the only solution. Moving out was not an option.

Without a second thought to the tone of the ad, or the one major detail she’d conveniently left out, Agatha hit ‘post’ and exhaled a long, slow breath. Surely Craigslist had seen worse.

———

That night, exhausted but unable to sleep—as had been the theme throughout her first trimester thus far—Agatha thought of all the different versions of herself she’d been throughout her life, and what they’d think if they could see her now.

On any other night, she’d pad over to her desk and channel her restlessness into working on her novel, but something about the sheer weight of the decisions she’d been forced to make today instead saw her turn to self-loathing-fuelled reflection.

18-year-old Agatha might’ve hoped she’d be still traveling the world at 42, her body capable and her soul untethered, hiking Machu Picchu or motorbiking through Vietnam.

27-year-old Agatha would’ve hazarded a closer guess to her current reality, but still, no cigar. Back then, she’d thought her future contained a couple of kids, a nice home in the suburbs, and a handsome husband who doted on her while she went off to her big job as a professor in the city.

By 36, Agatha was convinced the next forty-plus years of her life would be spent with Ralph. Sure, he wasn’t what she’d envisioned for herself when she was younger—never comfortable with her ambitions, always reluctant to truly commit—but she’d accepted her fate, and they’d made it work.

Love was about sacrifice, she knew, and he was the closest to love she’d ever come. Maybe the closest she’d ever actually be able to come.

And then, when 42 finally rolled around, she’d peed on a flimsy test from CVS and instantly felt emotions completely foreign to her flood her corporeal form when the single line she was expecting was, in fact, two: pregnant.

Shifting onto her side in bed, sheets suffocating her all of a sudden, Agatha grazed a single hand over the curve of her belly. Not quite showing yet, but not as flat as it used to be, either. The only sign that she wouldn’t be completely alone in the world forever.

Now, this kid was all she had. No partner to speak of—no, Ralph had up and left within weeks of finding out she was pregnant, emboldened by the fact they had been together seven years but never actually gotten married.

Of course, that hadn’t been for lack of trying on Agatha’s part. In hindsight, she saw it for what it was. An easy out.

He’d fucked off with no sense of obligation to his kid, clearly no sentimentality about impending fatherhood, and, Agatha was certain, a woman waiting for him somewhere behind the scenes.

Probably your secretary or your personal trainer, she’d hissed into his face at the time, an accusation he hadn’t straight-up denied. She was sure she’d see a photo of him with an arm slung around some college girl soon enough.

Their seven-year relationship had ended in the blink of an eye. On one single day three weeks ago, Ralph had shuffled boxes of his things out of their apartment while Agatha watched on coolly from the couch in between bouts of violent morning sickness, which Ralph had shown no care or concern for.

So, she was here. An emotionally wrung-out, soon-to-be single mom in her 40s who had to resort to getting a roommate to pay her bills. Fucking pathetic.

She sighed, trying to put all the past Agathas and their unbearable disappointment out of her mind. This is your reality, she thought, before promptly pulling a pillow over her face and directing every ounce of energy left in her body towards willing herself to sleep.

———

Agatha woke the next morning feeling as fresh as one could after only a handful of hours of tossing and turning. She was face-down on the pillow when a ding startled her into alertness.

Opening one bleary eye, she reached over to find the offending object—her phone—nestled between the bedsheets, battery percentage long turned red. Craigslist, 1 new notification, it read.

She felt around on the bedside table next to her for her glasses, slipping them onto her face impatiently, and opened up the notification.

Hey! I read your ad and I’m really interested in looking at the place. Could I come by today?

No more details were given; no backstory or photo of this person who had as much chance of being a serial killer as they did a normal human being. Just a name: Rio V.

Agatha flipped onto her back, propping up the pillows behind her as she stared down at her phone. She’d be insane to let this person—fuck, she didn’t even know if they were a man or a woman—into her home, even just to have a quick poke around. Wouldn’t she?

On one hand, she was a pregnant 42-year-old who hadn’t been to the gym in months and had very little chance of being able to fend off an axe-wielding crazy person.

But on the other hand… well, she needed the cash. Stat.

Twirling a lock of hair in her fingers as she was wont to do when anxious, Agatha’s fingers tapped over the keyboard.

Hi. When can you come? I’m free after noon, she wrote gingerly, hitting ‘reply’ before her better judgement had the chance to catch up with her.

A response came instantly. Make it 12.30 then. Send me your address! 💚

What the fuck kind of weirdo sends a heart emoji to someone they don’t even know? Agatha wondered, bewildered. At least one of her questions was tentatively answered. Must be a woman—one less thing to worry about, she supposed.

She glanced at the time on her phone: 8.30am. More than enough time to shower, clean up the loose papers and tea cups that were currently scattered on every surface throughout the house, and find something to wear that gave a better impression than spaghetti-stained sweatpants.

12.30 it is, she typed back, relaying her address before adding, Oh, and please don’t be a serial killer. I don’t feel like explaining a bloody murder scene to the HOA.

———

After what felt like only minutes had passed, Agatha’s home—all 1,200 square feet of it—was clean from top to bottom. The papers had been stuffed into a drawer, the various mugs washed and gleaming on the drying rack in the kitchen, and all signs of her month-long depression rot had been swept and mopped and polished away. She’d even put on a bit of makeup for the first time since Ralph had left, and swept her hair back into a tidy, albeit lazy, ponytail.

The buzz of the intercom broke Agatha out of her post-cleaning reverie. She startled, before glancing at her watch and noticing the time: 12.29pm.

Well, at least her serial killer was punctual.

Straightening her blouse and her posture, she strode over to the intercom and answered it.

“Hello?” she said cautiously, not sure of what to expect on the other end.

The voice that came through was bright, and confirming her suspicions, decidedly female. “Hey, it’s Rio, I’m here to see the apartment.”

Agatha steeled herself. As long as this woman wasn’t a total nutjob, she needed to make the right impression, which meant firmly exerting her boundaries from the get-go. It was important this Rio didn’t get the wrong idea; all Agatha needed was a clean, respectful person to share her space with so she could get back on her feet and pay her damn bills.

Oh, and someone that wasn’t going to totally upend her life when she eventually popped out a kid—although if she had anything to say about it, they wouldn’t be staying that long.

“I’ll let you up. Level six, fourth door on the right,” she said, hanging up the phone.

A few seconds later, there was a knock on the door. Turning the door handle, she braced herself to come face-to-face with some Craigslist creep, perhaps someone wielding a weapon ready to deliver her to certain death—but that never came.

The woman standing before her was, undeniably, a fucking knockout. If Agatha were gay, and 10 years younger, she feared this would be her type. Dark hair, warm, brown eyes, and a body that was all long limbs and obvious muscle.

She was wearing wide-legged black pants held up by a belt with a sparkling silver buckle, and a ribbed black tank top that left little to the imagination, exposing a smattering of patchwork tattoos down one arm. That hand was holding the strap of a black messenger bag slung over her shoulder, and in the other was… flowers?

Okay, that was a curveball.

The other woman clearly registered Agatha’s confused expression, because it was mere milliseconds before she was thrusting them towards her with a lopsided smile.

“They’re azaleas,” the woman—Rio—supplied, gazing down at the cluster of purple and white that Agatha was now gripping onto for dear life. “I, uh, work at a nursery. Plants, not kids. They symbolise new beginnings, if you’re into that kinda stuff.”

Agatha stiffened at the sincerity of the gesture, eking out a tight-lipped smile that was probably more like a grimace. “Thank you,” she managed.

She turned quickly on her heel and placed the bouquet on the kitchen island behind her—she’d figure out a vase and some water later. Or, maybe she’d just let them wither in the sink if the meeting didn’t go well. The world was her oyster, really.

When she returned a minute later, Rio was still standing there, expectantly. It dawned on her that she’d rudely forgotten to even introduce herself—hell, this woman probably didn’t even know her name. No niceties, Agatha, she chastised herself, before sticking out a hand and all-but-barking, “Agatha Harkness.”

The other woman quirked another smile before taking her hand, shaking it slowly. “Rio Vidal.”

“A pleasure. Shoes off, please.”

“You don’t want to check my bag for that axe first?”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “I’m not the TSA. Just know I have mace and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Their eyes met, Rio sensing Agatha’s challenge—her exertion that she was the one in control here. The other woman held Agatha’s gaze for a second, before raising a brow and giving a small, understanding nod.

Agatha cleared her throat. “Shoes.”

Rio obliged quickly, shucking her loafers and leaving them neatly next to each other by the door. Once Agatha was satisfied there would be no dirt tracked through her pristine apartment, she started walking over to the living room, simply assuming Rio would follow.

They settled on the well-worn purple couch, the one Agatha had found forlornly waiting for their neighbourhood trash collection a few blocks down, five years ago. Ralph hadn’t wanted to help her carry it home, so she’d sat stubbornly on it, meeting the stares of passersby with a challenging glare, until Wanda and Billy could make the drive from Jersey.

It was one of the many times Ralph had shown her exactly who he was, only for her not to take any notice.

“Nice couch,” Rio murmured, brushing her hand over the velvet.

“Thanks,” Agatha replied tightly. It wasn’t lost on her that this was the second time she was begrudgingly thanking this woman for doing or saying something nice. The sincerity of Rio’s gestures made Agatha’s chest itch.

“So…” she continued, voice clipped, breaking the silence that had awkwardly fallen around them. “I thought we could talk first and then I’ll give you the tour.”

“Whatever you want, boss.” The smile that stretched over Rio’s face at the retort was different to the ones she’d already handed her. Lazier, slower.

Agatha ignored the sensation Rio’s words—and that goddamn smirk—provoked in her belly, pressing on.

“You read the ad, so you know I’m looking for someone to help me pay my mortgage. Nothing more, nothing less,” she said. “I take it you’re good for the money.”

“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You mentioned you work at a nursery,” Agatha redirected, suddenly confused.

“Yep. Plants, not kids,” Rio replied, not yet cottoning onto the curious uptick in Agatha’s tone. “And I also do massage on the side, and go to school.”

Making a mental note to come back to the massage part later, she narrowed her eyes and returned to her previous point of contention. “I thought nurseries were for potted plants and trees and stuff, not bouquets of flowers.”

“Ah,” Rio rubbed the back of her neck. She looked almost… sheepish? Nervous? “You got me there. Didn’t think you’d be so astute when it came to your greenery.”

“So, you went out of your way to, what… buy flowers for a stranger so you could con her into moving into her apartment?”

“Charm might be a better word for it,” Rio mused, “And is it working?”

“No. And don’t make a habit of it,” Agatha replied flatly.

“Anyway, good to know you’re gainfully employed. Are you clean?”

“Very.”

“Quiet?”

“Mm, mostly,” Rio chuckled.

“And is there a– someone on the scene? Like, someone you’re dating that I need to be aware of?”

Rio paused. “No. And to fill in the blanks for you–no boyfriends, ever. Girlfriends, maybe, but no one at the moment,” she said, her gaze cast down at her feet, a finger idly tracing over the FUCK that was written on the band of her sock.

Thank god; Agatha felt a wave of relief wash over her. The idea of bringing anyone else into her space was enough to send her into an anxiety spiral—especially a dirty, burping, unpredictable man. If she had to have a roommate, a single lesbian was kinda the best-case scenario.

“What about you?”

Agatha froze. Although the question was a natural next step, she supposed, it still caught her off guard. The idea of relaying the last few weeks to anyone other than the people she’d already told—Wanda and her son Billy, and her agent, Jen, if only to explain why she’d not submitted a single chapter in over a month—was terrifying.

Maybe then she’d finally have to fully accept that this was real; that her mother’s suspicions about her, hell, her own suspicions about herself, were correct.

She chose to put it off a little longer.

“Nope,” she stared at Rio in silent opposition, popping the ‘p’ forcefully.

“That all you’re gonna give me?”

Agatha sighed, reaching a hand to her hair to run through it before realising, stupidly, it was still pulled back in a ponytail. She dropped it to her lap and took in Rio’s expression—curious but quiet, open, somehow; as if she were simply giving her room to speak.

“Yes, that's all I’m going to give you. I want to be clear here, Rio–I’m not looking for a ‘bestie’,” she raised her voice, tone mocking, “or someone to share my goddamn life story with. As long as you pay rent on time, don’t invite random people to the apartment without asking me first, and cut the noise by 10pm, that’s all I care about.”

“Right, right,” Rio nodded. “I guess I just want to make sure that I’m not gonna be living with some random person I don’t know, other than you. It goes both ways, you know.”

Agatha gritted her teeth, forced to give up the ghost. “Well, that won’t be a problem.”

And that was that.

Satisfied with all Rio’s answers to her questions, and desperate to break the awkwardness that had settled around them, Agatha rose to her feet abruptly and waved a hand towards the rest of the house. She beckoned Rio to join her. “Alright, let me show you the place.”

———

They filtered through each room, chatting idly as she showed Rio the spare bedroom, its tiny en suite bathroom, the kitchen, the balcony with views of the Manhattan skyline. Rio kept the momentum of their conversation going, offering a wry joke here and there, but Agatha’s walls remained staunchly in place behind every painted-on smile or abbreviated chuckle.

Still, she managed to pry a few things out of her. Rio asked about Agatha’s job (a novelist working on her latest book), her star sign (Scorpio—with the world’s most fitting birthday, October 31st), and predictably, her sexuality (straight; no further comments).

Each question Rio asked felt like a razor blade scratching Agatha’s skin, her clipped answers a defence mechanism that would prevent it from sinking in further and drawing any blood.

After they’d finished the grand tour, they made their way back to the kitchen at the front of the apartment. The clock read 2pm, and Agatha felt drained—emotionally and physically. She’d barely eaten all morning, still struggling to keep much more than crackers and coffee down, and an ugly wave of nausea rippled through her like a reminder, starting at her oesophagus and travelling down to curl in her belly.

“You okay?” Rio eyed her curiously.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Agatha exhaled, one elbow resting wearily on the kitchen counter. “Just not sleeping much at the moment.”

Spurred on by the heaviness behind her eyes and the nausea that had taken up residence in her gut, the reality of her situation hit her like a missile. She realised now was the time she’d have to deliver her news to Rio—a conversation that could easily be make-or-break for the other woman and her willingness to live in Agatha’s house.

So far, Rio had passed every test she had thrown at her, and although her constant quips and unwillingness to cower at Agatha’s ice-queen front were annoying, they weren’t exactly good enough reasons not to at least consider her for the room. So, she clenched her jaw and prepared herself to—shudder—be vulnerable for a second.

A beat. An internal deep breath.

“There’s one thing I should probably tell you before you go, if you’re still interested in the room.”

“I’m interested.” Rio looked up at her then, their eyes connecting again instantly. Blue meeting brown. Something flickered in those dark, intense eyes—something that might have been trying to say a little more than just yes, keep telling me about the house.

Whether it was concern for the fact that she was now practically doubled over the counter, or something else she couldn’t name, Agatha wasn’t sure.

“I’m pregnant.”

She watched for a reaction.

Rio pressed a hand to her heart. “Am– am I the father?” she stuttered theatrically.

“Wha–” Agatha coughed, caught off guard. “Fuck, are you trying to make my heartburn worse on purpose with your ridiculous jokes?”

Rio pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek, as if she were trying to stifle a laugh. “If you were looking for a baby daddy, Agatha, you could’ve just said so in your ad.”

“Fucking hell,” Agatha sighed. The headache she definitely hadn’t had before Rio had arrived at her front door was magnifying now, each throb behind her eyeballs like a thunder clap. “I just want to make sure it’s not a problem for you. I– I know it’s kind of an odd situation.”

Rio shrugged. All the bravado leaked out of her demeanour then, replaced with a simple, pensive expression. “I don’t spook easily. How far along are you?”

“Ten weeks.”

“Cool.” Rio’s reply sounded genuine—like she really did think it was cool that she could be sharing a house with a newborn in less than nine months. “Morning sickness?” Rio gestured towards where her hand was still braced across the countertop, clearly cottoning onto the fact that Agatha’s visceral discomfort could be explained by her current situation.

Agatha nodded. “Morning, afternoon, and night. Heartburn, vomiting, nausea, you name it. I don’t know if I’m growing a baby or a demon, at this point.”

Rio responded with a fleeting huff of laughter. “And when the kid comes?” she questioned.

“Nothing changes, I guess. I still need someone to help out with the bills, the mortgage. I don’t like my chances of finding someone who wants to share a New York apartment with a crying baby, but I don’t see an alternative, either.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Agatha was dumbfounded at the simplicity of the response. Nothing ever left her speechless—but this? Well, this had rendered her close. “You don’t think it’s weird? You’re not gonna run for the hills the second you have to hear me barf up my breakfast or sidestep a cranky, hormonal lady in the kitchen?”

“Seems like you’re already kinda cranky,” Rio mused. “And anyway, I thought your personal life was none of my business. You know, ‘this is RuPaul’s Drag Race, not RuPaul’s Best Friend Race’ and all that. Every woman for herself.”

“Impossible,” Agatha muttered under her breath. She wondered how many of Rio’s dumb asides she’d have to endure if they were to actually live together.

(She also made a mental note to catch up on the latest season of All Stars.)

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘incredible’. Sounds like we’re on the same page, then.”

Rio just eyed her amusedly before changing tack. “So, how many other people have you got coming to look at the place?”

“A few,” Agatha lied. It was a half-truth, really—she hadn’t received any more Craigslist messages just yet, but if she did, she’d give them the courtesy of nosying into her space the same way she had Rio. “But I’ll decide pretty quickly once I’ve met everyone. I’ll let you know by the end of next week.”

“Okay,” Rio nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Don’t hold your breath on my account.”

Agatha stuck her hand out in Rio’s direction, a signal for her to leave. But, instead of shaking it, Rio took it in her own, leaning in.

Before she could register what was happening, Rio was pressing a quick but deliberate kiss to her cheek. Agatha felt the spot where Rio’s lips were burn at the contact.

The urge to instinctively pull back came over her, as if she was doing something wrong—but by the time she could react, Rio was already back in front of her, over a foot away, wearing a serene smile as if nothing remarkable had happened.

Agatha’s gut roiled, heavy and full. She blamed the morning sickness.

Rio slipped on her loafers and reached for the door handle to the apartment before tossing one last glance in Agatha’s direction, her words smooth and slow. “Te veo.”

Chapter Text

The five days since Rio had come to view the apartment on Sunday passed in a time-bending blur. If Agatha wasn’t chained to her desk, nursing a cup of herbal tea whilst she took her frustration out on her keyboard—a contradiction if there ever was one, the calm versus the chaos—she was fielding messages on Craigslist and coordinating the presence of various strangers in her space. 

On Monday, there had been the annoyingly perky, sub-25-year-old pilates instructor that had shown her picture after picture of her Ken doll boyfriend. She was an easy no.

On Tuesday, she’d practically slammed the door in the face of a pale, greasy-looking man (in her defense, his name was Leslie) who had turned up wearing a fucking MAGA hat. Between the morning sickness, the insomnia, and the gravity of her situation threatening to close in around her, she had no patience for the casual racism or homophobia she just knew the man was capable of.

It was enough to make her want to vomit—which she promptly did the second he left. Whether it was the baby or the thought of Leslie desecrating her living room with FOX News, she’d never know. But sure, she could guess. 

She’d had a few more visitors as the week went on, but none of them true contenders. They would either put her off in the first few seconds of forced conversation, or balk when she delivered the final blow; that she was pregnant and they’d have to live with a hormonal mother-to-be and eventually, a squalling newborn.

By Friday, Agatha had all but given up—which is how she’d ended up here, an empty message pulled up on her phone addressed to Rio. They’d moved from Craigslist messages to texting after Rio had insisted the app made her feel ‘seedy’, before attempting to strike up a conversation about the Craigslist killer, by whom she was unnaturally fascinated. 

Agatha had just ignored the segue and saved her number to her phone.

Agatha: Hi, Rio. I’ve met everyone who has expressed interest in the room and I think you’re the best candidate. If you’re still interested and haven’t yet found somewhere to live, let me know. 

A response lit up her phone a minute after she’d warily hit send.

Rio: agatha!!! yes i would still LOVE to move in, the place is so cute. idk if i actually said that when we met, i was too busy enjoying watching you size me up lol. lmk when a good day to organize the moving van for would be?

And it had only taken one text to make Agatha feel like she was making a colossal mistake. 

Rio’s chirpy, overly familiar response was… unsettling. She’d made it abundantly clear—or so she thought—that this wasn’t going to be a buddy-buddy kind of situation. 

No, this was a business transaction; one where Rio kept to herself (and in an ideal world, rarely left her room), depositing a few grand in her bank account every month for the pleasure.

Agatha: Honestly, whenever you like. I’m pretty much home all the time. 

Rio: welllll harkness, don’t let me disrupt your busy schedule! 😂 ok so how’s sunday?

Agatha: Sure, Sunday’s good.

Rio: our one-week-since-meeting-aversary. celebrating by literally u-hauling… i love it.

Jesus, the girl was persistent. Agatha supposed she’d get an involuntary education in lesbianism while living with Rio—although the U-haul quip certainly didn’t go over her head. 

Agatha: Ha-ha. I’ll see you Sunday. Text me a time once you’ve organised your truck. I’ll send you my bank details for the first month. 

Rio: will do. te veo 💚

She blew a stray strand of hair out of her face: it was done. No more roommate-hunting clouding her days. Now to move onto the main course—living with another human that wasn’t Ralph for the first time in close to a decade. A chatty, too-comfortable, unfortunately-her-best-option human, at that.

From her position at her desk, her gaze drifted to the bunch of azaleas that she’d propped up in a vase, now sitting feet away from her on the fireplace mantle. She hadn’t had the heart to throw them out like she’d planned, even as the petals began to wither.

Instead, she’d found herself staring at them in moments of deep contemplation, whether she was ruminating over her novel’s main character arc or what the next eight or so months of her life would look like. They were pretty, bright; more life than Agatha’s apartment had seen in a while.

Maybe living with someone else wouldn’t be all that bad. Maybe having someone else to consider would shift Agatha’s mood a little. Make her nicer, more mindful.

Or maybe they’d be at each other’s throats in a week.

Her phone dinged again, breaking her out of her trance and away from the flurry of purple and white in front of her. 

Rio: be there at 10am on sunday. see you soon, agatha. 

———

Agatha heard Rio’s arrival before she actually saw her, hanging out the window of the U-Haul truck that rumbled down the street and parked haphazardly across two street spaces a few doors down from her apartment building. 

Well, she hadn’t been joking about the U-Haul. 

A petite Asian woman with red streaks in her black hair hopped out of the driver’s side before rounding the curb to the other side of the truck and extending a hand to Rio. She took it and bounced down, full of energy. 

From her position on the apartment balcony, Agatha couldn’t read the cues well enough to figure out who this woman was, but she suspected either a friend or someone Rio was seeing. Although, she had said no girlfriend… 

Anyway, as long as Agatha didn’t have to make awkward conversation with her over her morning cereal, her relationship to Rio was none of her business. 

They neared closer to the building and more of Rio’s form came into Agatha’s view. Her hair was knotted in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, curtain bangs escaping messily. One of the straps of her khaki overalls had come free from her shoulder, hanging around her waist and revealing another tank top—white, this time. The messenger bag had been replaced with a plain green tote that looked like it was a second away from falling apart at the seams because of all the stuff crammed into it.

She watched from the balcony as Rio ambled up to the door, hand shielding her eyes from the sun, and began to fiddle with the intercom. 

“Rio!” she shouted in the woman’s direction, hoping she could hear her despite the noisy ambience of Williamsburg on a sunny Sunday morning. 

Glancing up, Rio’s eyes found where Agatha was leaning against the balcony railing, and lit up immediately. She raised two fingers in salute. “Ahoy, sailor!” 

“I’m gonna drop the keys down to you,” Agatha said, promptly tossing a bundle of silver over the railing, which Rio caught one-handed. 

“Thanks!” Rio called up, then made a move to unlock the building’s front door, propping it open. She jogged back to the U-Haul and her friend, where the two of them began to unload boxes from the vehicle and precariously stack them on top of one another.

Upstairs, Agatha re-entered the house and busied herself making a coffee while she waited for Rio. Her last morning living by herself—probably for at least the next 18 years, she realised. Even if Rio’s presence in her home was short-lived, she’d have a child in a matter of months.

The thought simultaneously terrified her and bloomed warm and hopeful in her chest. 

A couple of minutes later, Agatha heard the keys jiggle in the front door lock, and in tumbled Rio and her accomplice, arms laden with boxes. The tattoos on Rio’s right bicep rippled and distorted with exertion as she dropped them in the doorway, taking the place in for the second time. 

“Morning,” Agatha greeted. 

“Glasses,” Rio said by way of a ‘hello’, cocking her head to one side. “They suit you.” 

Agatha’s hand sprung to her face—sure enough, she was still wearing her wire-rimmed reading glasses, the ones that Wanda said made her look like Jeffrey Dahmer. She didn’t dare mention this fact to Rio, lest she launch into another serial killer origin story that Agatha didn’t have the patience or the constitution for. 

For a woman who had assured Agatha she was harmless and not trying to off her in her sleep, Rio sure had a strange hyperfixation with murder. 

“Thanks,” she nodded in robotic response to yet another one of Rio’s freely given compliments. “Glad you made it here safely.” 

And at that, Rio beamed. Like the sun had decided she was the only person in the world worth shining for, and now it was her job to pass along some of that sunlight to Agatha.

“Thanks, Agatha,” Rio said, the blaze of her smile never dimming. “Oh, shit, before I forget and squish it—” she fumbled around in the tote bag she was carrying. “I brought you something. A reverse housewarming gift, if you will,” she said, extending her hands in offering. 

In them was a cardboard coffee cup holder, the kind they gave you when you ordered two drinks, but instead of a beverage, in one of the slots sat a plant. A bulbous green cactus that had sprouted a single purple flower.

“I thought I told you to not make a habit of bringing me flowers,” Agatha chastised. She’d meant for her voice to come out sharp, but it carried less of her usual bite. She just couldn’t muster it after seeing Rio so genuinely happy to receive a single, barely-there nicety from her. 

Instinctively, she reached out and took it, ears buzzing as Rio clarified. “It’s not a flower. It’s a cactus that just happened to sprout a flower. And it reminded me of you,” she shrugged.

There was that heartburn again. Agatha’s free hand fluttered to her chest and she swallowed thickly. But before she could open her mouth to retort, to question what Rio meant, the sound of a throat clearing echoed from the doorway. 

And then they remembered there was another person in the room. 

Rio’s friend, or not-girlfriend, or whoever she was—a tidbit of information Agatha reminded herself she did not need to know or care about—was still lingering in the doorway, boxes dropped at her feet next to Rio’s.

She waggled her silver-ring-coated fingers in Agatha’s direction. “Hey,” the woman said.

“Fuck, Al, I’m so sorry– Alice, this is Agatha,” Rio gestured, “Agatha, Alice. My best friend.” 

“Nice to meet you, Alice,” Agatha said calmly. 

“Yeah, you too,” Alice replied. “Nice place you’ve got here.” 

“Thank you,” Agatha hummed. Alice was right—her place was nice. It just wasn’t completely hers anymore, and that was going to take some getting used to. Starting with the boxes currently cluttering her entryway. 

“You guys should go unpack,” Agatha said, nodding towards the spare room. Rio’s room. “Let me know if you have any questions about anything. I probably shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting.” She eyed Rio, who gave her a small nod of understanding. 

Agatha sipped her coffee and read The Times while the two of them filtered in and out of the front door, exchanging easy conversation as they hauled Rio’s stuff from the entryway to her bedroom. It was close to noon when the last box was lugged through the door, Rio looking a little red-faced and Alice cracking her joints.

“Alright,” Alice said, her hands knotted together above her head in a languid stretch. “I think my job here is done.”

“You’re the best, Al,” Rio gave her friend a squeeze on the shoulder, guiding her to the stairwell. 

A few minutes later, Rio returned solo. “Guess it’s just us now,” she said. 

Agatha stilled from where she was still sitting at the kitchen island, pen poised over a journal full of book notes. “Yep,” she agreed tightly. “You all set up in your room?”

“Mmm, kinda,” Rio replied, “I’m sure it’ll take a while to make it feel like home.” 

Home. Agatha fought the urge to scream, this is my home, not yours —to exert any last shred of control she had left over her rapidly spiralling life. 

But she didn’t, because Rio wasn’t wrong. It was her home now too, one they would have to learn to share. But that didn’t mean she was just going to hand over the reins and let Rio infiltrate her entire life with her charm, with the easygoing warmth and wit that caused Agatha a great deal of discomfort—physical and otherwise.

The key to getting along, to not letting this become something that it wasn’t, was setting boundaries. And that started with only making conversation when they absolutely had to.

“Well, don’t let me ruin your flow. I’ll leave you to it,” Agatha said, shifting her gaze back to her notes in a silent dismissal. 

Rio nodded, grabbing the tote bag she’d left hanging from one of Agatha’s kitchen counter stools and exiting the room with a hasty wave. 

Agatha prayed she’d be in her room, getting things set up for a while. She needed space to breathe, to think, and she couldn’t do that with Rio’s easy presence in her periphery.

Her eyes fell to the cactus this time. What had Rio meant when she said it reminded her of Agatha? Was she calling her prickly, defensive? She couldn’t fault that—she was both of those things. She could make excuses for herself; claim that the last few weeks had made her cold, unwilling to give people who weren’t Wanda or Billy the time of day out of sheer exhaustion. 

But the truth was, she’d felt like this for a while. Suffocated. Rigid. So, so alone—but also unwilling to give anyone new access to her, for reasons she’d barely begun to examine. 

Somehow, though, a heavy-handed, surface-level metaphor like that didn’t seem very Rio, as little as she actually knew about the other woman. There was more to it, she was certain.

Something in her desperately wanted to know. 

But wanting and doing were two very different things—and the idea of Rio seeing her, of her perceptions of Agatha hitting a little too close to home, was enough to keep her quiet.

———

Rio and Agatha’s first week of living together was, as Agatha had predicted, an adjustment. She’d cultivated a laundry list of routines and likes and dislikes in her 42 years, and it was becoming glaringly obvious that she would only stray from those habits under serious duress. 

And because she wasn’t going to be the one to concede, that meant Rio had to relent—even if it meant Agatha was the one actually doing the work.

First, there was the dishwasher. Over time, Agatha had curated a militaristic approach to stacking that would’ve put professional organisers to shame. Everything had its place, and her cutlery always came out gleaming as if it was pure, polished silver. 

With Rio under her roof, stacking the dishwasher had become a contact sport—the contact being Agatha slamming bowls and forks on the granite countertops as she rearranged its entire contents in disbelief that anyone thought it acceptable to put plates on the top rack. 

She fixed it, but she didn’t dare say anything to Rio.

More grievances piled up the more days that went by—small but irritating nonetheless. Tiny teaspoons cluttered the sink on the days Rio was home, remnants of her concerningly frequent coffee breaks. Handwritten notes and textbooks about educational pedagogy and high school biology blinked up at her from where they rested on her coffee table, albeit in a neatly stacked pile, but still, there.

Her fridge now held oat milk and kim chi and bunches of fresh herbs, and when she flicked on the TV, the first channel that came up most mornings was not MSNBC, but National Geographic. It was all too much, and it was threatening to send Agatha into a tailspin. 

Still, she said nothing. 

The final straw was their morning routines. Agatha, ever the night owl, liked to wake up slowly, rarely leaving her bedroom before 9am. 

Rio, on the other hand, turned out to be a morning person. She’d hear the front door bang shut at 6am every morning, an unwelcome shock cutting through her carefully cultivated peace. An hour later, the metallic clang of keys signalled Rio had returned from her excursion.

The first few mornings, she’d groaned into her pillow and tried to force herself back to sleep for a few precious hours. God knows she needed the rest, what with the insomnia still kicking her ass and delaying her bedtime until she could practically hear birdsong. 

But after more than a week of being unceremoniously awoken, it was almost as if her body had adapted to Rio’s routine, and at 6am, she was depressingly, frustratingly, awake. 

So, she did what any sane human would do. She pulled a robe around her, stomped into the kitchen, and made a coffee while she laid in wait for Rio to return home. Agatha liked to think of herself as a practical person, and that’s all this was—a quick ripping off of the bandaid, a matter-of-fact request for Rio to keep it the fuck down so she could get some sleep.

“Holy fucking shit,” Rio jumped, startled by Agatha’s stony-faced presence at the kitchen island, where she was tucked into one of the barstools. She pulled an Airpod out of one ear and braced herself on the counter, breathing heavily. 

“Morning,” Agatha said drily, making no attempts to hide her exhaustion—although she was sure the deep bags under her eyes were doing more than enough in that department. She took in Rio’s sweaty ponytail and green spandex shorts and put the pieces together. “Went for a little run, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Rio narrowed her eyes in confusion, her breathing slowing. “I try and get a couple of miles in every morning.” 

Agatha simply arched a brow and hummed, “mm, I’ve noticed.”

Rio rounded the counter, grabbing herself a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water from the filter jug that lived in the fridge. It wasn’t lost on Agatha that even such a short time in, Rio appeared to be comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable.

Once she’d taken a few swigs, she turned around again and fixed Agatha with a look. Not steely, not challenging—just calm. “Is my going for a run in the morning an issue for you?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but existing on three hours of sleep after I’ve been up all night chucking my guts out isn’t my idea of fun. I’d appreciate it if you could be a little quieter.” 

She braced herself for a fight. Sharpened her claws, mentally replayed her arguments. Took a breath, ready to pounce. 

In her head, it wasn’t an unwarranted reaction. Any time she’d brought up this kind of thing with Ralph—her only real frame of reference—it had turned into either a screaming match or days upon days of the silent treatment (sometimes led by him, but most of the time, by Agatha).

But Rio wasn’t Ralph, another fact that was becoming very clear as time went by. Which is why she shouldn’t have been surprised when Rio just chuckled. 

“You’re the boss,” she mimed zipping her lips and throwing away the key. “Quiet as a mouse, I’ll be. We wouldn’t want that baby in there coming out addicted to caffeine, now, would we?” 

She smirked at Agatha’s giant mug, which was now completely drained of coffee.

So no fight, then.

Agatha fixed her eyes on Rio and offered her a tight, small smile. “I don’t think it’s got any say in the matter,” she admitted. “Coffee’s the only thing keeping me vertical.”

Rio leaned her elbows on the counter, face no more than a foot away from Agatha’s. She rested her head on one hand thoughtfully. “Well, there are worse things to be addicted to. You could be doing meth. Or eating too much sugar. Hear they’re about the same, in terms of fetal development.” 

Before Agatha could catch herself, she let out a snort of laughter. 

Rio’s eyes widened in amused surprise. “Agatha Harkness. Was that a laugh I just heard? For me?”

Agatha shook her head, pulling her top lip between her teeth in a desperate attempt to not dignify Rio’s silly jokes with any more laughter. Still, her icy gaze had thawed, if only a little.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she deadpanned.

Rio just smirked. “Just you wait, Harkness. I’ll win you over yet.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go shower before work,” Rio rounded the counter and started making her way to her room, dismantling her messy ponytail with a quick tug of her hair tie. “Have a good day.” 

Agatha turned and watched Rio start to walk away before mustering the courage to say the thing she’d been wanting to for the better half of their conversation—since Rio had, in the face of being ambushed, simply laid down and rolled over. 

“Hey,” she called out to Rio, who turned around slowly. “Thanks for not making it a thing.” 

And when Agatha said it, she realised she genuinely meant it—that she was appreciative of Rio’s willingness to just hand her control, no questions asked. It didn’t make much sense, but it was what she needed right now, and somehow, Rio had understood that.

It seemed as if she understood this, too—the vastly undersized gesture that Agatha was rewarding her with, her version of a peace offering.

“No worries,” Rio replied kindly, her brown eyes warm as they always were. “Any time.” 

———

Agatha was tucked up in her bed, absentmindedly scrolling through her emails post-afternoon nap, when her phone buzzed with a familiar contact—Wanda. 

It had been a few weeks since she’d seen her best friend, but they’d texted a little; mainly about Agatha’s plethora of pregnancy symptoms and what Billy was up to (going overboard on the eyeliner, worrying over impending college applications, trying and failing to get a summer job at Hot Topic). She was sure she’d asked about Tommy, too, but his activities hadn’t really sunken in—Agatha was unashamedly the type to pick favourites, and she’d done so a long time ago. 

They’d briefly touched on Agatha’s roommate situation, and she’d told her someone was moving in, but offered no more information. 

Which was probably why, when Agatha answered the call on the third ring, Wanda barely greeted her before launching into the Spanish Inquisition. “So, how’s the new roommate?”

“Boring day at the office?” Agatha deflected. Wanda was a therapist, which meant her life was full of other people’s drama, much of which she shared with Agatha in what she was certain was a direct violation of HIPAA. While she never gave up names or specifics, she always had a juicy story on hand or a new client she needed to vent about.

Frustratingly, it also meant that she was the only person in the world who knew which buttons to push to cut through Agatha’s bullshit.

“Focus, Harkness,” Wanda intoned drily. “Updates, now.” 

Agatha dragged her hands over her face. “I don’t walk to talk about it,” she groaned in response. 

“Ooft. Is she really that bad?”

“She’s fine,” she grumbled. “It’s just an adjustment.”

“Are you going to tell me a single shred of information about her, or are we playing 20 Questions?”

“There’s nothing much to tell, Wanda. Her name is Rio, she’s 31, and she works two jobs and studies her master’s. So, she’s extremely busy, as am I,” Agatha emphasised. 

She shifted onto her side and tucked a pillow between her legs, hoping that more physical comfort might make the conversation they were having marginally less uncomfortable. 

“You’re literally always home, and you haven’t lived with anyone but Ralph for years. Surely you have commentary, even if it’s just that she stacks the dishwasher wrong,” Wanda probed. “I know you, Agatha.” 

“Fine,” she relented. Wanda was giving her a gateway to talk about her frustrations, which she supposed was probably healthy, opposed to bottling them up or taking them out on Rio. She just hoped her friend was prepared for the floodgates to open. 

“She drinks way too many stupid cups of coffee and leaves little spoons in my sink instead of washing them. She wakes up every morning at the crack of fucking dawn to go for a run,” Agatha listed off. “And she does stack the dishwasher wrong,” she affirmed grumpily. “Satisfied?”

Wanda let out a soft huff of laughter, and Agatha rolled her eyes. Even though they weren’t on FaceTime, Agatha could picture Wanda’s expression—sizing her up, ready to call her out for overreacting. 

“Those are all pretty minor grievances, hon,” her best friend replied gently. “They’re just the perils of living with a new person.” 

“I haven’t even told you about the fucking flowers,” Agatha said, winding up for the story. “She works at a nursery—a plant nursery—and has this odd habit of bringing me unsolicited floral items. So far there’s been a bunch of azaleas and a succulent,” she huffed. “She’s trying to turn my house into a fucking jungle. It’s unhinged.” 

“The woman’s bringing you flowers? Jesus, I think you’ve bagged yourself the best roommate in the world,” Wanda joked. “Does she need a wife? Because I don’t think Vision would mind.” 

(She was right—he probably wouldn’t. That man was unhealthily obsessed with Wanda, and would do anything to keep her happy, including, Agatha imagined, letting her have a side piece.) 

“Well, she is gay, but that’s beside the point. Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“Another point in her column,” Wanda hummed, before clarifying. “The lesbian thing, I mean.” Something they could agree on, Agatha thought. 

“But to answer your question, no. I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s… sweet. Kind. She honestly sounds kinda great.” 

Agatha snorted. “She’s tolerable at best.”

“You know, there are worse things than actually enjoying the company of the person you live with,” Wanda said gently. 

That one certainly hit its intended mark. 

Agatha thought of Ralph; thought of her mother. Of homes that had felt more like prisons, one partly of her own doing and another, completely out of her control. She tipped her head so she was staring at the ceiling fan, letting its whirring sounds and constant motion recenter her. 

“I don’t enjoy her company, and I don’t plan on that changing,” she finally gritted out.

“All I’m saying is tread carefully,” Wanda warned. “The last thing you need right now is to ice this girl out so completely that she evicts herself before you can make a mortgage repayment.” 

Agatha grunted in acknowledgment. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything more—to change the topic or go back to venting about Rio. Instead, she just lay there.

“Agatha,” Wanda’s voice came gently through the speaker a few moments later. “Are you doing okay?” 

She sucked in a breath. “I’m fine, Wanda,” she lied, but her voice came out smaller than she intended it to. Rising to the challenge Wanda’s concern flared in her, she spoke again, more forcefully this time: “Everything’s fine.”

“Okay,” Wanda spoke quietly again. “I just— I just need you to know that I’ll be here if it gets too much to carry alone. An unexpected pregnancy, the end of a relationship, a new living situation… you’ve had the month from hell.” 

Alone. There was that word again; the one that repeated in her head, day-in, day-out, her mother’s voice ringing in her ears. You’re alone in this world, Agatha. No one could ever love a girl as wicked as you.

Fuck Wanda and her uncanny ability to stare straight into the depths of Agatha’s soul.

She pressed her fingers to the sockets of her eyes, meeting a hint of wetness that she furiously blinked away. No—she wasn’t allowed to do this; not now, and not ever. She had to hold her shit together, even if it meant dropping every other ball in the process. 

Because that’s what survival was, wasn’t it? Keeping the walls of your own room up while the rest of the house burned to the fucking ground. 

“I said I’m fine, Wanda.” 

But because this was the one person she couldn’t push away—who wouldn’t let herself be pushed away—she fought against her survival instincts and didn’t hang up the phone.

She spoke into the silence again. “But I know,” she affirmed Wanda’s offer softly. “If I need to talk, you’ll be the first person I call.” 

Agatha hesitated. “And I’ll be nicer to her. To Rio,” she swallowed. “I’ll try." 

Chapter Text

Agatha’s resolution to be nicer to Rio had been going well, which, in part, was thanks to Rio’s schedule. Despite her presence in the house in the early mornings and late evenings, now that she was all moved in and back to a full-time workload, she was barely home. 

If Rio wasn’t at the nursery, she was attending summer college classes, or as Agatha had discovered through a curious glance at her planner (left open on the coffee table, thank you very much), taking a couple of longstanding massage clients. 

Throughout the day, the house was quiet while Rio was at work or school, just as Agatha liked it. She revelled in the uninterrupted time she had to work on her novel just as much as she did being able to walk around butt naked or lie prone on the couch with a bag of Cheetos on her chest like she was right now, watching the afternoon sunlight filter in through the apartment windows. 

She scarfed another handful of radioactive orange and sighed. Of course, Agatha knew she was partially responsible for the ceasefire, too. Wanda’s words had landed with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but she had been right: she could only push Rio so far, or so she guessed.

Up until now, the other woman had received Agatha’s jabs with grace, but everybody had a breaking point—she just hadn’t found Rio’s yet. And after their early morning confrontation had fizzled into nothing more than a convivial chat, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to.

The walls of her home were expanding—not in a literal sense, Brooklyn apartments be damned, but figuratively—to accommodate the presence of another person. Rio had cottoned onto the dishwasher regimen without having to be asked, and Agatha would find teaspoons lined up like soldiers on the top shelf rather than having some kind of metallic orgy in her sink. 

They’d settled into a comfortable routine, Agatha still skirting around her at times, but never going out of her way to be mean or overbearing. Rio had given her everything she’d ever wanted out of a roommate—the perfect co-habitator.

So why did it feel so fucking weird? 

Now, instead of finding reasons not to get to know Rio better, she was at a loss with what to do with her. And whether it happened as they crossed each other in the hallway or tried to not bump into one another in the kitchen as they made their morning coffees, it felt inevitable that soon, a crack would appear—that she would have no choice but to learn new details about Rio, to flesh out the person she was in her head beyond her lazy charm and never-ending Rolodex of wisecracks. 

Her phone dinged from where she’d let it disappear beneath the couch cushions. Licking her fingers clean of Cheeto dust, she reached for it and unlocked it, Rio’s name lighting up her screen. It was 4pm—she’d probably just gotten off shift at the nursery and was on her way back to the apartment. 

Rio: hey, i’m getting some groceries, do you need anything?? 

It didn’t help Agatha’s predicament that Rio was unfailingly considerate. She glanced over at the kitchen, where she knew her shelves of the fridge were borderline empty, milk on its last legs and veggies a day away from becoming compost in the crisper.

Agatha: No, I’m okay. Thanks though.

She’d have to do a grocery order sooner or later, but it wasn’t Rio’s responsibility to take care of her. She could do that perfectly well herself—she’d been doing it her entire life, all the way since childhood when the unofficial house rules were ‘figure out a way to feed yourself, or starve’. 

Things hadn’t really changed in her adulthood, even as she’d drifted in and out of various romantic entanglements. Until Ralph, she’d never lived with a boyfriend—and foolishly, she’d let him set the standard. And that standard meant he’d never bothered to lift a finger around the apartment, let alone have the foresight to pick up groceries or learn how to clean the way she liked. Hell, who was she kidding. Ralph had never cleaned, period. 

It struck Agatha that since his unceremonious departure two months ago, she hadn’t really stopped to think much about Ralph. Wanda had urged her to ‘take time to grieve’, but that had seemed a little over-the-top… the man wasn’t dead; he was probably just gambling away his child’s inheritance or dick-deep in a woman half her age. 

The only time she’d given him more than a second thought was when her mind turned to the baby—this kid she was so ill-equipped to bring into the world, who now would have to bear the pain of having a deadbeat dad, one she herself knew intimately. 

But Ralph as her boyfriend; her romantic partner? 

It was like someone had waved a magic wand and erased him from her memory. It was equal parts scary and satisfying.

Agatha’s phone dinged again. She checked it, yawning.

Rio: i got you a couple things anyway. don’t think i didn’t notice you go through like 4 packets of cheetos a week. and the use-by date on your milk was yesterday. 

Agatha squinted at the text. It was unnervingly… domestic. Too attentive, too perceptive. 

As if holding it a second longer could burn her skin, she threw her phone onto the armchair across the room with better aim than she’d expected and directed her attention to the TV. She’d flicked it on as background noise while she oscillated between daydreaming and filling the void with junk food, and it was playing a documentary about frogs, residue from Rio’s borderline childlike viewing preferences. 

The remote was on the TV unit, too far to reach without getting up. So, she just let it play, let the narrator’s soothing voice and the ambient rainforest sounds of the documentary form a rhythmic lullaby. It had been far too long since she’d slept, she thought; one last rumination before her thoughts petered out entirely. 

When Rio returned home with the groceries, she found Agatha passed out on the couch, David Attenborough murmuring in the background. She quietly put the groceries away, then wandered over to Agatha and pulled a blanket over her peaceful form before leaving her to rest.

———

As she neared the 12-week mark of her pregnancy, Agatha was cautiously optimistic that her symptoms would begin to let up. It had been day after day of nausea as a wake-up call and insomnia as a bedtime story, and she felt just as haggard as she looked—a fact that Jen, her literary agent, had pointed out on their most recent Zoom call about her novel’s progress.

“You look like shit,” Jen had said, blinking as she took in Agatha’s unbrushed hair, sallow skin, and the dark circles that rimmed her eyes like days-old eyeliner. 

“It’s the webcam,” Agatha replied drily. “Or the fetus. Not sure which.” 

But 12 weeks was meant to be when things started to look up. It was when most people got the all-clear to tell their family and friends (not that Agatha had paid any attention to that—doctors were all egotistical schmucks, anyway), when miscarriage risk took a nosedive, and when your energy would start to return, according to the internet.

So, colour Agatha surprised when, at 12 weeks and 3 days pregnant, she found herself jolted from a particularly vivid dream about her mother by the unmistakable urge to projectile vomit. Not normal barfing, no—that would be too easy for Agatha Harkness, the devil’s favourite plaything. 

Projectile. Fucking. Puking.

She launched herself out of bed, running far away from her expensive, Belgian flax linen bed sheets and towards the nearest moppable surface. But, because Agatha liked cupboard space for her fancy skincare and her collection of dust-covered hair styling tools, her bathroom happened to be the guest bathroom—the bigger of the two compared to Rio’s en suite, the one that was sandwiched between her bedroom and the living room. 

Mid-sprint, Agatha said a silent Hail Mary, the first prayer she’d dignified since her mother kicked the bucket and she stopped humouring her by attending church—and thank fucking god, Mary came through. She made it to the bathroom with milliseconds to spare, throwing herself at the toilet bowl and emptying the contents of her stomach into it with violent speed and force.

The next hour passed in infuriating slow motion as Agatha oscillated between lying on the bathroom floor, robe undone, and crawling her way back to the toilet bowl to puke.

She’d all but thought this was how she was going to die, face-down on porcelain, when she heard footsteps echoing through the apartment— Rio.

Jesus fuck, this couldn’t be happening.

“Agatha,” Rio called out, her voice carrying through from the entryway. “Agatha?” it came again. 

Since they’d become a little more friendly (or Agatha had become a little less hostile), Rio had taken to striking up a conversation with her when she returned home from work or school. Most of the time, they’d just exchange pleasantries before Agatha excused herself to work on her book, but every now and then, they’d shoot the shit about the weather or something equally as unimportant until Rio bounded off to her next activity. 

So, it wasn’t unusual that her roommate was out there, calling her name to see if she was home—it was just extremely inopportune.

Agatha considered staying quiet for a minute, pretending she wasn’t home. But, her autonomy was swiftly taken away from her when another fucking tsunami of nausea rolled over her, forcing her to scuttle from her spot on the tiles back to the toilet, retching loudly. 

She could only imagine what Rio must be thinking now. Ruing her decision to live with a pregnant lady who was putting on a one-woman reenactment of The Exorcist, no doubt. 

A few seconds after she’d finished wiping spit and bile from her chin, a gentle knock came at the door. Oh, this could not be happening, Agatha thought, head in her hands. But she didn’t have the energy to protest, to tell Rio to go away—she was just too tired.

“Hey,” Rio’s voice filtered in, soft and calm. “You holding up okay in there? It sounded… violent.”

“It feels like it’s trying to fucking claw its way out of me through my throat,” she moaned, resting her head against the toilet bowl. “I don’t think this is normal. Can you Google if it’s normal?” 

There was a pause, some shuffling. Agatha wondered if Rio had chosen self-preservation and evacuated the premises to avoid being splattered by vomit—she wouldn’t blame her if she had. 

But a minute or so later, she heard a concerned hum. It was closer than before, and Agatha realised Rio had taken up residence on the floor, right outside the bathroom door. “Potentially abnormal, but not unheard of, according to the good doctor Google,” Rio said. “Have you had enough fluids?”

“No,” Agatha croaked back, “can’t keep anything down.”

Another pause. Then: “When was the last time you ate, Agatha?”

“Sunday night?” she hazarded a guess. 

“Christ—” Irritation flared in Rio’s voice before she schooled herself and continued. “Agatha, it’s Tuesday.”

“Actually, I think I had some crackers yesterday? But they’re long gone,” she said, looking forlornly at the toilet bowl. 

“Okay, you need to eat something and drink something,” Rio started, but Agatha interrupted her with another moan of self-pity. The idea of voluntarily putting something in her stomach only for it to flip in on itself was surely a fool’s errand. 

But the woman sitting outside her bathroom door? Well, she wasn’t taking no for an answer. 

“Don’t tell me you can’t, Agatha. I’m making you some tea and toast.” She heard shuffling again, feet padding across the hall and over to the kitchen. 

With a heavy sigh, Agatha reached over and held down the flush, erasing the evidence. God forbid Rio try to enter the bathroom and be met with a damn crime scene. In her haste to not throw up all over the walls of her apartment, she hadn’t locked the door.

She stared at the water swirling in the toilet bowl. Spiralling—it was fitting, really. An apt metaphor for Agatha’s life, which as a writer, she took very seriously. God, the universe was really trying to push her off a fucking cliff. 

Five minutes later, there was another knock at the bathroom door. “Come on, Agatha. Food.”

“I— fuck,” she cursed under her breath as she tried to haul herself up from the bathroom floor, her muscles weak and sore, protesting underneath her. “I-I don’t think I can get up.” 

“Floor or table?” Rio questioned.

“Rio, what part of ‘I can’t get up’ didn’t you understand?” Maybe she did have a shred of energy left in her—and she’d be damned if she didn’t use it on being snarky.

“I know that, Agatha,” Rio chuckled. “I mean, do you want to eat your toast on the bathroom floor, or do you want me to help you up so you can sit at the table?”

She pondered this for a second. The floor seemed like the easier option—but trying to keep her food down in a small, windowless New York bathroom that smelled like barf?

Her voice came out as a whine. “Table.” 

With shaky hands, she knotted the tie on her robe and pulled it over herself. The whole situation was bad enough—her roommate seeing her half-naked would be the icing on the cake.

“Alright. I’m coming in,” Rio warned. The door handle turned, and there she was, standing warily in the doorway. “Fuck, you made the right choice,” she coughed, covering her nose with her arm. “That’s some post-apocalyptic shit.”

Agatha gave her a watery smile. “I know,” she said, the words like daggers in her throat. “You didn’t have to do this.” 

Rio shook her head and made her way over to where Agatha was still slumped, boneless, over the toilet bowl. “God, you’re annoying, you know that?”

“I’m annoying?” 

“Yes, you,” she smirked. “Now let’s get you up.”

They looked at each other for a second, neither saying anything, both silently calculating the logistics of exactly how Rio was going to get Agatha in her half-comatose state to the other side of their apartment. 

Rio figured it out first, crouching down next to Agatha and slipping her hands underneath Agatha’s armpits, before rising and hauling her to her feet like it was nothing. She fixed her brown eyes on Agatha’s watery blue ones in a question. “Okay?” she checked.

Agatha nodded, exhaling slowly as the blood rushed to her head. She closed her eyes and softly hummed in agreement. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this weak; not just her body, but her spirit, her resolve. The only thing she could do now was surrender. 

Rio looped a strong arm around her shoulders, steadying her. Together, they took a few hesitant steps out of the bathroom, Agatha’s hands twitching by her sides, uncomfortable at the sudden contact but not willing to risk the alternative; of letting go and keeling to the floor.

Halfway to the kitchen, Agatha suddenly stopped. The room had begun to tilt on its axis around her, little black dots forming in her vision.

“Hey, hey—” Rio let go of her shoulders and gripped her waist so they were face to face. “Don’t give up on me now, Harkness. We’re almost there,” she encouraged.

“Room’s spinning,” Agatha forced out, her eyes squeezed shut, trying to banish the dots. 

She felt the ghost of a touch along her jaw, and her eyes flickered open in surprise. But Rio didn’t flinch or back away—just rested her hand on Agatha’s face and looked into her eyes. “You’ve got this,” she said with a smile. Agatha just stared back at her, wide-eyed and too weary to protest. 

Instead of returning her arm to Agatha’s shoulders, Rio kept one fixed firmly around her waist and grabbed Agatha’s hand in the other, clasping it tightly with her own in front of them. It anchored her as they began to walk again, slower this time.

Finally, they made it to the table, where a plate of toast laden with butter and a cup of tea in Agatha’s favourite mug—the one with ‘UNT’ emblazoned on the front, C-shaped handle effectively completing the curse word—were waiting for her. Rio helped her gently into a chair, and once she was settled, pushed the plate towards her.

Head in one hand, Agatha eyed the toast suspiciously. “You poison this?”

“If I was going to poison you, I would’ve picked the tea. Wayyy easier to hide it in liquid.” She nudged the mug across the table, too. “Only one way to find out.”

Picking up the toast, Agatha took a bite, chewing and chewing until it was mush in her mouth. Swallowing tenderly, she took a sip of tea, the warmth washing over her. It was tangy, spicy almost—ginger, she realised. It felt like fucking heaven on her throat, rubbed raw from all the retching.

As if she could read Agatha’s mind, Rio glanced down at the mug. “Good for an upset stomach.”

She took another gulp. “Did Doctor Google tell you that, too?”

“Maybe,” Rio mused. “Speaking of, though—you should probably call your doctor, just get checked out.” She stared at her from across the table, expression heavy with concern.

Agatha cast her eyes downward, not ready to make eye contact—to face the sympathy that was written all over Rio’s face. 

“Mmm. These kind of symptoms are meant to let up soon. I’m 12 weeks now.”

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check, right?” Rio pressed.

No doubt thanks to the carbs Rio had forced her to ingest, Agatha could feel her fight returning. She looked back up at Rio and tilted her chin in defiance.

“Forgive me if I don’t want to deal with some quack poking around in my vagina and droning on about my ‘advanced maternal age’ more than I have to.” 

“Agatha, you literally just made me Google ‘is projectile vomiting in pregnancy normal?’ Forgive me if I don’t want the walls of the house to become a fucking Pollock painting because you were too stubborn to ask for help.” 

“Why do you care? I could die tomorrow and it wouldn’t affect you.” 

Something unreadable flickered over Rio’s face at Agatha’s statement. But when she spoke again, it was with the same jokey charm. “If you died tomorrow, I’d be homeless. So I think it’s okay for me to be a little invested in your wellbeing.” 

Agatha pursed her lips into her tea, grappling with whether to give Rio the satisfaction of making an appointment or not. “Fine,” she eventually sighed, “I’ll call my doctor. But I’m not going there in person—just a phone call.” 

“That’s okay,” Rio replied, the self-satisfaction only mildly evident in her expression. “Thank you.”

Silence stretched between the two of them as Agatha took her final, half-hearted bites of toast, washing them down with tea. She could feel Rio looking at her as she ate—not monitoring or pitying, just watching. Letting her be exactly as she was in this moment, casting no judgment on her tangled hair and translucent skin.

It felt vulnerable, but not uncomfortably so, the way it might have before Rio had wrapped her arms around her or cupped her face as if she was something precious. 

Here this woman was giving so much of herself to everyone around her, blindly seeing the good in people—in Agatha—even when they objectively treated her like shit. 

Actually, Agatha couldn’t speak for how Rio treated other people… but if the way she simply rolled with her too-hard punches was anything to go by, she suspected it was more of the same. Kind. Gracious. Open. 

Rio was so unafraid of being herself, of being seen—and Agatha had no idea what that was like. Maybe that was what inspired her to say what she said next, the honesty flowing out of her of its own accord, not dissimilarly to her puke earlier.

“I’m sorry for being such a cunt to live with,” Agatha murmured, deftly avoiding Rio’s gaze again. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for you.”

Oddly, it didn’t make her feel anywhere near as disgusting as the vomiting—it just felt like a relief. Another slight easing of the uncomfortable tension that had begun to build between them now that all of Agatha’s attention wasn’t directed towards shutting Rio out completely. 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Rio replied. “You’re not as bad a roommate as you think. You just have very… specific routines. But I don’t mind them,” she shrugged.

“Still, I– I’m sorry. I don’t say that a lot, so don’t assume it’s an empty apology. And consider yourself lucky,” she looked up at Rio with a smirk. “Some people will never know the privilege of hearing those words from me.”

Rio pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek. “Guess I must be special, then.” 

And although she couldn’t put her finger on why or how, Agatha was beginning to think that perhaps she was.

Chapter Text

While most of the dreams that featured the cruel spectre of her mother took place in Agatha’s childhood home, this time, inexplicably, she was running down the streets of Williamsburg. 

She could hear her feet slapping against the sizzling-hot pavement, feel a light breeze that wasn’t strong enough to cool the summer heat rustling through the trees and tangling her hair. Her breath came in short gasps and a fire was building beneath her ribcage from the exertion.

Evanora was screaming after her, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—turn around. 

“Agatha!” Her mother’s voice was as clear as day; had lost none of its derision in the almost-five years since she’d heard it.

Still, something flared in her chest at the sound. Not love, but obligation. Duty. It pulled her under like a riptide at the beach, gripping her legs with unforeseen force as it tried to topple her.

Fighting the urge to turn around and kneel at her mother’s feet, she kept running. Down familiar sidewalks, by the bodega where she always used to go when she’d first moved into her apartment, past the entrance to the subway. She felt frantic, uncontrollable, like a whirling dervish as she skirted around faceless people with dogs on leashes and kids playing in sprinklers. 

Agatha glanced down at the pavement as she ran, heat radiating off it in oily waves. Suddenly, it seemed a lot less solid, the cracks rising and falling around her feet. She blinked, looking back up to quell her dizziness, and found herself racing past the same bodega from a block ago. 

What the fuck was happening?

Her mother’s voice boomed in her ears again, angrier this time. Agatha had lost all sense of what she was saying, instead focusing only on getting as far, far away from her as possible.

So she did the only thing that made any sense—she kept running. 

Finally, somehow, she reached the heavy glass front door that signalled she was safe. She burst through the entrance to her apartment building and bolted to the stairwell, no time to wait for the slow creak of the elevator. Everything around her was blurry, morphing into indecipherable shapes and colours that made her eyes water. 

Behind her, she could still hear Evanora’s nonsensical screaming. Her words were clearer again. “Come back here you wicked girl!” her disembodied voice bellowed. “You can’t outrun me!” 

Agatha took the stairs two at a time, chest heaving, passing one floor after another until she reached the sixth. Her heart hammered off-tempo as she raced down the hallway and flung open her front door.

And there, standing simply in a t-shirt and jeans, was Rio. 

She looked as if she had been waiting for her, brown eyes soft and knowing. As everything else blurred together, Rio looked impossibly solid —a port in the storm that was raging around her. 

Agatha fixed her eyes on Rio, blinking rapidly, unsure of what to do. She took the woman before her in, revelling in the realness of her—of Rio’s collarbone, the sleeve of tattoos on her forearm, the freckle on her temple. She tried to speak, to explain or plead or scream, but nothing came out.

Rio tilted her head at Agatha wordlessly, then reached for her shoulders and pulled her into a hug.

Agatha melted into her strong embrace without a fight. She couldn’t hear Evanora’s deranged yells and taunts anymore—just her own ragged breathing as she buried her face in Rio’s chest, inhaling the clean scent of her t-shirt and traces of her earthy perfume.

The hallway around her stopped distorting as they held one another. Rio’s breath was steady and even, and Agatha felt her own exhales slow to accommodate the rhythm, unintentionally tuning to Rio’s frequency. One of Rio’s hands began to rub slow circles on her back, as if trying to ground her there, to remind her of something. 

Eventually, though, the pressure of being wrapped in Rio’s arms became too much. She needed to look at her. She pulled back from the space she’d occupied on Rio’s chest and blinked when she saw a wet patch on her shirt where her own face had been nestled. 

Rio opened her mouth as if to say something, but before her words could reach Agatha, Evanora’s voice rang out again, cutting through the silence between them like a searing hot knife. “You were born evil, Agatha,” her voice taunted, “and in time, even she will see you for what you are.” 

Eyes wide, Agatha staggered back, out of Rio’s hold. Rio extended a hand to reach for her, but it was too late—Agatha was falling backward, the room pitching and dimming. Rio’s fingertips grazed against her own in a final, futile plea before the darkness enveloped her completely.

She jolted awake from the dream, twisted onto her side with the sheets clutched in one hand and the other bracing herself against her pillow. The harsh sunlight left her head spinning, and her entire face ached as if it had been screwed up in her sleep. 

She blinked, taking in the familiarity of her bedroom—the sagging armchair in the corner, the pile of unread books that lived on one nightstand. It wasn’t real. She was safe, in her own home, and her mother was six feet under in a New Jersey cemetery like she had been for half a decade.

Still, parts of the dream felt troublingly indistinguishable from reality. The visceral fear of hearing her mother’s voice again, even if it was just in her head. How sore her body felt, whether it was from running miles through Brooklyn or sleeping in an uncomfortable position. Rio’s arms wrapped around her securely, the same way they had been yesterday.

And the way Rio had looked at her—the way her expression had stayed calm and open, even as her mother screamed everything she hated about Agatha, her own daughter, into the void. 

Pulse still thumping in her ears, she sat up too quickly. The sheets clung to her damp skin—fuck, she was practically dripping with sweat. The air conditioning had turned itself off in the night, one of the downsides of the old, clunky unit she’d been asking Ralph to replace for forever.

Throwing the sheet off her, Agatha rose to her feet and grabbed her robe. Fuck this shit, she thought. Fuck her mother for trying to haunt her from beyond the grave. Fuck Ralph for leaving. Fuck Rio for being so goddamn nice when she hadn’t asked her to. Fuck her pregnancy symptoms for always sending her down an emotional rabbit hole. 

Her limbs felt itchy and her robe, too tight. She needed to move, lest she settle in this moment for too long and begin to analyse what it all meant. 

Agatha gathered her clothes and padded into the bathroom, where the scalding hot water of the shower was waiting—ready to burn every last inch of her mother, and the raw, too-real feeling of her tears spilling onto Rio’s chest, from her memory.

———

By the time Agatha emerged from the shower, Rio had already left for work. The day dragged on as she tried everything to avoid being left alone with her thoughts: a new Netflix show. Endless cups of ginger tea. A shameful attempt at rearranging the kitchen cupboards. When Rio returned that evening, Agatha was already tucked up in bed, door locked in a feeble attempt to shut off the outside world. 

Mercifully, that night’s sleep was dreamless. 

Normalcy crept back in over the days that followed—if you could call her new reality ‘normal’. Rio floated around the apartment when she was home, making jokes about ‘vomit-gate’ while Agatha chuckled along hollowly, smile never reaching her eyes.

By Tuesday night, a new antagonist in Agatha’s life had emerged—because clearly, she wasn’t permitted more than a day or two of peace. First it had been Rio, then the morning sickness, and finally, her dreams. With all three on their way to reaching a resolution (the vomiting thanks to a prescription from her doctor), the universe was switching tack. 

Now, it was her novel keeping her awake at night. She’d been stuck on the same paragraph for god knows how long, writing and deleting and rewriting in an endless loop.

She wondered if it was too late to pick a different career. Something that didn’t require any brainpower. Something she could do horizontal. 

“What’s it about?”

Agatha startled, dropping the pen she was holding. It rolled along the hardwoods and towards the kitchen, where Rio was standing, looking at her curiously. She bent to pick it up, walking over to hand it to Agatha before dropping into the armchair across from the sofa.

“What’s what about?” Agatha wrinkled her nose, confused by Rio’s question. She looked down at the mess of papers on her lap; the laptop half-open beside her. “Oh, you mean my book?”

Rio nodded expectantly. 

Agatha blew a raspberry, running a hand through her hair. “I actually don’t fucking know at this point,” she admitted. “It’s meant to be a ‘found family’ kinda thing. The main character’s mom dies, so she goes back to her hometown to figure out the estate, and ends up falling back into all these old patterns and relationships from the last time she was there. But I’m—” she trailed off, pondering how to explain her mental block. “Struggling. Too much of my own shit going on, not enough room for another person’s.” 

“Isn’t that what writers do?” Rio questioned. “Use their own experiences in their stories?”

Agatha nodded slowly, contemplating this. “I guess some do,” she agreed, giving Rio the point. “But not me. I prefer to keep my life and my writing separate.” 

Rio’s lips twisted in contemplation. “Maybe you should try it?” she suggested. “Could get you past this creative constipation thing you’ve got going on.” 

Agatha snorted, unable to help herself. Creative constipation was a clever way to put it, she’d give her that. “I don’t think so.” 

Rio hummed thoughtfully but took the hint, moving on. “There any romance in it?” She wiggled her eyebrows at Agatha suggestively. 

Agatha rolled her eyes back at her. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who only reads faerie smut or something equally as horrifying,” she said, judgment on full display. She meant no shade to the romantasy authors of the world—well, maybe she did—but she knew overhyped, overwritten drivel when she read it. 

“Faerie smut? No,” Rio reassured her emphatically. “But I’ve been known to pick up a sapphic romance or two. A girl’s gotta get her kicks from somewhere, if you know what I mean.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you have no issues in that department,” Agatha scoffed. There was no chance Rio’s only way of blowing off steam was reading erotic fiction. She was charming, funny, and objectively hot—Agatha bet women fawned over her the second she walked into any bar in New York. 

Rio let out a minuscule huff of air, not quite a chuckle, but a private reaction that Agatha couldn’t decipher.

“Speaking of,” Agatha continued, taking in Rio’s outfit for the first time—tight jeans, a halter-neck top, and the leather jacket she’d slung over the back of the armchair. “Got a hot date?” she asked, aiming for casual. The last thing she wanted was Rio to launch into a story about some new woman she was dating—or worse, try to drag her into a chat about their respective sex lives, like a bad Sex and the City rerun. 

“Oh, no,” she brushed off Agatha’s assumption breezily. “I’m just going home for dinner.” 

Rio stood, walking to the kitchen counter where she began piling items into her bag. She had colonised a whole corner of the bench, but Agatha was beyond the point of saying anything. Call it their truce, or call it flat-out not having the energy to protest, you could take your pick.

Rio’s words jiggled something loose in Agatha’s brain as they settled. “Home?” she echoed.

She stifled her frown: wasn’t this her home now? It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like they’d found a rhythm. Getting there hadn’t exactly been easy, but Agatha was trying—trying to be nicer, trying to keep her own emotional overflow from splashing onto Rio. 

So surely this couldn’t be it. Was Rio… leaving? Already?

Before Agatha could probe further, Rio turned back around and corrected herself. “Force of habit—sorry. To my foster mom’s place.” 

Foster mom, Agatha exhaled quietly, hoping the relief wasn’t written all over her face. While she was admittedly happy Rio wasn’t moving out as swiftly as she’d moved in—the idea of finding another roommate made her feel physically ill—it dawned on her that there was so much about Rio she’d avoided asking in her bid for compartmentalisation. 

God forbid someone else has problems, she thought wryly. 

“Is that where you were living before you moved in here?”

Rio nodded. “Yeah.” 

“Why’d you move out? I don’t think I ever asked you that.”

Rio dropped her bag on one of the kitchen stools and ambled back over, stretching her hands above her head as she slipped into the armchair. “Well, I’d been living with Lilia since I was, like, 15,” she started. “It was good, comfortable—just the two of us.” 

“Her and I have had our moments over the years, of course. But no matter how much we bicker, it’s all love. Lilia and Alice are the only family I really have.” 

Rio paused, a quick snag in the story, and Agatha blinked, catching up to her. She hadn’t known Rio long, but the idea of her having no one else pulled at something in her chest. 

Leaving no time for Agatha to mentally pick it apart, Rio continued.

“Anyway, Lilia mentioned to me that she wanted to start dating again, and worse, she thought I should too,” she grinned wryly, no trace of whatever emotion had surfaced a second ago left. “The idea of having to coordinate sleepovers with a 65-year-old didn’t really sound that appealing to me. It was enough to send me running to Craigslist.” 

“Makes sense,” Agatha chuckled.

“Yeah,” Rio agreed. “I figured 31 was as good an age as any to finally have some space of my own. Some independence. And then I saw your ad.”

Huh. She made it sound so simple. Like it was the easiest decision in the world, Agatha thought. 

She was quiet for a second, mulling over Rio’s response in her mind. There were so many things that had gone unsaid between them—yet Rio hadn’t thought twice about breaking off another little piece of herself and handing it to Agatha, palm outstretched and waiting. 

Part of her wanted to snatch it and beg for more. Another wanted to close her own fist over Rio’s and say no, take it back, it’s too much for me.

Agatha reached for a lock of hair that had escaped from behind her ear, twisting it around her finger. Her next question came before she could censor it: “Why’d you pick me?”

Rio tilted her head to the side, expression thoughtful. “I could say it was because the apartment is beautiful,” she mused, “but that wasn’t it.” 

“So, what was it then?” 

“I’m not sure,” Rio shrugged. “Maybe it was because you accused me of being a serial killer before we even met. Maybe it was the idea of living with a caustic pregnant lady who can’t keep down a meal,” she grinned. “Or maybe it was just… in the cards. Meant to happen this way.” 

“Typical fate,” Agatha snorted. “She’s got a truly fucked up sense of humour.” 

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Rio chided. “I happen to like tortured novelists who label their tupperware for fun.”

“It’s efficient.”

“You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” Rio arched a brow, seeing straight through Agatha’s bullshit. Agatha felt her cheeks flame at the teasing nickname. That was a new one.

“Oh, by the way,” Rio took advantage of her silence, jumping up from her perch. “I wanted to ask if it’s okay for me to have a couple friends over for dinner this week. Alice,” she reminded her, “she’s got a new girlfriend and she wants me to meet her. Thought I could cook for them.”

Agatha thought it over for a second, but it surprised her how easily her answer came. “Sure,” she nodded. 

“Really?” Rio questioned. “No fine print for me to read over before I make a mess of your kitchen?”

“No fine print,” Agatha rolled her eyes. “And it’s your kitchen, too. Just make sure it’s fucking spotless when you’re done.” 

“Yes, sergeant,” she raised her hand in a salute. “You’re welcome to join us, if you want. I don’t know what I’m gonna make yet, but Alice is good company, and if her constant text messages about this new girl are anything to go off, she’s the nicest, coolest, funniest human ever,” Rio mocked, the glimmer of a grin on her face betraying that she thought it was cute rather than nauseating. 

While the idea of sharing a meal with other humans actually kinda sounded nice to Agatha—who, when she could be bothered to eat dinner that wasn’t from a packet, did so alone slumped on the couch—fourth-wheeling with Rio and her friends felt like a step too far.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Agatha hesitated. “This novel is kicking my ass, and I’m like a week away from a deadline. My agent would kill me if she knew I was wasting even a second.”

Rio’s lips twisted into a frown. “Surely one night off isn’t going to derail your progress. You’re glued to that screen every time I see you,” she protested. “Your ‘not a love story’ can wait.” 

“I can’t, Rio.” She hoped the finality was clear. 

Rio just shrugged and walked back over to the kitchen, retrieving her bag from the stool. 

“Suit yourself,” she ceded. “But if you change your mind, I’ve been told my cooking is mind-blowing.” 

Agatha didn’t take the bait—she couldn’t. “Have fun at your mom’s place,” she said, waving at Rio as she unlocked the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Once she could no longer hear the soft sound of Rio’s footsteps, she turned her attention back to her novel, grumbling. “Definitely not a love story.” 

———

That Friday afternoon, Rio texted Agatha to remind her that Alice and her girlfriend were coming over for dinner. She read it and promptly prepared for a night spent holed up in her bedroom, working on her book—ready-meal in the freezer, noise-cancelling headphones fully charged. 

She’d been slumped over her desk all day, her main characters giving her a hard time. They just wouldn’t cooperate. She couldn’t figure out where the story wanted to go, or what the protagonist’s motivations were, and everything felt flat. 

Maybe Rio was right—maybe she should try using some of her own experiences to inform the story. The main character wasn’t dissimilar from Agatha herself. Nicer, sure, and Agatha had barely bothered to attend her mother’s funeral when she died, let alone move back to her hometown and pack up all her shit. But there were parallels, and perhaps she could use them to her advantage.

Her mind began to whir with the possibilities, feeling more motivated to write than she had for weeks. She could make her character’s relationship with her dead mother more fraught, more complex—maybe that would add the emotional gravity she’d been missing up ‘til now. 

Before that, though, she needed to eat and make herself scarce. This was Rio’s night with her friends, and they didn’t need her there, polluting the conversation with uncomfortable small talk or boring comments about pregnancy.

When she entered the kitchen to heat up her food, a scent from heaven overwhelmed her—sweet and savoury, rich with spices. “Holy shit, that smells good,” Agatha breathed, a knee-jerk reaction to the olfactory high. 

Rio was standing at the stove, stirring a pot. Tearing her focus away from whatever she was cooking, she looked up at Agatha with a smirk. “Told you.” 

Agatha’s belly rumbled. Damn kid, making her hungry all the time. “What is it?” she asked, opening the door to the microwave and throwing in her frozen meal. 

“Pastelón,” Rio replied, the Spanish flowing off her tongue. “It’s kinda like Puerto Rican lasagne. My abuela’s recipe.” 

Agatha noticed something soft cross Rio’s features as she mentioned her grandmother. She’d never heard her talk about a family member so directly, and while the thought of Rio and her abuela together warmed her from the inside, what she’d said earlier about Alice and Lilia hinted at something heavier.

“Sure you don’t want to join us?” Rio continued. “I’ve made more than enough.” 

“While it smells incredible, I’ve really got to keep writing. I think I’m finally making some headway,” Agatha hesitated. “And you should enjoy your time with your friends.” 

Rio nodded, her smile unusually small and careful—like she was trying not to push. “They’ll be here any minute.” 

“Have fun,” Agatha nodded, ignoring the burn in her fingers as she pulled the aluminium tray of food from the microwave, steam billowing from the top. She retreated, leaving Rio standing alone in the kitchen, and strode back to the safety of her room. 

A few minutes passed before a knock sounded at the door. Low murmurs began to fill the space, dulled by the barrier of her bedroom door—a laugh here, a mutter there.

Agatha had just swallowed her first pitiful forkful of lukewarm mush when she heard a familiar voice. She knew that fucking voice. 

It was unmistakable—crisp, commanding, deeply smug. The same voice that’d berated her over Zoom calls, coaxed her through deadlines, and once, barked at a publicist so fiercely they’d both practically wet their pants laughing. 

What the hell was she doing here now, of all times?

Flinging open her bedroom door, Agatha bolted down the hall, making no effort to change out of her rumpled loungewear or fix the hair she’d shoved into a messy bun. 

When she burst into the living room a few seconds later, she was sitting nestled into Alice’s side, their hands loosely linked. Agatha’s eyes boggled at the sight of her. She’d never invited her here, not once—a careful separation of church and state that had now been corrupted in the blink of an eye.

Confusion and irritation bubbled inside her, threatening to breach the surface as she spoke.

“Jen?”

Chapter Text

Jen’s face twisted into a frown to rival Agatha’s confused expression. 

“Agatha?” she asked incredulously. Rio and Alice followed suit, brows crumpling in tandem. If it had been any other time, Agatha would’ve found the synchronicity hilarious—but right now, all she wanted was an explanation as to why her fucking literary agent was perched on her sofa, drinking out of one of her wine glasses like she paid rent on the place.

Agatha’s eyes fell to the hand that was interlocked with Alice’s, the pieces falling into place far too slowly. Jen was Alice’s girlfriend? 

Her brain stalled momentarily, catching up to the scene playing out in front of her. This was weird—a cosmic coincidence she was being forced to endure. But after weeks and weeks of being poked and prodded by the universe, what was one more plot twist? 

She looked pointedly at Jen and Alice’s clasped hands again, raising an eyebrow before levelling Jen with a glare.

“I am so fucking confused right now,” Rio broke the silence. 

Alice nodded. “Me too, dude. Can one of you explain what’s happening before we all self-combust from anticipation?” She looked at Jen. “Babe?” 

Jen, for perhaps the first time in her life, was quiet. Agatha supposed she’d have to take one for the team. 

“Jennifer here is a literary agent,” she explained, sighing. “My literary agent.”

“So… you two know each other?” Alice prompted. 

“If having to read her nagging text messages and emails every day of my life is ‘knowing each other’, then yes, we do,” Agatha snapped, rolling her eyes.

Jen’s wide-eyed surprise was gone in an instant. “I wouldn’t have to nag you if you ever met your deadlines, Harkness.” 

They kept staring at each other for a minute, and Agatha was sure she could feel Rio and Alice holding their breath—no doubt wondering what the fuck they’d gotten themselves into. 

Before anyone could say anything, Jen’s cackle of laughter cut through the room like lightning. Agatha quickly followed suit, catching the twinkle in Jen’s eye. Her agent got up from where she was sitting on the couch, unhooking her hand from Alice’s, and gave Agatha a one-armed hug.

“Eww,” Agatha protested, although she leaned into the quick display of affection. “I thought we shared a mutual hatred for physical contact.” 

Jen pulled back and looked at her knowingly. While most people would assume they despised one another from the way they interacted, after Wanda, Jen was the closest thing Agatha had to a friend. They didn’t spend much time together outside of work, but Jen had borne witness to some of Agatha’s biggest milestones—her first book deal, her first royalties check, her first glowing review. 

She’d also been on the receiving end of many a furious phone call or sharp-tongued voice note. As colleagues, they were perfect for one another—Jen didn’t take shit from anyone, especially Agatha, and she had no problem handing it back to her when warranted. 

“Hang on,” Agatha pointed a finger at Jen. “This still doesn’t explain why you’re eating charcuterie on my couch. I didn’t know you were dating someone.” 

“Bitch, you only ever tell me things when it affects your writing. You don’t get to be mad at me,” Jen scoffed. Well, she had a point. 

Rio patted the spot beside her on the sofa, motioning for Agatha to sit down. She crossed her arms, unsure whether to stay or retreat back to safety. She’d wanted to leave Rio to it, to give her space to spend time with her friends—but that was before a freaky twist of fate had set her two worlds into a headlong collision.

The least she could do was reclaim a seat on her own couch, so she stepped over Rio’s outstretched legs one at a time and plonked herself down on the soft velvet. 

“So, let me get this straight. You guys work together,” Rio gestured at Jen and Agatha, “and Jen’s the reason you couldn’t have dinner with us tonight, right?” 

Jen’s jaw dropped dramatically. “You used me as an excuse?”

“No,” Agatha corrected, pursing her lips. “I used the book as an excuse. Next chapters are due Monday. I just mentioned you’d be on my ass about it.” 

“Well, consider your deadline extended.” 

“And since when did you become my publisher, Jennifer?” Agatha challenged. 

“Since I always set your deadlines a week earlier than they actually are because you have a track record of being embarrassingly late,” Jen smiled at her sweetly, batting her lashes.

“Oh, boy,” Alice exhaled. Although Agatha and Jen knew their bickering was just poorly disguised banter, Alice clearly didn’t. She’d stiffened slightly, her easy confidence tinged with concern. 

Jen snaked her hand back over to Alice’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze, while Agatha. She looked at Jen, silently communicating: they’d have to keep their claws retracted around Alice, at least for now.

Rio, on the other hand, was gloating. “Well, you have no excuse not to hang out with us now,” she said with a smirk. “And eat my fucking brilliant food, might I add.” 

The divine smell from earlier had filled the entire apartment now, giving it a warm, homey feel, and Agatha had only managed one bite of frozen fried rice before Jen’s voice rudely pulled her from her bedroom. So, yeah—she was hungry. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to give Rio shit for her bravado first.

“Always so humble,” Agatha muttered, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. Rio just chuckled and shook her head. 

At that, Jen and Alice exchanged a glance, quick and unreadable. Agatha narrowed her eyes, catching it as it landed. Suddenly she felt all-too-aware of her position on the couch, casually close to Rio, their thighs almost touching. 

“What?” she asked sharply, looking between Jen and Alice.

“Nothing,” Jen dismissed airily.

“I’m gonna set the table,” Rio jumped up gleefully, skipping over to the kitchen and busying herself in the cutlery drawer.

———

Ten minutes later, they were seated around Agatha’s dining table, which was decorated with a mishmash of plates and bowls—unmistakably Rio’s doing. Agatha had bit her tongue at her selection, not wanting to sour the mood by replacing them with the matching sets. 

Rio had made a fuss of serving everyone oversized helpings of steaming pastelón, flitting around the table like the perfect hostess. Once they’d taken their first bites, she’d probed everyone for a review, and now, she was polishing off her own plate, smug and drunk on compliments. 

“Wine, Agatha?” Alice offered, holding out the bottle of red they were working through.

“She’s pregnant,” Jen interjected, not giving Agatha time to come up with a clever excuse. 

“Oh!” Alice exclaimed. “Congratulations.” 

Agatha felt her smile tighten as she shot Jen daggers from across the table. “Thank you, Alice.” 

“I’m surprised Rio hasn’t told you,” Agatha continued, lifting a glass of sparkling water to her lips. “It’s been very Rosemary’s Baby over here.”

“Kid trying to kill you?” 

“Something like that,” she agreed, eyes flicking over to Rio, who gave her an amused smile. It was clear they were both thinking about vomit-gate—enough time had passed for Agatha to find it funny now, too, and it had become sort of an inside joke between them. 

“So, how do you and Rio know each other, Alice?” Agatha changed the topic, although her eyes were still on Rio.

“We met playing basketball, actually,” Alice said through a mouthful of pastelón. Next to her, Jen leaned in a little closer, intrigued to learn more about her girlfriend by way of her best friend.

“Back when we were teenagers,” Rio added, giving Alice enough time to swallow. “I used to sneak out of my foster homes and go down to the courts to play pickup—” 

“—and smoke way too much weed,” Alice cut back in with a grin. 

“Correct,” Rio laughed. “We bonded over basketball, good blunts, and our fucked-up home lives.” 

“Best friends ever since,” Alice finished.

God, they were in sync. It was nice to see Rio like this—so at ease with someone as they spoke in shorthand, fluent in each other’s histories. 

She felt a pang of gratitude towards Alice for being there for Rio at what had probably been a dark time in her life, if the narrative she’d pieced together in her head was anything to go by. 

“I didn’t know you played basketball,” Agatha said.

“Oh, Rio didn’t just play basketball. She fucking killed it at basketball. If it weren’t for her knee, she’d be in the WNBA by now,” Alice replied, clearly proud.

Agatha let out a low whistle. “That good, huh? What happened to your knee?” 

“Tore my ACL junior year,” Rio said. “And that was the end of my college career. Well, the sports part, at least.” 

“And then she became the team masseuse,” Alice added. “Which was the best gig a twenty-year-old lesbian could ask for.” 

Aha , Agatha thought, another sliver of Rio’s backstory clicking into place. So that’s how the whole massage thing came about. Across the table, Jen raised an eyebrow but said nothing, swirling her wine like she was saving her commentary for later.

The conversation drifted from sports to friendship to dating as they ate their dinner and everyone but Agatha sipped their wine, loosening up with each glass.

Before she knew it, the three of them were howling with laughter over a story about one of Alice’s exes—something about a pet kitten and ruined lingerie that was undoubtedly funny, but full of subtext she couldn’t quite catch and lingo that didn’t land.

Agatha laughed along, trying to follow, but the rhythm of their jokes made her feel out of step. Like she was knocking at a door that wouldn’t open, or starting a movie halfway through. Her gaze drifted up from where it had been fixated on her absurdly clean plate—Rio hadn’t been lying when she said she was a good cook—and found her roommate’s. 

Rio’s eyes were already on her, like she could sense Agatha’s discomfort without words.

“Okay, lesbians,” Rio chided, “let’s give the poor straight woman a break from all the dyke drama.” She gestured in Agatha’s direction, fixing her with an apologetic smile.

Jen snorted into her wine. “Agatha’s not straight,” she said, casual but certain.

The seconds that followed felt oddly cinematic to Agatha. Time seemed to slow down, but her heart rate climbed, her hands dampening with sweat. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rio’s fingers still where they’d been drumming against her wine glass.

What was Jen talking about? She’d always been straight—had never given Jen or anyone a reason to think otherwise. Hadn’t she? 

Agatha wanted to look up at Rio, gauge her reaction to Jen’s words, but the weight of what had been said kept her gaze fixed firmly on the table. Alice shifted beside her, catching the change in the air.

Though her mind was still racing, Agatha knew she had to speak, to prove Jen wrong before her words gained too much power. “Yes I am,” she stared at Jen, bewildered. She could feel a divot forming in her brow as the clink of cutlery against plates around her stopped. 

Both Rio and Alice were watching them now, and the embarrassment of being put on display like this—of her identity being dangled in front of her—set Agatha’s cheeks aflame.

Jen continued, unflinching. “I mean, I know you were in a straight relationship, sure.” She waved a hand like that part was irrelevant; a mere footnote. “But you’re still queer.”

“No, I’m not.” Agatha’s voice was firm and final. 

They’d never spoken about her sexuality before, but Agatha didn’t think they’d needed to. She’d been with Ralph the entire time they’d known each other, and she had never expressed any desire to be with another woman. The comment was so out of left field, she wasn’t even sure they were playing the same game anymore. 

Jen tilted her head, confused. “You’re telling me you’re really straight?”

“Why is this news to you, Jennifer?” Agatha snapped. 

Jen shook her head like she couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing. “But your books have so much lesbian subtext.” 

Agatha made a face at that. Did they? No—they definitely didn’t. She would know if her own writing, her own life’s work, was masking some kind of hidden meaning. “I literally do not know what you’re talking about,” she shot back.

Jen huffed out a harsh laugh, the tension in the room still rising. “Come on, Agatha. The protagonist picks her best friend over her boyfriend and they run away to fucking Vermont or something? That one was a New York Times bestseller,” she nudged Alice. 

Alice just glanced awkwardly between Jen and Agatha, like she wasn’t sure whether to nod in agreement or stay the fuck out of it.

“All of your books are so gay,” Jen repeated. “I always thought it was like… a choice.”

Jen wasn’t backing down, and Agatha could feel the heat of being challenged rising in her body, creeping up her chest and into her throat. The back-and-forth nature of her relationship with Jen told her to stay and fight, that they could work things out like they always did—but she couldn’t resist the other urge that was pulling at her.

The switch flipped in Agatha’s brain: the one that was marked ‘self-preservation’ in big, red letters. This isn’t worth the effort, she thought callously. Just more of Jen’s self-important bullshit.

And what did she know, anyway? It’s not like they were actually friends.

“Well, it wasn’t. Isn’t,” Agatha said coldly. She was shutting down now, too overwhelmed and overstimulated by the sudden turn of events to lean into her anger. Instead, she just wanted out. 

She tore her eyes away from Jen, who was still feigning shock, and finally let herself look at the other two sitting at the table. Alice’s head was bobbing between her and Jen like a referee without a whistle, shoulders tight and wine abandoned on the table in front of her. 

On the other hand, Rio just looked lost. Like she didn’t know how to help, or whose side she was supposed to be on. Her lips parted as if she was about to say something, exposing the tiny gap between her front teeth. 

Before she could, Jen looked at Agatha again. Her expression had softened a little—maybe her conscience was finally catching up to her. But the alarm bells in Agatha’s head still blared, exit sign flashing like a beacon. 

“Agatha, come on—I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just thought…”

“It’s fine,” she cut Jen off through gritted teeth. “Come to think of it, I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” She stood up from the table, the scrape of her chair across the hardwoods like punctuation in the otherwise-quiet room. 

She didn’t even bother to clear her plate, nor offer to help. The conversation had taken a ridiculous turn, and she didn’t owe it another second of her time. 

In lieu of saying something she would regret in the morning, Agatha ran a hand through her hair and began walking toward her bedroom, away from the chaotic fucking dinner party she hadn’t wanted to be a part of in the first place. She didn’t hazard a glance back at any of them, not wanting to see the obvious pity that was written all over their faces—especially not on Rio’s.

“Agatha, don’t do that,” Jen made a move to follow her, standing up from the table. “I didn’t know.” 

She held up a hand to stop her. “Goodnight. I’ll email you on Monday, Jen.” 

———

“Do I give you lesbian vibes?” Agatha asked Billy bluntly, inspecting the ice cream that was currently dripping down his hand with a frown.

They were walking around Washington Square Park, throngs of people milling around them and the fountain bubbling away in the background. She’d texted her godson out of the blue to invite him on a walk, tearing him away from his summer plans under the guise of exploring the NYU campus. 

His college decisions were hanging on the horizon, and while Agatha wouldn’t admit it, the idea of having one of her favourite people in the world live a little closer made her feel warm and fuzzy. 

Well, in the ballpark of warm and fuzzy, at least. Maybe as close as a Harkness could actually get. 

“Wh— what?” Billy stuttered, clearly caught off guard by her question—and if he knew what was good for him, choosing his next words very carefully. 

Agatha didn’t blame him. 

Since the dinner, she had been ignoring everything other than work—her phone, her feelings, and most importantly, Rio. Her roommate had tried to bridge the rift that had quickly developed between them, no thanks to Jen, but Agatha had shut right down. Luckily, Rio had taken the hint quickly, giving her some much-needed space.

Still, her mood had been erratic, a pendulum swinging between rage and confusion. She’d been on edge for days, and the only thing that could help even a fraction was answers. So forgive her for being a little abrupt. 

“You heard me, Billy,” she repeated herself. “Me. Aunt Agatha. Gay vibes. Now.” 

“No? I mean, well, yes , but—” Billy opened and closed his mouth like a fish. A droplet of pistachio landed with a soft plop on the sidewalk. 

He took a steadying breath, and Agatha felt a small twinge of regret for putting her poor, sweet, gay godson in this position. But he was the only person she could ask. Rio was severely off-limits, and while she and Jen had texted and emailed since the other night, it had been distant and only about work.

Plus, Jen had already said her piece—unless it was a grovel-at-your-feet kind of apology, Agatha didn’t want to hear anything else.

So, she just stared coolly at him until he spoke again: “Do you want to give off lesbian vibes?”

“That’s an irrelevant question,” Agatha intoned. “Just tell me—yes or no.”

“Ughhhh,” he groaned in a way that only teenagers could. “I’m uncomfortable.” 

“You’re uncomfortable,” Agatha barked out a laugh. “This is the first week I’ve been able to keep food down in over a month. Be thankful I’m not puking all over you. Now, where were we?” 

“Okay, fine!” Billy exclaimed, his voice pitching up at least an octave. “Firstly, I want to say that there are really no such thing as lesbian vibes anymore, anyone can be gay or straight or identify however they want, and that has nothing to do with the way they look, or act, or—”

Agatha cut him off with a ‘hurry up’ motion, ice-blue eyes boring into his.

“But if I didn’t know you and I had to take a guess, I’d say… maybe?!” 

“Maybe,” Agatha echoed flatly. This was a pointless study. Clearly the kid was either scared of what her reaction might be, or was trying to spare her feelings—and she hated both of those possibilities. 

Still, she wasn’t going to back down now. They’d come this far. “Elaborate.” 

“Well, you’re strong and authoritative. You don’t really give a shit about the male gaze—” Agatha cleared her throat at the curse word, but Billy just smiled sheepishly and went on. “—or what men think in general… and you wear a lot of suits, I guess. Like, on your book tours and stuff. So yeah—a little?” 

Weak arguments, she thought. No conclusive evidence to speak of. 

“Anyway… why are you asking?”

Agatha sighed, the weight of having to explain what had happened pressing down on her chest. “Just something someone said to me the other day.” 

Billy stopped mid-stroll, turning away from her to face the fountain in the middle of the park, looking out at it contemplatively. Agatha could sense he was gearing up to say something profound—the perils of having a therapist as a mother, she supposed—and she steeled herself for it, waiting. 

“You know, when kids used to call me gay in middle school, Mom always told me to just ignore them. Said that it didn’t matter if I was gay or straight or whatever, just that I took the time to figure it out myself instead of letting other people decide who I was—who I am.” 

Billy turned back and looked at her, something searching in his dark eyes. She suddenly felt ashamed for putting her emotional burden on a 17-year-old—although she had to give him credit. He was handling it surprisingly well.

Agatha shook her head, half at Billy and half to quell the thoughts that were now racing through her mind. So, she gave off gay vibes… maybe? That was confusing. Another thing to add to the list, she thought wryly. 

“You’ve been therapised beyond repair,” Agatha remarked. “I should have a fucking word with your mother.”

“Stop deflecting,” Billy prodded, leaning in to shoulder-check her playfully. 

“Ahh!” Agatha pulled back from his touch, pretending like she’d been burned. “Devil child!”

“I prefer ‘devil teen’, thank you very much.” 

They kept walking around the fountain quietly, some of the tension diffused by the summer air, never long for this world when her godson was involved. But while they’d fallen into a comfortable silence, Agatha was still turning over Billy’s comments, trying to find the hidden implication she’d missed. It was jarring, realising other people had perceptions of you that were so different to the one you had of yourself.

After a few minutes, Billy opened his mouth to speak again, ice cream long gone. 

“Aunt Agatha,” Billy started, tone tentative. “If you’re—” He seemed to stop and think for a second before deciding to press forward. “If you’re questioning who you are, you don’t need to decide today.”

Agatha stiffened. That wasn’t what this was. She wasn’t questioning anything, other than why everyone around her believed something about her that was so starkly, obviously wrong . 

And yet the simple notion hit her like a brick. Ever since the dinner, she’d felt like her hand was being forced—like she had something to prove, even to herself. Like if she let the silence stretch out too long, someone else’s version of the story would win. The idea of just letting it swirl around for a little longer, of not jumping on the defense, hadn’t even occurred to her. 

Billy continued. “I don’t think I really, truly knew I was gay until I met Eddie. And then it became like, painstakingly obvious once I couldn’t go five seconds without thinking about him,” he joked.

Agatha had to stifle a snort. The kid had been wearing crop tops since he was 13—the signs were there, and they’d all seen them. 

But what if there just… weren’t any signs for some people? What if it wasn’t some intrinsic part of yourself you knew from day one, but rather, a thing that built over time? 

And if it did build, then what was it building up to?

She shook her head and fixed Billy with a smile, flinging an arm around his shoulders in an attempt to lighten the mood and sidestep a conversation she wasn’t ready to continue. 

“Alright, kid, that’s enough trauma dumping for today. We’ve gotta get back to my place before your mom comes to pick you up.”

———

After a sweat-soaked subway ride, Agatha and Billy arrived back at the apartment. Her godson immediately collapsed on the couch while Agatha did a quick sweep to check if Rio was home. She wasn’t—probably at work, or college, or one of her many other activities—and it felt like a tiny mercy. She didn’t need surface-level small talk right now, not with the way the last few days had unfolded.

They’d been home for all of five minutes when a knock sounded at the door, and in came a flurry of red hair dressed in red shorts and a white tank top. 

“Hey!” Wanda greeted, immediately enveloping Agatha in a rose-scented hug.

“Hi,” Agatha mumbled into Wanda’s shoulder. “Please let me go before you flatten my windpipe. I’m breathing for two.”

“You’re so dramatic,” her best friend replied. She dropped her bag unceremoniously on the floor and reluctantly let go of Agatha.

“I know, it’s one of my best qualities,” Agatha snarked back. 

“Hey, Mom,” Billy waved at Wanda from the couch. 

“Hi sweetheart,” Wanda replied. “You okay if we stay a bit longer so I can catch up with your aunt?”

“Sure,” Billy shrugged her off and began playing with the TV remote. He flicked over to some Bravo monstrosity before directing his attention to his phone. How the youth could effortlessly switch between their big screens and their tiny screens, Agatha would never know.

“So, how are you?” Wanda asked, sliding into a stool at the kitchen island.

Agatha followed, dragging one out across from her. She rested her elbow on the bench, chin in hand. “Well, your son is turning into fucking Freud, but apart from that, I’m fine.”

Wanda ignored Agatha’s pointed comment and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Morning sickness gone?” she pressed. 

“Yeah,” Agatha nodded. “There was a whole projectile vomiting incident, and after that, Rio made me call the doctor, so you’ll be glad to know my Abigail impressions are behind me.” Wanda looked at her blankly. “Horror movie reference,” she clarified. 

“Sure,” Wanda blinked, as if she was just now processing what Agatha had said. “You said Rio made you call the doctor? Is she like, a nurse or something as well as being a plant whisperer?”

At the mention of plants, Agatha’s gaze drifted to the kitchen windowsill, where the purple-topped succulent now lived. Still alive, she observed vaguely. Still growing. 

“No, she was just there when it happened,” she finally responded. “I think I scared her a little. There was a lot of panicked Googling involved.”

“The poor girl,” Wanda chuckled. “I bet she’s wondering what she signed up for, living with you.” 

Agatha let out a humourless laugh. “Probably.”

That wasn’t true, though. The more of herself she exposed to Rio, the more she just… didn’t care. While she’d kind of accepted that Rio was unflappable, it still unnerved her a little. How easily she saw her, didn’t flinch or look away from her mess. 

She wondered if Rio would still be her same open, unapologetic self now, after she’d observed Agatha at her coldest. 

“I had dinner with her and her friends the other night,” Agatha dropped in, biting her lip. 

“And?” Wanda raised a brow.

“I may have stormed out.”

“Agatha!” Wanda’s exasperation came on cue. “What did I say about being nice?”

Agatha winced. “Umm, to try it? I did, Wanda, I promise.” She spread her arms wide in self-effacing acknowledgment. “It’s just not really in my nature.” 

“Oh, shut up. What set you off?” 

“There may have been some comments from Jen…” she trailed off. 

Wanda clocked the name—Agatha didn’t have many friends, and work was her world, so she’d heard about Jen more than she would’ve liked. Mostly Agatha’s bitching when Jen was on her case about turning in pages on time or taking editor’s notes as law, rather than mere suggestions.

“Wait, Jen was here? At Rio’s dinner?” 

“Yeah, she’s dating Rio’s best friend,” Agatha huffed out a laugh. “It’s a whole lesbian clusterfuck thing.”

“What did she say to you?”

“She may have insinuated that she thought I was… I don’t know, queer of some description.” Agatha traced over the veins of the marble countertop with an absent-minded finger.

“And that’s a bad thing because?” Wanda glanced over to where Billy was lounging on the couch, apparently deep in some text conversation, his fingers flying over the keys of his phone. Her gaze softened as it fell on him before returning to meet Agatha’s.

“It’s not a bad thing, Wanda, you know I don’t think that,” she reached for Wanda’s hand across the counter. “It’s just not who I am.”

“How do you know?”

Agatha pulled back and crossed her arms, a defensive reflex. “I don’t know, I just… know. How— how did you know?” she asked, voice rising a little too sharply. 

“What, with Billy? Or myself?” 

“Either or. Jesus fuck, what am I, surrounded by gay people?”

“Yes, Agatha,” Wanda nodded sagely. “You’re surrounded by gay people. We run the world.” 

Agatha smacked her on the arm, hard. 

“To answer your question,” Wanda’s lip twisted in contemplation. “I guess I didn’t really know until… college, maybe? There was this girl in my Psychology of Emotion and Motivation class. She was smart, funny, devastatingly charming,” she said, a dreamy look overtaking her features. 

“I kept finding excuses to study with her. One day, in the library, she kissed me… and I realised what I’d been feeling was textbook gay panic. Pun intended,” Wanda chuckled. 

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. We went on a couple dates and it fizzled out. I met Vision the next semester and the rest is suburban New Jersey legend. But she’s definitely my bisexual origin story.” 

Agatha frowned. “How have I never heard this before? I’ve known you since I was like ten years old.” 

“You never asked,” she shrugged. “I kinda assumed you didn’t want to know.” 

Oh, fuck. That was never a nice thing to hear from your best friend, and it cut deeper than Agatha could’ve expected. How many things had she assumed, ignored, steamrolled just to avoid having hard conversations?

“Wanda—” Agatha said, her voice cracking on impact. “I always want to know. I should’ve asked.”

Wanda’s expression was free of judgment. “It’s okay,” she reassured her, reaching for Agatha’s hand again and squeezing it, tethering them together in the moment. “You’ve always had a lot of your own shit going on. It’s not like you haven’t been there for me when I’ve needed you the most. But now, you’ve gotta let me be there for you .”

Agatha exhaled deeply. Between this and her talk with Billy, she could feel a vulnerability hangover coming on.

“I’m fine,” she said softly. It wasn’t true, though. She wasn’t fine, and the concept felt impossibly far from her reach. But she was determined to work her way back there, if not for her own sanity, but for the human that she’d be responsible for keeping alive in a matter of months. “I’m trying to be.”

“I know,” Wanda ran her thumb over the back of Agatha’s hand. “Remember what I said to you on the phone, is all.”

“To not be such a bitch?” 

“Well, yes, that,” Wanda laughed. “But also the part about not being alone. I know you’ve got a lot of thoughts rolling around in that head of yours, but don’t let this one slip loose.” She paused before continuing. “Have you talked to her since dinner?”

“To Jen? Please,” Agatha scoffed. “Only about work.” 

Wanda looked at her pointedly. “To Rio, Agatha.”

“What do I need to talk to Rio about?” Agatha asked, bewildered.

“Literally anything,” Wanda replied, like it was obvious. “Normal shit. Who’s taking out the trash or emptying the dishwasher.” 

Agatha rubbed a hand over her face as she shook her head, a non-verbal acknowledgement of her best friend’s fears. 

Wanda sighed again, a deep exhale. “Just don’t shut her out. What happened with Jen isn’t her fault, but she’s probably feeling like it is right now.”

Agatha pondered this. She didn’t want that—didn’t want Rio to be caught in the crossfires of what had eventuated between her and Jen. But she didn’t know how to protect her from it without leaning in too close or saying something that she couldn’t take back. The instinctual need to deflect rather than face it head-on had won out again. 

“Okay, okay,” Agatha protested, “enough therapy talk. Between you and him,” she jerked a finger towards Billy, “I’ve had my fair share of psychoanalysis for the year.”

Wanda took that as her sign to leave, standing up and stretching with a gentle smile thrown in Agatha’s direction. “Alright, kiddo,” she said, walking over to Billy and pulling an Airpod from one of his ears. He glared at her as she held it up to her own, listening to the tinny music. “Sabrina Carpenter?” she guessed. 

Billy made a face as if to say, you have no idea what you’re talking about. “Tate McRae. She’s iconic.” The finality of his statement made it clear it was not up for debate.

“Well, you can listen to your icons in the car,” Wanda tossed the Airpod back at her son and waited. “It’s time to go. Your dad and Tommy are probably tearing the house apart looking for food.”

Billy stood, shoving his phone into his pocket, and walked over to where Agatha was still sitting on one of the kitchen stools. She rose to her feet and noticed that Billy had a good four inches on her. 

The thought came thick and fast, before she could stop it: Is this what motherhood was like? Watching your heart grow outside of your body, with no control over what happened to it? She touched her stomach instinctively.

Billy leaned in to hug her and she returned it with all the sincerity in the world, grateful for the sweet, sensitive boy—no, man—in front of her. 

“You’ll figure it out,” he whispered in her ear, and it sent goosebumps flying across her skin. Billy pulled back for one last ‘love you’, before he and Wanda disappeared out the door, ready to make the journey back to Westview.

Chapter Text

Agatha had been tiptoeing around the apartment ever since the dinner party-gone-wrong, only acknowledging Rio in passing—like when they decided to make tea at the same time, or had to negotiate use of the TV.

She wasn’t avoiding her. Rio was resolutely not the problem. She was just avoiding having a conversation that she didn’t know how to broach, the idea sitting heavy in her gut like a stone. So much had happened in the last week that she could barely untangle it all: Jen’s accusations. Rio’s lost expression. Billy’s ‘maybe’. Wanda’s patience.

They blurred together in her mind like a stack of half-read books, none of them finished, the pages dog-eared and waiting for her to reopen them. But of course, she wouldn’t—not until she could put a name to how she felt.

And so the days passed, slow and shapeless. She’d barely left the apartment. What else was new.

Now, Sunday morning had rolled around like it always did, and the world outside seemed… cheerful. New York in summer was loud and bright, and once upon a time, Agatha had loved it. It had made her feel alive, like she was a part of something bigger than herself.

But as sunlight leaked across the floorboards of her bedroom, all she wanted to do was close the blinds and disappear.

See, she’d heard reports of the universe treating other people kindly. But that didn’t appear to be her lot in life.

“Agatha,” a knock came at her bedroom door, Rio’s voice filtering through. She ignored it and turned onto her side, pulling the covers over her head to block out the sunlight. The fuck was she doing at her door on a Sunday morning? She checked her watch and stifled a groan: 9am. 

Rio’s voice came again, louder and more insistent this time: “Agatha!”

Her stomach twisted. Maybe Rio wanted to talk about dinner—about the silences that had begun to fill their apartment.

Sure, Agatha had debriefed with Wanda and Billy, and their kindness had helped, somewhat. But it had also left her spinning. Because now that the dust had settled, all she could see was how far she’d strayed from a version of herself that she could recognise. 

She felt unmoored, nothing tethering her to the old Agatha, the one who hid behind sarcasm and would’ve rather jumped off a cliff than be vulnerable. It was like she’d been dropped at the start of an unfamiliar, winding road without a map—just a sneaking suspicion that wherever it led, she couldn’t turn around.

She stayed quiet for a second longer, willing Rio to walk away. But she didn’t hear her footsteps retreat.

“What?” Agatha eventually called out, tone clipped but muffled from beneath the duvet.

“Get up,” Rio replied. She sounded impatient, but there was no edge of confrontation in her voice. “You need to leave the apartment.”

“Why?” Agatha hoped her one word responses would function as a deterrent. 

“Because you’ve been moping in here for an entire week, and this weather is too good not to enjoy. When was the last time you saw sunlight?”

Oh, so that was it. Ever the caretaker, Agatha thought sullenly. Yeah, she’d been holed up in the apartment—but in her defence, she was making progress on her novel, and she knew that creativity was like lightning in a bottle. She’d planned to keep working all day, just in case writer’s block reared its ugly head again next week.

But, as had already proven the case at least once, Rio wasn’t the type to let Agatha’s stubbornness win, unless it was something trivial like how she did the dishes. She knew she had two options, neither of them appealing: put up a fight and be worn down eventually, or save herself the breath by going along with it—whatever it was.

And honestly? She was too tired to argue.

Reluctantly, she threw on a pair of pyjama shorts to go with her sleep shirt, and padded over to the door. She opened it a crack, and there was Rio in cutoffs and a t-shirt, looking at her with… were those puppy dog eyes?

Jesus, it was too early for that kind of emotional manipulation.

Agatha slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her, hiding the evidence—empty takeout containers, clothes that hadn’t been put away, and papers strewn over every surface—from view. She leaned against the door and folded her arms, summoning her best glare and fixing Rio with it. This better be good, it said. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Rio drawled, taking her in.

Agatha self-consciously brushed hair out of her face. “‘Good’ doesn’t even begin to describe it,” she replied sarcastically. 

“So, I’m curious,” Rio continued, unbothered. “What does a perfect Sunday morning look like for Agatha Harkness?”

“Huh?” She tilted her head. Clearly she was still waking up, because her verbal processing skills were sorely lacking.

“If you could do anything today—other than stay in bed,” Rio warned, preempting a retort, “what would you do?”

Agatha sighed in frustration, but Rio just kept looking at her, gaze pointed.

She mulled the question over for a minute. The desire to brush her off was overwhelming. But what was the alternative—wallowing in the dark for another eight hours? Even she had to admit that wasn’t productive.

“I guess I’d… maybe go to my favourite bookstore,” she finally said.

“Okay,” Rio nodded, like she was making a mental note. A small smile threatened her lips, like Agatha’s receptiveness pleased her. “Anything else?”

“Rio, why—” Agatha began, but Rio just held up a hand and motioned for her to keep going, immune to her protests. “Fine, I suppose I’d need to eat at some point. I’m fucking starving all the time now I can keep food down.” 

“Somewhere specific?” Rio asked, pulling her phone from her pocket.

“There’s a bagel place near the bookstore I like.”

Rio handed her phone over to Agatha, open to Google Maps. Wordlessly, she typed in the name of her go-to spot for a BEC, and thrust the phone back at Rio when she was done. 

“Okay, get dressed. We’re leaving in 20 minutes.”

“We? Don’t you have to work?” 

“Nope,” Rio smirked. “Got the day off,” she said, sauntering back to her room. 

24 minutes later—because yes, Rio had been counting—Agatha was locking the front door behind the two of them. Rio was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and Agatha had put on real clothes without an elasticated waistband. She wasn’t pregnant enough to only wear stretchy pants yet, she reminded herself, although the temptation had been there. 

As they stepped into the hallway, a burst of regret threatened to send her running back inside. There was still time to hold her ground, to back away from the unsettling kindness Rio was hell-bent on showing her. She could feign nausea or exhaustion. That would be believable coming from a grumpy pregnant lady.

But something about the way Rio just waited beside her, calm and casual, made her hesitate. Fine, Agatha told herself. Just a couple of hours, and she’d be off her case . 

She looked at Rio expectantly as they made it onto the street, slipping her own sunglasses over her eyes. “So?”

“So, bookstore.”

Agatha puffed out her cheeks in a defeated sigh. It was Rio’s world, and somehow, she’d found herself living smack-bang in the middle of it. 

——— 

Their walk to the subway station had been quiet, but less tense than Agatha had expected, offset by the sun beating down on their faces and the soft clink of Rio’s keys dangling from a carabiner on her shorts. 

Once they’d gotten onto the packed train, full of kids on their way to soccer practice and couples canoodling over coffee, Rio had woven through the crowds to find Agatha a seat. 

She had complained, predictably—she was barely pregnant, and certainly not an invalid. But Rio had insisted, so she sat.

After that, they’d fallen into mindless conversation, Agatha watching Rio hang off the metal subway pole like an overgrown child, and she’d felt herself loosening up more as they passed each station.

It was easier now that she wasn’t actively trying to fight it, and while the voice in her head wanted to pick at what that meant, she let herself press pause on the interrogation. The whole point of this outing was to be present, to forget for a little while. 

So, she grounded herself in the moment, listening to Rio talk while the world went by around them.

When the train came to a groaning halt, Rio navigated their way out of the subway and through the streets of Prospect Heights, using her phone to guide her. Now, they were face-to-face with what used to be one of Agatha’s most frequented haunts: Hart’s Books. 

She stared up at the emerald green facade and striped awnings, trying to remember the last time she’d visited. Everything looked the same—the peeling gold lettering on the windows, the stacks of books facing out towards the world. Even when everything around her was in flux, at least one thing was constant, and the thought comforted her. 

After a few minutes, Rio turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “We gonna go in, or do we have to be like… invited? Wait, is this a vampire thing?”

It catapulted Agatha right back into the present. “Oh my god,” she chuckled under her breath. “You’re so stupid.”

“Mmm?” Rio replied, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she pretended not to hear her. 

“Yes, we can go in,” Agatha said, louder this time.

As they crossed over the threshold into the store, the comforting scent of old pages and vanilla candles swirled around them. Rio quickly disappeared into the shelves while Agatha lingered near the doorway.

“Agatha!” the older woman behind the till greeted her kindly, face lighting up with a warm, wide smile. She looked the same as she always had, her cardigan buttoned and hair neatly blow-dried.

“Hi, Mrs Hart,” Agatha said. She couldn’t have stopped her smile if she’d wanted to—she’d been visiting this bookstore for over a decade, and Sharon had become a fixture in her life, whether Agatha was promoting her own new release or just topping up her to-be-read pile.

“It’s Mrs Davis, dear, remember—Hart’s is just the name of the bookstore.” Agatha just hummed in agreement, knowing it would go in one ear and out the other. She’d never been able to get that one right.

“How are you, Agatha? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” Sharon tottered out from behind the counter so they were face-to-face.

“I’m good, Mrs—” Oh god, she’d forgotten again. “Sharon.” 

“That handsome fellow of yours propose to you yet?” Sharon asked, resting a hand on Agatha’s arm.

The laugh bubbled up before she could stop it—sharp, cynical, and entirely inappropriate. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to cover it with a cough. 

No, she thought, he dumped me when he found out I was pregnant. A month or two ago it would’ve been too raw to talk about, but at this point, with everything else going on, it all just felt absurd.

Sharon had always asked after Ralph ever since she’d met him, which had only been the once—an impromptu visit on their way back from one of his work functions in Manhattan. From then, she’d been more focused on the idea of Agatha and Ralph getting married than either of them ever were. In hindsight, Agatha supposed, that was a sign of their inevitable demise.

She mulled over how to answer the question gently, before realising she could actually say what she was thinking. Sure, it might provoke a mild heart attack, but maybe it’d feel good to say it out loud.

“No,” Agatha replied matter-of-factly. “He dumped me when he found out I was pregnant.” 

Shock rippled across Sharon’s features, her face turning bright red as she fumbled her words. “I’m— oh, golly, I mean— Agatha…”

“It’s okay, Sharon,” Agatha gave her hand a quick pat. “I’m doing fine,” she said.

Sharon pursed her lips thoughtfully, like she was making up her mind about something. “Well, who needs him anyway,” she finally said, with an indignant shake of her head. “A baby, though! Now that’s exciting.”

“Yes, it is,” Agatha smiled. Fuck—now that was a real, genuine smile, she thought. Those were few and far between. Maybe she was making some progress, after all. 

Before Sharon could launch into the hundreds of questions Agatha was sure she had about the baby, Rio emerged from behind one of the tall wooden shelves, a stack of paperbacks in her arms. “Agatha, I’m gonna need you to help me pick…” 

“Hello!” Sharon looked at Rio curiously. “And who might you be?”

Rio shot Agatha an amused look at the old-timey turn of phrase.

“Sharon, this is Rio, my roommate,” Agatha explained.

“Nice to meet you, Sharon,” Rio shuffled the books in her arms and extended a hand for her to shake. Sharon took it, a vaguely charmed expression on her face. If she didn’t know any better, Agatha would’ve sworn there was a hint of a blush creeping onto her cheeks.

“And you too, Rio. Agatha here was just telling me about the baby,” she said, making no show of hiding her joy. “It’s wonderful news, isn’t it?” 

“Very,” Rio said solemnly. “Did she tell you about her dramatic pregnancy symptoms?” 

Sharon whipped around to face Agatha, a hand pressed to her heart. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Agatha brushed off. “I’ve just had some morning sickness.”

“Have you been helping her?” Sharon looked back at Rio, narrowing her eyes.

“I’ve been trying, Sharon,” Rio raised her palms upwards in a what can you do-style question. “But she’s stubborn.”

Now it was Agatha’s turn to glare at Rio.

Rio winked back at her, quick and sly. Her stomach did that thing again, the one she struggled to name—flipped, twisted, tensed, whatever you wanted to call it. She stiffened for a second before relaxing back into the conversation, hoping no one had noticed.

“You have to let her help you, Agatha,” Sharon scolded, swatting at her arm playfully with all the strength of a mosquito.

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, Mrs Hart.” 

“Mrs Davis, honey,” Sharon corrected her again, a little less patiently this time. “And I know you are,” she continued. “But you’re going to need all the help you can get when this baby comes. They’re not easy, those little humans.”

Rio nudged Agatha, arms still laden with books. “That’s what I’ve been telling her.”

Feeling the weight of two sets of eyes scrutinising her, Agatha changed the topic, reaching for the books Rio was holding. 

“Good,” she appraised, handing one of the books back to Rio. “Awful—not worth your time,” she continued, shucking that one onto the counter. “Worth a read, yes, and,” she brandished the final book in Rio’s stack, “we have this one at home.” 

“Thanks,” Rio said, fixing her with a dazzling smile as she collected the discarded books and wandered back over to the shelves to put them away. Once she was out of earshot, Sharon leaned in—far too close for Agatha’s liking, but she’d let it slide. 

“She seems just lovely,” Sharon whispered conspiratorially.

“Yeah, she’s great,” Agatha agreed. It was an automatic response—a natural reaction to the compliment—but she meant it. Rio was great, and she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t. Nothing more, nothing less.

Rio ambled back around the corner then, clutching the books Agatha had approved and what looked like a few new additions. A flash of colour caught her eye, but she didn’t probe or ask what else Rio had picked up as she laid them on the counter and reached for her wallet. 

While Sharon busied herself ringing Rio up, Agatha took her own opportunity to walk through the shelves of the bookstore, inhaling the scent of fresh paperbacks, trailing her fingers along their spines. 

There was something magical about a new book—a story yet to be discovered, waiting to be devoured—that sent a jolt of excitement through her. Instead of opening up her Goodreads profile to find something she’d been meaning to read, Agatha decided to let fate have her way. She picked up the first cover that stood out to her without a second thought.

When she made it back to the counter, Rio and Sharon were chatting idly about something she couldn’t discern, Rio’s laughter bouncing off the walls of the small store.

“Ready to go?” Rio turned to ask, noticing Agatha had returned.

“Yep,” she replied, handing the book to Sharon. “Just gonna grab this one first.”

Sharon waved off the wad of cash Agatha was holding and put the book in a brown paper bag. “Consider it a gift,” she smiled at her, “for my favourite long-lost customer.”

Agatha pressed her lips together in a silent thank you. Taking a freebie from an independent bookstore felt like an affront to everything she stood for, but something in Sharon’s expression told her she knew Agatha needed the kindness today.

“Can I expect you in for a signing anytime soon?” the bookstore owner asked, watching on as they gathered up their purchases and went to leave.

“Well, my next one probably won’t come out until after the kid does,” Agatha joked. Her productivity came in fits and starts these days, only settling when she was trying to distract herself. But, her deadlines still loomed, and at this rate, publication would coincide with the other important milestone in her life. “But then, of course.”

“Perfect, I’ll be looking forward to it. Goodbye, Agatha,” Sharon waved. “Bye-bye, Rio. I hope I’ll be seeing you both again soon.”

They waved back in her direction as they stepped out onto the street, midday sun hitting them in full force. Agatha tipped her sunglasses back onto her face, and Rio fished her baseball cap out of the worn green tote bag that now held her generous haul.

“Bagels?” Rio turned to Agatha questioningly.

Agatha closed her eyes and nodded, letting the sun warm her face. “Need caffeine.” They stepped off the curb together, Rio leading the way to the spot she’d saved in her Maps. 

Behind the heavy glass door of the bookstore, Sharon went back to rearranging the shelves, chuckling quietly as she went. “Roommates,” she mused. “I guess that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”

———

A short walk later, they arrived at another pillar from Agatha’s old life—the one where she wasn’t bed-bound and questioning her every move. Her favourite bagel shop. 

The smell of fresh bread and coffee overwhelmed her when she pushed through the front door, bell chiming as Rio followed. She walked over to her usual table on auto-pilot, grabbing two menus from the counter as she passed. She handed Rio one when they sat down, watching as her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, deciding what to order.

Before long, their food and coffee had arrived, and Agatha was humming gratefully into her cappuccino while Rio eyed her from over the top of an iced oat milk latte.

“Are we friends?” Rio asked out of the blue.

Agatha frowned, hand stilling around the warmth of her coffee cup. “You’re my roommate, Rio. Don’t forget what I said to you when you moved in.”

“Okay,” Rio nodded slowly in acknowledgement. “But this,” she gestured at the table between them, laden with food and coffee, “this says ‘friends’ to me.”

“Fine. We’re… friendly, then,” Agatha said, the distinction clear. “That enough for you?” 

Rio was shifting in her seat a little, hand drumming a staccato rhythm on the table. Was she nervous? Agatha wondered, confused.

“Honestly?” Rio asked. Agatha nodded, signalling for Rio to go on. “I mean, not really. I’d like to be your friend, you know.”

The urge to be honest rose in her throat before she could swallow it down. “I guess I… don’t really know what to do with friends,” Agatha admitted. 

Rio gave a small shrug. “Today was a pretty good start, I think.”

Agatha paused and let Rio’s words settle between them. She was right—this was what friends did. Shared meals, talked about themselves, supported one another through hard shit. Rio had done all of those things, for and with her, without wavering once. And it was… nice.

She couldn’t deny it any longer—there were no barriers to being friends with Rio other than her own stubbornness. She’d grasped at every reason to keep her at arm’s length, but none of them had stuck long enough to count.

Except she couldn’t in good conscience say yes, I’ll be your friend, without clearing the air first. And while that morning she’d been the furthest thing from ready, after their day together, she felt strangely at ease.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” Agatha questioned, blue eyes narrowing as she searched Rio’s brown ones. She was looking for a hint of resentment; a suggestion Rio might be harboring some negativity after she’d stormed out the other night.

The corner of Rio’s mouth turned up curiously. “Do I have a reason to be mad at you?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been nice to you the last week. You know, after the dinner. After…” she trailed off, not wanting to rehash it.

“You needed space, I get that,” Rio said plainly. “It wasn’t exactly a fun conversation. For anyone,” her tongue wandered to the side of her cheek. “But I’m guessing particularly not for you.”

“No,” Agatha replied quietly, staring at the half of her bagel she’d yet to finish.

Rio glanced down at the table like she was contemplating something, fingers trailing over the condensation from her iced coffee. When she looked back up, her eyes were fiery, darker than Agatha had ever seen them.

“Agatha, Jen was so fucking out of line. I don’t—,” she exhaled sharply. “I don’t know what possessed her to do that. To think she had the right to do that.”

“Rio—” Agatha ran a hand through her hair, working anxiously at a knot towards the bottom.

“No,” Rio cut her off firmly. “I talked to Alice about it. I told her Jen needs to apologise to you. The fact that it’s been over a week and she isn’t banging on our front door begging for your forgiveness—”

“It’s fine,” Agatha cast her eyes downward again, sighing. “Water under the bridge,” she deflected.

“She tried to out you in front of us, Agatha,” Rio pressed. “I think it’s great that Jen’s so comfortable with her own sexuality, I really do. But she doesn’t get to comment on someone else’s.” As she said that, her tone softened, like she was doing everything she could to get through to her. “I should’ve called her out on the spot.”

Rio was right—Agatha knew she was. She’d known it since the second Jen had leaned in rather than backing off. And she had to admit it was validating, knowing Rio was on her side. 

But there was more to it than that. There was something gut-wrenchingly honest in the way Rio jumped to protect her, even though it had taken her a beat to get there.

Because previously, Rio had been nothing but nice. This was a different side of her—one that hinted that her niceness was less about who she was, and more about Agatha.

It made her feel safe, she realised. And friends did that too, right? Protected each other so fiercely it felt like safety?

“Thank you,” Agatha finally said, her words small but sincere. “I mean that.” She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “But, can we change the subject? Please?”

Rio took her in for a moment longer, before leaning back in the booth, resting her tattooed arm behind her head. “Sure,” she nodded. “Ball’s in your court, though, Harkness.”

Agatha racked her brain for something that would give her a little relief. She settled on asking about Rio’s many, many activities. “Okay, so I got the whole massage backstory at dinner. And I know about the nursery,” she pondered. “But what about school?”

“What about it?” 

“I don’t know… what are you studying?” Agatha already knew the answer—the textbooks that had taken up residence in her apartment had told her. But she wanted to hear it in Rio’s words. 

“Education. Biology and physics, specifically,” Rio replied.

“So, high school then?”

“Mm-hmm. I love little kids, don’t get me wrong, but I think I’d struggle to discipline them.” 

Agatha tilted her head. “Did you grow up around other kids?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Rio nodded. “In some of my foster homes, before I ended up at Lilia’s.” Her voice was still airy, unaffected, probably for Agatha’s sake—but she knew she was steering them into serious territory.

Agatha toyed with the edge of her napkin, wondering if she should pull back. What had started as an innocuous question was already hinting at something heavy again, and she didn’t want to make Rio uncomfortable after all the good will she’d shown her. And selfishly, she wanted to keep things light before she inevitably retreated back into her own head later—so sue her.

“So, what’s the end game, then? With college?”

“Well, I’m taking summer classes right now, and then I have one more semester before I’m done,” Rio leaned forward, her chin in her hands. “If I don’t fail anything, I’ll graduate in December. Probably teach supply until the new school year starts.” 

“December will be here soon enough,” Agatha remarked. “It’s going to be a busy end of the year for both of us.”

“Is that when you’re due?” Rio took a bite of her bagel, scattering poppyseeds across her plate.

Agatha nodded. “Christmas baby,” she said softly. When she’d seen the doctor for her first ultrasound, they’d given her a rough due date of December 21st, a short six months from now. Not exactly Christmas, but close enough.

She tried to picture what her life would look like by then—but the future was hazy, her magic 8-ball broken. Ask again later. Cannot predict now.

“Ooft, that’d be a rough birthday,” Rio joked. “Might wanna think about popping it out early.” 

“Oh, sure,” she rolled her eyes, looking down at her stomach. “You hear that? Rio wants you to evacuate the premises early.” Her gaze flicked back up to Rio. “They say they’ll think about it.” 

“Christmas and Halloween. Got all the holidays covered in the Harkness household,” Rio hummed thoughtfully, top lip twitching with a hint of mirth.

That’s right, Agatha remembered. Rio had asked about her birthday the first day they’d met.

“When’s your birthday?” she asked.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” Rio drummed her hands against the table ceremoniously. “It’s the Fourth of July.”

Agatha almost spat out her coffee. “Oh my god, you’re kidding,” she cackled, her laughter echoing throughout the restaurant. “You’re right, that’s insane.” She paused. “Hang on—that’s like two weeks from now.”

“Look at you, doing math and shit.”

“Have you got any plans?”

“Not really,” Rio shrugged. “I’ll probably have dinner at Lilia’s, maybe see Alice over the weekend. But 32 isn’t exactly a big deal,” she finished.

Agatha, in a rare reversal of roles, actually did have plans for the Fourth. 

“Well, if you don’t mind spending the day with people you don’t know, I usually go to Wanda’s place in Jersey for a barbecue. You could invite Alice… and Jen, I guess.” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted how casual the offer sounded. Like it was no big deal—like inviting Rio, and worse, Jen, into the same orbit as the Maximoffs didn’t mean blurring the lines of their oddly intersecting worlds even more. 

But she didn’t backpedal. They were friends now, according to Rio, and friends celebrated each other’s birthdays.

She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat and waited for an answer.

“That sounds like fun,” Rio’s mouth turned up in a smile, setting Agatha at ease. “I love a cookout. Beer, sunshine, someone’s dad saying something inappropriate.” 

Agatha snorted. “Well, there’ll be two teenage boys in attendance, so I can’t promise you won’t endure your fair share of dumb remarks. Especially if you insist on bringing those gross veggie sausages,” she warned. She couldn’t wait to hear what juvenile jokes Tommy would make about that.

“Girl’s gotta eat,” Rio gestured to the crumbs of her bagel, eyeing Agatha’s clean plate and empty coffee cup. “You all done?” 

No. Agatha thought. Yes. I don’t know. She didn’t know how to verbalise it—the feeling of wanting to sit in a moment of lightness a little longer, of dreading what could creep back in once she left it. 

But she’d probably already overstayed her welcome.

“Yeah,” she grabbed her bag from next to her on the booth, her new book weighing heavy at the bottom. “Let’s go home.” She slung enough money on the table to cover both of their meals and stood to leave.

Rio looked at her thoughtfully as she held the door to the bagel place open. “Wanna walk home?” she asked, voice flecked with what sounded a little like hope.

“It’s like an hour to walk,” Agatha frowned, nearly tripping over a step. She tried to steady herself on the railing, but Rio’s arm shot out and grabbed her elbow before she could. 

Her hand stayed there, resting against her skin. Agatha looked at her, then up at the sky. Maybe they had time, after all.

“Okay,” she found herself agreeing. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Chapter Text

When Agatha entered the cafe, she spotted Jen already sitting at one of the tables, waiting. She was predictably dressed in pink, a skirt suit situation that made her look like Barbie’s book agent, not Agatha’s.

There was a cup of something hot in front of her, steam rising visibly in the air-conditioned cafe. Her eyes were cast downward in thought, picking at a fingernail absentmindedly, and it made her look… smaller, somehow.

It was a far cry from the Jen she knew, the one who was loud and brash and larger than life. It prickled at Agatha uncomfortably, the realisation that she’d caused this—that she was the reason that Jen was sitting here looking like someone had just kicked her dog or thrown her best heels out the window.

But Rio’s words echoed in her mind, on replay the way they had been since Sunday.

Jen was so fucking out of line. 

She doesn’t get to comment on someone else’s sexuality. 

I should’ve called her out on the spot.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted forgiveness or a fight. But she knew she had to brave it one way or the other—to let Jen say her piece, nip it in the bud, and then hopefully, move the fuck on with her life. So she rolled her shoulders back, plastered on her stoniest expression, and strode over to where Jen was sitting. 

“Hi,” Agatha said tightly, throwing her bag onto the table before dropping into the seat across from Jen. It weighed a ton, probably because she had at least one book in there, and the thud it elicited, paired with Jen’s startled expression, satisfied the shit out of her.

“Hey,” Jen replied, once she’d collected herself. “Thanks for meeting me.”

Agatha just grunted and flagged down a waiter, barking her coffee order at him. Jen went to open her mouth again, but she held up a finger in her direction to silence her. Nothing productive would come out of her mouth before she’d had caffeine, and she needed a moment to steel herself.

Even though she’d been bracing herself for an awkward apology since Jen texted on Monday morning, seeing her look genuinely remorseful was new. She’d half-expected her to come in full of false bravado, hand her a one-worded sorry, and be done with it.

It was only when the heat of the mug was scalding Agatha’s hands that she dignified Jen with a response—and even then, it was monosyllabic.

“Talk.”

Jen ran a hand over her head. “I fucked up,” she said, although Agatha could see that it pained her to admit it. She sighed, audible and shaky. “I’m sorry.”

Agatha hummed, taking a long, slow sip of her coffee. It was a start—she hadn’t expected the ‘s’ word to come out of Jen’s mouth so quickly—but it didn’t even begin to cover the breadth of emotional turmoil she’d caused.

She cleared her throat, eyes locked on Jen’s, and waited for her to continue.

“I’m sorry for putting words in your mouth,” Jen said. “And for not backing down. I should’ve left it when you said you weren’t queer, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have done it in front of everyone.” She looked down again, as if she might find the right words to say written in the foam of her coffee. “I don’t know what I was fucking thinking,” she murmured.

Better, Agatha thought. If she herself was allergic to apologies, Jen was intolerant at the very least—so she knew it meant something. There was just one more loose end Agatha wanted to tie up.

The caffeine had made its way into her system enough that this time, she could manage a full sentence. “So why did it take Rio talking to Alice to trigger this little admission?”

“It shouldn’t have. I just…” Jen exhaled, two fingers kneading at the bridge of her nose. “I thought I knew something about you that I clearly didn’t, and—ugh,” she huffed. “I sound like a fucking after-school special.” 

“You sound like someone who crossed a line,” Agatha replied coolly.

Jen pursed her lips. “You’re right, I crossed a line,” she finally acknowledged. “I’m sorry for thinking I knew you better than you know yourself.” 

Now that was the kicker. It was the one remnant of the other night that had been circling her like a shark—that is, whenever she wasn’t trying to push the whole thing out of her head or rationalise it away.

The idea that someone had seen something she hadn’t and latched onto it so firmly was terrifying. And the idea of them admitting they were wrong freed up space in Agatha’s chest so she could finally breathe.

Agatha took a sip of her drink, mulling over what to say next. “Apology accepted,” she finally exhaled, before raising an eyebrow at Jen. “Begrudgingly. Watch your back, Kale.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve learned my lesson,” Jen scoffed. But, there was a smile playing on her lips. She leaned back in her chair, posture relaxing, and drained the last of her latte.

“So, did being such a heartless bitch to me fuck anything up with Alice?”

“Mmm,” Jen replied, biting her lip. “We’ve talked about it. I think she was too confused by our whole thing to really dig into me, but I’ve done my share of grovelling,” she said wryly. “We’re okay.”

“Glad to hear it,” Agatha said. She still felt tightly wound, but she really was happy that her conflict with Jen hadn’t gotten in between her and Alice. By all accounts, they were a well-matched couple—Jen’s assertiveness, Alice’s chill.

“I thought you’d be gunning for a premature breakup,” Jen joked.

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Thought about it. Daydreamed about it, actually,” she mused. And yeah—she had. But she’d come to the conclusion that damning Alice and Jen’s relationship to hell wasn’t going to get her, or anyone, anywhere. And that, she thought, was on growth.  

“Alice seems like she really likes you. Not sure why,” Agatha smirked, lifting an eyebrow in Jen’s direction. She made a disgruntled sound, but let Agatha keep going. “But who am I to fuck with that? Even if you did try to get me to join your coven of lesbians,” she joked, an ant-sized peace offering.

Jen laughed at that, the tension between them dissipating. 

And that was just who they were, Agatha and Jen. They’d bicker, and poke at each other, and now, it seemed, rip each other a new one in front of their friends—but the bite marks faded eventually. 

This one easily could’ve turned into something bigger, something rotten, considering how deep Jen had sunk her teeth into her. But she had thick skin. Jen had done the right thing—and Agatha had actually let her, instead of just burying it under the rug. Was this what progress felt like?

She glanced down at her half-empty coffee cup. It had gone lukewarm, but she kept her hands wrapped around it anyway, steadying herself. She looked back up at Jen again, ready to make another joke at her expense and break through the quiet—but Jen’s expression had turned curious. And Jen’s curiosity, as recent events had proven, was never good.

“Now that it’s just you and me,” Jen tilted her head, leaning her elbows against the wooden table. “Are you and…” She stopped, like she was choosing her words carefully. “Is there something between you and Rio?”

That same flash of defensiveness rose again. Scratch everything she’d said about progress—Jen was clearly batshit crazy. Have you learned nothing? Agatha thought. Here they were, supposedly clearing the air, and Jen was choosing now of all moments to backtrack. To imply something that frankly, she knew nothing about. 

She fought the urge to hit back at her. The cafe was quiet, and although she’d made her fair share of public scenes in her life, now probably wasn’t the time to scare every barista in a five-mile radius. She settled on shutting whatever the fuck this was down quickly and quietly. 

“We’re friends, Jen,” Agatha said flatly. “That’s all it is.” 

Jen opened her mouth, then closed it, pressing her lips together in thought. Eventually she nodded, considering Agatha’s point.

“I know that’s how you feel, and I’m not going there again,” Jen said, although Agatha could see it was costing her a great deal of restraint. She hesitated, tapping a manicured nail against her coffee cup. “I just get the feeling that Rio likes you,” she said. “As more than friends, maybe.”

The admission swirled around in Agatha’s mind. It didn’t hit her like a slap, or threaten to upend the contents of her stomach right there on the table. It just lifted the corner of something that had previously been glued down, like a sticker she’d been picking at that was now coming free.

She tracked back over Rio’s behaviour, the way she acted around her. Sure, she was attentive, and kind, and for some inexplicable reason, rolled with all of Agatha’s many moods.

But that was just who Rio was. Who she’d shown herself to be, time and time again. Rio hadn’t done or said anything to make Agatha think otherwise.

She pressed the corner of the sticker back down.

“Well, she doesn’t,” Agatha replied firmly. “Rio’s just an exceedingly nice person,” she added. And charming, and good, and funny, and—not relevant. “Stop trying to make it into something that it isn’t,” she warned.

The memory of how she felt at dinner—the heat crawling in her chest, her heart spitting out a million beats a minute—was still raw. Revisiting it wouldn’t do any good.

Jen held her hands up in surrender. “Okay,” she exhaled. “I’m sorry. Officially backing off now.” 

“Thank god for that,” Agatha muttered. Avoiding Jen’s tight-lipped, apologetic smile, she reached over and rummaged through her bag, producing a journal filled with her latest book notes. She needed to focus on something, anything else—something that would let her put a pin in the long, slow, painful unravelling of the last few weeks.

“Now, can we talk about work?”

———

With the Jen thing neatly squared away, Agatha supposed she had no choice now but to do as she’d promised—to invite her, Alice, and Rio to the Maximoffs’ Fourth of July celebrations. Which was how she’d found herself propped up against the pillows in bed the next morning, drafting a text to Wanda.

Agatha: So I have a question slash favour to ask you… 

Wanda: Hi, Agatha. I’m good, thanks for asking. How are you? 

Agatha groaned, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Agatha: Oh, come off it. 

The three dots that indicated Wanda was typing appeared, then disappeared again. Stubborn witch . 

Agatha: Fine, how are you?

Wanda: Overworked, sleep deprived, and living in a house with three boys who don’t understand that their smelly gym socks aren’t living room decor. You be the judge. 

Agatha: Eww. Okay, onto my question.

Agatha started typing out the next message: Can I invite Rio and co to the Fourth? It’s her birthday and I thought it would be nice for her to celebrate with us. 

She stared at the screen, then backspaced furiously to delete it. Too personal. It couldn’t sound like a big deal—because it wasn’t. She’d just opened her mouth without thinking, a habit she really needed to work on, and now she had to live with the repercussions.

She called on every shred of nonchalance she had and channelled it into a revision.

Agatha: Can I invite a few people to your Fourth barbecue?

Wanda: Sure, the more the merrier! 

Phew , Agatha thought. That was easy.

Another text pinged a few seconds later.

Wanda: But you have to tell me who.

She buried her face in the pillow and let out a groan. Always with the probing questions. Still, Agatha supposed there wasn’t a world in which she’d get off that easy—and it didn’t have to be some big reveal. It was perfectly normal to invite her roommate and her friends to a social gathering. Even if one of those friends was her formerly estranged literary agent. 

Agatha: Rio and Alice. And Jen.

Wanda: What!? I have so many questions and five minutes to get ready for work. I’m calling you right now!!

“I’m just getting in the car,” Wanda warned her as she picked up the phone. Agatha looked down at her legs, tucked up under the covers of the bed. Maybe it was time to start waking up earlier. Then again, she had less than six months of sleep as she knew it left—and Agatha Harkness loved sleep.

“Now, what’s this about Rio and Jen coming to my family-friendly barbecue? I’m all for building bridges, but do you really think that’s a good idea?” Wanda continued.

Agatha sighed. “Jen and I already made up,” she said. Wanda made a surprised sound, muffled by the receiver, but still unmistakably there.

“Really?” she intoned slowly, stretching out each syllable.

“Yes, really,” Agatha confirmed. “She apologised.”

“Phew,” Wanda replied, exhaling a long, audible stream of breath. “Vision and I were taking bets on how long you guys would ice each other out.”

Of course Wanda had told Vision. God forbid she keep her mouth shut for a second—although Agatha supposed she should’ve suspected as much, considering how she handed confidential patient stories around like they were after-dinner mints.

“And?” Agatha enquired dryly.

“Oh, neither of us were even in the vicinity of a week. I thought it’d be like… months.” She paused. “I’m glad you’re friends again.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Wanda.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” she brushed her off airily. “And Rio?” 

“Why is it always and Rio?” Agatha snapped. “Can’t I just do something nice for someone without it being a whole thing?”

“No,” Wanda shot back, reflexes trained from years of friendship. “That’s extremely out-of-character behaviour for you.” 

“Rio and I are friends,” Agatha said, trying to sound casual about it. “We went to Hart’s Books on Sunday, had some bagels. I’m taking your advice,” she added reproachfully.

“And this would be…” Wanda paused for effect. “The first time you’ve ever done that. So colour me surprised.”

“I found out during our little outing that Rio’s birthday is the Fourth of July,” Agatha ignored her, continuing without missing a beat. “She said she didn’t have any plans and it felt weird not to invite her.”

“Well, that was sweet of you,” Wanda remarked. 

Sweet? No. Harknesses didn’t do sweet. It was a functional choice at best—a way to kill two birds with one stone. To save Rio from spending her birthday alone, and to create some kind of buffer around the baby questions, and the Ralph questions, the book questions. People had too many questions.

With Rio there—and Jen and Alice—maybe she’d be able to avoid talking too much about herself and shift the spotlight onto other people. And wouldn’t that be a fucking relief, she thought distantly. 

It had absolutely nothing to do with the time they’d spent together the other day; the way that relaxing around Rio felt like cracking a door of a pitch-black room and letting a sliver of sunlight in. Nothing at all.

“Anyway,” Wanda continued, “totally fine to invite them. It might be nice to have some new faces around, other people for the boys to annoy.”

“She’s been forewarned,” Agatha chuckled. “Billy’s going to be all over her like a rash.”

Wanda laughed in agreement. “I’m excited to meet her,” she said. “And Jen and Alice,” she added, although Agatha could sense it was an afterthought.

“Okay, keep it in your pants, Red.”

———

After a long day of redrafting a singular, maddening chapter of her book, Agatha walked into the living room in search of something—or rather, someone—to distract her. She’d expected Rio to be stretched out on the couch watching a nature documentary, or in the kitchen making something that smelled good and tasted better. But, she was nowhere to be seen.

Looking around, Agatha zeroed in on one of the armchairs, where Rio’s stuff was haphazardly resting, wallet falling out of her messenger bag, crumpled papers sitting on top. She resisted the urge to straighten things up— not just your house, she reminded herself—and instead, pushed open the sliding glass doors to the only other place Rio could be. The balcony.

She was slumped in one of the wicker chairs, Doc-clad feet up on the railing, looking off into the distance at the New York skyline as the sun began to set. Agatha’s eyes went straight to the faint orange glow coming from between her index and middle fingers.

“Shit. Oh my go—” Rio stammered, noticing Agatha. The lit end of her cigarette brushed against her hand, and she winced.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, once she’d regained her composure. “I don’t ever do this in the apartment, I swear. I usually go outside, but I… I really needed one tonight.”

Agatha had to stifle a laugh at Rio’s stumble. It was kinda cute, how nervous she looked. Like Agatha’s opinion meant something.

If only Rio knew what she wouldn’t give for the delicious bitterness of a cigarette right now, especially after hours of staring at her laptop screen. She’d pretended to quit over a decade ago at her mother’s behest, but she’d run back to the vice many a time since then, when she was stressed or strung out and didn’t feel like rolling a joint.

Getting pregnant had, understandably, made her kick the habit for good—or at least, for nine months. Still, she thought about it more than ever, now that she had nothing to take the edge off.

She placed a hand on the back of the other chair and gestured towards Rio. “Can I sit with you?”

Rio frowned, opened her mouth, then shut it again, nodding. She flicked some ash into the ceramic tray on the outdoor table, an addition Agatha hadn’t noticed before. It was shaped like a crab, bright red and garish, its pincers held up in the air.

It was dumb, and it was so goddamn Rio she couldn’t help but chuckle at it.

Agatha plonked herself down in the cushy chair, still eyeing the ashtray. She placed one hand on her belly—a little softer and rounder than it had been a few weeks ago—and the other under her chin, looking at Rio curiously. She seemed tired, less bright than usual; hair hastily scraped off her face in a ponytail.

“What makes you think I’d care if you smoked on the balcony?”

Rio looked at her dumbly, as if afraid to say a word. 

“Was it my aggressive cohabitation rules that scared you off?” 

She watched as the cogs turned in Rio’s head and, clearly amused by Agatha’s sudden self-awareness, she eventually sputtered a laugh. “Yeah, I think that had something to do with it.” 

Rio was laughing harder now, tears of mirth welling up in her eyes. As if freed by the silliness of it all, Agatha let herself laugh, too.

It felt good. Healing, somehow. To laugh at the ridiculous front she’d put up when Rio moved in, how much of a hardass she was sometimes—fuck, it got so exhausting.

It had been so long since she’d laughed the way she seemed to around Rio. Real, unguarded. Light. Since finding out she was pregnant, her whole body had felt clenched—like she was bracing for impact, waiting for yet another shoe to drop and hit her on the fucking head.

And maybe it was the nature of living with another person, of seeing each other in every state of existence, but being messy around Rio didn’t really feel that scary anymore. Especially now that they were friends.

“Well, I hereby grant you permission to smoke, as long as it’s not inside the house. Balcony only,” Agatha said, still chuckling.

“Got it, boss.”

Rio lit another cigarette, the first one long burnt to ash thanks to their spontaneous interlude, and took a drag. When she exhaled, it was almost as if Agatha could feel the smoke burning her lungs. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she sighed contentedly.

When she opened them again, Rio was looking at her with a raised eyebrow. 

“What?” Agatha felt the smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Can’t a pregnant woman enjoy a little secondhand smoke every now and then?” 

“No, Agatha,” Rio’s shoulders were already shaking with laughter again. “She can’t—or at least, shouldn’t, I think.” She smiled, shaking her head. “When’s the last time you had one?”

Oh god, Agatha thought. It was an innocent question, but Agatha’s answer was loaded. She sucked her top lip into her mouth, teeth worrying the soft flesh there. “You’re gonna judge me,” she shook her head.

“Not really my style.” Rio had stopped laughing and was resting her own head on one hand now, mirroring Agatha’s posture.

“I had one when I found out I was pregnant,” Agatha said softly. “I know, I know—extremely bad for the baby. I spiralled over it for weeks, don’t you worry.” She lifted a hand and ran it through her hair. “Just needed something to take the edge off the whole impending motherhood shebang, you know?”

“I can imagine it wouldn’t have been an easy thing to face.”

Agatha was quiet for a moment. “It wasn’t. I—” She paused. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve really let myself acknowledge yet that I’m doing a hard thing. Having this kid on my own.”

“I know it’s not really any of my business,” Rio said. “But do you want to talk about it?” 

“Honestly, not really.” 

“And should you talk about it?” Fuck, Rio sounded like she’d been talking to Wanda.

“Probably,” Agatha acknowledged. She shifted, pulling one knee up so her foot was resting on the chair. “But let’s talk about your shit first. What’s driven you into the arms of nicotine?” 

Rio sighed, and Agatha noticed the soft shadows underneath her eyes. She looked defeated and worn out, nothing like Agatha had ever seen her.

“I met with my advisor today about this paper I have to submit before the end of the summer semester,” Rio said. “It’s about the philosophical frameworks behind educational pedagogy, which is just a mouthful that means why we teach the way we do,” she snorted. 

Her hand flexed where it was resting on the table. “She tore it to shreds. I pretty much have to start from the beginning.”

“So you scrunched it into a ball and left it on one of my chairs,” Agatha replied, lifting an eyebrow in amusement.

“That I did,” Rio nodded, eyes falling to her cigarette. She took another long, slow inhale, eyes cast out towards the city. “I didn’t want to look at it any more.” 

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Agatha reassured. Maybe this was her opportunity to help, to present Rio with some of the same kindness she was always handing around so easily. “I don’t have a clue about teaching, but I know good writing. I can read it, if you like. Give you a second opinion.”

“Really?” Rio’s eyes locked back onto hers, hopeful. Agatha nodded.

“That’d be… so great,” she exhaled gratefully. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Agatha said simply. See, Harkness? she thought. That wasn’t so hard.

Rio stubbed out her cigarette and stood up from the table. “Hey, I’m gonna grab a beer. Want anything?”

“A soda would be good. Thanks.”

While she was gone, Agatha turned her attention to the view in front of her. She’d been so consumed by the conversation—by that bone-tired, frustrated look in Rio’s eyes—that she hadn’t noticed the sun dip lower in the sky. The streetlights had flickered on outside, and now, New York was lit up in all its glory, skyscrapers twinkling in the distance.

A minute or so later, Rio ambled back onto the balcony, holding their drinks. She set the Coke in front of Agatha and relaxed back into her chair, taking a swig of her beer. “So, you were saying earlier?”

“Oh, we’re back to me, are we?”

Rio raised both eyebrows at her, a stern, knowing look on her face. “Friends talk, Agatha. What’s eating at you?”

It was a simple question. No pressure, no agenda—just a quiet offering to share the load. Wanda probably would’ve prodded at her, kind but pestering. Jen would’ve rolled her eyes and changed the subject. Ralph would’ve just ignored her and started talking about himself, like he always did. 

But Rio just waited. “How long do you have?” Agatha replied wryly.

Rio gestured at the empty space around her. “There’s no one else here. It’s a beautiful night. And I have a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. You’ve got my full attention.”

So she told her the story—or, at least, her version of events. Rio sat and listened quietly as she talked about Ralph, their rocky relationship, how Wanda had always hated him and implored Agatha to admit she was too good for him. How they’d been together for seven years, but Ralph had never wanted to get married, and after a while, Agatha hadn’t either.

Rio nodded supportively as she recounted finding out she was pregnant, then narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw once she got to the part where Ralph left.

Finally, Agatha reached the part where her story intersected with Rio’s. Where her life as she’d known it ended and a different one, the one she was currently navigating, began. 

She exhaled deeply as she finished, letting the weight of unloading on someone who was an impartial third party—someone other than Wanda, with her thinly-veiled asides and jabs at Ralph—settle around her.

Rio had been mostly quiet throughout Agatha’s monologue, only offering a hmm or an encouraging nod here and there. When she sensed Agatha was done, she spoke. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re not with him anymore,” Rio said, leaning across the table.

Agatha wanted to say me too, but something about those words felt a little too intimate.

She remembered what Jen had said at coffee, and a shred of doubt began to surface. Her heart hammered in her chest as she averted Rio’s gaze. She didn’t, she thought. She couldn’t. 

Desperately seeking an anchor, Agatha turned her focus to Rio’s tattoos, more exposed than she had ever seen them, the dimming light turning her skin gold.

They ran the length of her right arm from shoulder to hand, with space in between clusters of ink. Each one was beautiful, some in the same style, but a few obviously older than others; more faded, the lines blurring and softening. There were a few pieces of script interspersed with the designs, but she’d never been able to read them—had never gotten close enough to. 

“See something you like?” 

Agatha tipped her chin up abruptly, like she’d been caught. She supposed she had—she couldn’t deny she’d been staring. But it was just curiosity. She was a writer, after all. Curiosity was embedded in her nature.

“Do they mean anything, or do you just like letting people scribble on your body with needles?”

Rio’s comeback was almost instant. “You,” she said, eyes focused on Agatha’s intently, “are so fucking annoying. I mean that, truly.”

She bit back another laugh before Rio continued. “But yes, they mean something. Well, most of them,” she said, tongue playing at the inside of her cheek.

Agatha couldn’t blame what she did next on alcohol, seeing as she was pregnant and had only chugged half a Coke. So maybe it was something about the scene unfolding—the dusky twilight, the heat of the summer air, the cigarette smoke encasing the two of them—that emboldened her. 

“Tell me about one,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Rio’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Which one?”

Agatha leaned over, something weird and unnameable and magnetic compelling her to reach out and touch. She noticed as Rio’s eyes followed her hand. She tapped a finger against the sunflower on Rio’s inner forearm gently. “This one.” 

Rio hummed. Agatha couldn’t tell if it was good or bad—it just sounded… contemplative. Like she was deciding how much of her story to share.

“That one I got after lots and lots of therapy.”

Agatha stilled. Kind of an odd reason to get a tattoo, she thought.

“It was a significant thing for me,” Rio continued, answering her question like she’d said it out loud. “I didn’t always have the best outlook on life. Therapy was the thing that changed that the most.”

It inched her understanding of who Rio was forward a little. Someone who had been through hard things, but who had learned how to deal with them. It stood out starkly against the chaos of Agatha’s own life, all the half-processed issues miring her down.

“Is that your thing?” she asked curiously. “After a big life event you get a tattoo?” She couldn’t count them all, but she guessed Rio had at least 20 tattoos just on that one arm—evidence of a life thoroughly lived; of unseen moments good and bad. 

“Something like that, yeah.” 

“Still got a lot of space for more living, then.” 

“I’m working on it,” Rio agreed, beer bottle raised to her lips. “Do you have any?” 

“No,” Agatha replied. “Always wanted one, though. Didn’t actually consider it ‘til my mom died, but it felt a little late to get my first tattoo when I was pushing 40.” 

“Nah,” Rio shook her head. She sat her beer bottle down on the table with a clank. “Never too late. For anything.”

Maybe Rio had meant it as a throwaway comment, but Agatha felt the shift all the same. Never too late. Never too late to start again. To try. To shrug off some of the weight she’d been carrying around since childhood, wearing it like a backpack.

Never too late to re-examine the person she was, the one she’d become without even realising it.

Christ. When had she become so introspective? “Mm, I don’t know if that’s true,” Agatha wondered aloud. “I thought it’d be too late for this,” she said, gesturing to her stomach.

“Ah, yes. The geriatric pregnancy,” Rio said solemnly, like she was diagnosing a terminal illness.

“I say this with all the goodness in my heart, Rio. Shut the fuck up,” Agatha glared at her, folding her arms. 

Rio one hand up in protest, her beer still clutched in the other. “Hey, according to my calculations, you’ve got 11 years on me. I’m just calling it like I see it.” There it was again—that whisper of a smirk, a hallmark of Rio’s easy confidence.

“Ugh,” Agatha sighed, lifting a hand to shield her face. “Don’t remind me.”

Rio just laughed softly. “It wasn’t too late, though, you know,” she said. “You’re doing it. You’re doing the hard thing.”

Agatha felt Rio’s hand settle over the top of hers before she could flinch. She stared down at it, at tanned hands and long fingers.

Her grasp was loose, but it felt too hot, like her pulse was travelling through her fingertips. Agatha cleared her throat, pulling her hand away from Rio’s reach and standing up from the table. 

She stretched, trying to erase some of the stiffness from her body, and looked back at Rio with a tight smile. “Wanna order some food?” she asked.

Rio took a beat, something resigned in her expression. Seeking, but not pushing. Finally she pressed her lips together in a calm smile. “Sure,” she said, eyebrows lifting. “But I get to pick.”

Agatha let her.

Chapter Text

Agatha woke on the Fourth of July with an unnerving sense of anticipation.

Maybe it was dread for the day ahead, where she’d inevitably have to sidestep questions from Wanda’s miscellaneous friends and family about the baby and her sudden singledom.

Maybe it was the question of what was to come—how Rio, and by extension, Alice and Jen, would fit in with the Maximoffs. How much hand-holding she’d have to do to make sure they were at ease around her friends and her two very annoying, probing nephews.

Or maybe the morning sickness was just back. That sounded like the most reasonable answer.

She strolled into the kitchen, unable to sleep any longer thanks to the light that seeped in through the blinds of her bedroom. She’d been keeping them ajar for the last week or so, a promise to herself to wake up a little earlier. 

Plus, the sunlight wasn’t that bad. Although she was loath to admit it, it reminded her that there was still life to be lived outside the walls of her bedroom. Places to go, things to do. People to talk to.

“Good morning,” Rio’s voice rang through the room, breaking over the top of the whirring coffee maker, Agatha’s first stop of the day without fail.

“Morning,” she replied, not turning away from her task. While she’d gotten used to Rio’s relentless energy in the mornings, she was still incapable of doing or saying much before at least a sip or two of caffeine. There was definitely some kind of rule about coffee during pregnancy, but Agatha had ignored it like all of the other bullshit her doctor seemed to spout. Suggestions, really.

Once the coffee maker had calmed down and her mug was full of deep brown elixir, she shifted so her back was against the counter, now face-to-face with Rio. She was sitting on one of the stools, concentrated on her phone, a small smile on her face.

Agatha took a fortifying sip of coffee before she spoke. “Happy birthday.” 

Rio looked up at her, brown eyes sparkling. “Thanks, Agatha.”

“So how does it feel to be 32?”

She twisted her lips together for a minute, pondering the question. “Exactly the same as 31,” she answered. “Just ever-so-slightly more aware of death’s looming spectre.”

Agatha snorted. “You want one?” she gestured at her coffee, pushing her glasses up her nose. She’d slipped them on that morning to read the Times in bed and had forgotten to take them off.

Rio considered the offer, then nodded. “Yeah, thanks,” she said warmly.

She turned back around to fish one of Rio’s mugs out of the drawer—the one with the cartoon frog on the front that looked like it’d been plucked straight from the sale rack at Target and dropped into her home, out of place in a sea of black ceramic. 

The coffee maker sputtered a little before coming back to life, shooting out a stream of coffee into the green cup. Once it was done, she handed it to Rio, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

“So how are we getting to Jersey?” Rio asked, after draining half her coffee in one go.

“I’ll drive,” Agatha replied easily, leaning her elbows on the counter.

“You drive?” Rio asked disbelievingly. “Wait, you have a car?”

“Of course I have a car.” 

“Agatha, we live in New York. Why the fuck do you have a car?” she sputtered. “And where is it?”

“In the garage underneath the building,” Agatha said plainly.

She stilled, taking in Rio’s puzzled expression. “Why are you looking at me like I have two heads?” 

“I’m not,” Rio laughed. “You just never fail to surprise me, Harkness.”

Agatha took another sip of her coffee. “Mm,” she said. “Full of surprises, that’s me.”

She didn’t know why she said it—historically, she wasn’t full of surprises, unless you counted her sharp tongue, which was definitely enough to catch anyone off guard. She was practical. Made predictable choices. Up until recently.

But Rio was looking at her like she agreed. Like she saw something that Agatha herself didn’t. 

“Hey, come here,” Rio beckoned, already leaning across the counter. Agatha’s mouth went dry as she tracked her hand.

She plucked Agatha’s glasses from her face in one swift motion, then rubbed the lenses against her own shirt, cleaning off the finger marks Agatha hadn’t bothered to address. “Your glasses are so fucking dirty,” she chuckled, shaking her head. Once she was satisfied, she handed them back to her.

What the hell was that about? she wondered. It wasn’t the gesture itself that unsettled her—it was the ease of it. The unspoken intimacy between them that Agatha didn’t remember agreeing to.

See, for the last week since they’d talked on the balcony, Agatha had been… noticing things. Things she didn’t have any business noticing.

Like the way Rio had made a cup of tea for her unprompted when she was hunched over her laptop in the living room one afternoon. When Agatha had questioned her, she’d just shrugged and set the mug in front of her, claiming she’d put too much water in the kettle.

Or the way that, upon returning home from work or school, she’d taken to falling onto the couch beside her and picking up a conversation like no time had passed. Sometimes they’d chat for a bit before falling into a comfortable silence, Agatha resuming her writing while Rio flipped through the TV channels or grabbed her textbooks to study.

And then there was the casual touching. A quick pat of her hand as Rio stood up to leave the room. A fleeting brush against Agatha’s waist as they manoeuvred around each other in the kitchen, Rio making dinner while Agatha heated something up in the microwave or grabbed a snack from the fridge. And now, this.

There were countless other things Agatha was diverting her energy to not thinking about. But she couldn’t help it—not with Jen’s question rattling around in her head. The boat had sprung a leak, and she either had to patch it up or dive overboard. And god damn, she had no clue what kind of surprises she’d find in the water below.

Agatha could be truly, 100% certain of one thing alone: Rio had infiltrated her way into her life. And to her dismay, she didn’t hate it. In fact, it felt kinda nice. Easy and comfortable, like they’d established a rhythm no one else knew how to follow. 

It made the days go by quicker, and gave her something to look forward to in each one—something she’d never really had before. And she’d be crazy to question what that meant, or worse, do or say something to jeopardise it. 

Still, she knew she couldn’t avoid it forever. 

So maybe that’s what the anticipation was.

———

An hour after finishing up their coffees, they were in Agatha’s ‘mysterious’ car, a sleek, black Mazda she’d owned for close to a decade but had barely driven 40,000 miles in. She didn’t need to—she lived in New York City, where the subway and cabs could get you anywhere—but she’d kept it for the occasional drive to Jersey to see Wanda.

And because she barely used it, Agatha’s driving skills were perhaps a little… rusty.

“Oh my god,” Rio yelped, bracing herself against the passenger seat as they sped through the Holland Tunnel. “Why didn’t you tell me that getting in a car with you meant risking my life?” 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Agatha tsked, but not before hazarding a quick glance over at her. Rio’s eyes were wild, and it almost made her want to ease up on the accelerator a little. 

“It’s my birthday, Agatha,” she protested, lips turning downward into a pout. 

“And I’m giving you the gift of efficiently getting us to our destination.” 

“That’s if we make it there at all,” Rio groaned. “I don’t know if dying or getting arrested on your birthday is worse.”

“It’d be me getting arrested anyway,” Agatha brushed her off, training her eyes on the road in front of her. “My job is driving. Your job is music.”

Rio chuckled at this and reached over to grab Agatha’s phone, resting in one of the cup holders. She’d connected it to the Bluetooth when they’d gotten into the car, but hadn’t bothered picking a playlist yet—she didn’t want to give Rio another reason to worry by touching her phone.

“3825,” Agatha said, pre-empting the question.

She saw her key in the code out of the corner of her eye. She also saw Rio’s mouth twitch up when she realised what the code stood for.

“Setting FUCK as your passcode is the most you thing ever,” Rio giggled. Agatha let out an embarrassed huff of laughter in exchange. It was kind of uncanny, the way Rio could read her so easily.

After a beat of indecision on Rio’s part, an upbeat indie-pop song started playing. It effortlessly filled the quiet of the car, lifting the mood as Agatha wove through traffic and Rio pretended not to cling onto the door handle for dear life.

They pulled up to the Maximoffs’ house in Westview after a ruthless hour of speeding and braking. Rio flung the door open and threw herself onto the driveway once Agatha had parked, making a big show of finally being on stable ground again.

“You’ve sure got a lot of feedback for someone who can’t drive,” Agatha remarked, eyes cast down at Rio in all her glorious stupidity.

“Just because I can’t legally get behind the wheel doesn’t mean I can’t drive,” Rio hit back, standing up and brushing gravel off her palms. “And anyway, that thing’s an automatic. Don’t act like getting me here in one piece was some huge show of skill.”

Agatha swung her bag over her shoulder and walked around to the trunk, grabbing the cooler full of food and drinks they’d loaded in there earlier. Beer and veggie sausages for Rio, soda and burgers for Agatha, along with a couple of sides she’d grabbed from the bodega in a last-ditch attempt to be a good house guest.

Rio walked around and took it from her hands without a word.

“Talk to me when you grow up and get your license, sweetheart,” Agatha rolled her eyes, closing the trunk. The pet name, as obnoxious and needling as it was, slipped out of her mouth a little too easily.

A challenge flashed in Rio’s eyes. “I have my license, sweetheart.” She paused for effect. “My motorbike license.”

Huh. That was… interesting—although the idea of Rio flinging herself around on a motorbike didn’t seem particularly at odds with her whole vibe. I bet that gets you all the girls, Agatha thought off-handedly.

“Oookay, Sons of Anarchy,” she joked. “Let’s go inside.”

She ushered Rio down the driveway, saying a silent prayer that they’d be able to slip into the party without drawing much attention to themselves. But God hated her—and Wanda was already standing against the front door to the house, smirking with her arms folded.

“Hi!” she called, waving in their direction. Her hair was loose and wavy, and she was wearing a bright red summer dress, colour-coordinated as always.

“Rio, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Happy birthday!” Wanda greeted Rio joyfully, hands outstretched. Agatha watched on as Rio slipped seamlessly into Wanda’s embrace and straight into her good graces. Of course she’d managed to charm her best friend without saying a word—no surprises there.

“Thanks so much for inviting me,” Rio smiled.

“You can put your cooler out back,” Wanda gestured down the hallway and towards the garden, where Agatha could see Billy loitering. He gave Rio a casual wave and beckoned for her to follow.

“See ya out there,” Rio said, shooting an easy grin in Agatha’s direction as she walked away.

“Hi, hon,” Wanda reached for Agatha once Rio was out of earshot. Agatha murmured hello and tried to pull away, but Wanda had her in a vice grip disguised as a hug. Nothing good could come of this, and it wasn’t just Agatha’s aversion to physical contact that was setting off alarm bells. 

“Sweetheart?” Wanda whispered pointedly into her ear. “Why do you guys sound like an old married couple all of a sudden?”

Agatha froze, heat rising in her cheeks. For fuck’s sake, it had meant nothing—yet by a cruel twist of fate or circumstance, Wanda had heard it. One slip of the tongue, and now she was going to turn this into a thing. A thing she herself was actively, earnestly trying to avoid.

She schooled her expression into something akin to boredom and pulled back, looking Wanda in the eyes. “Oh, come on. I call everyone sweetheart. I think I called the bodega guy sweetheart this morning.”

“That’s a lie, but I applaud you for your creativity,” Wanda said, shepherding Agatha into the house.

———

The morning passed by breezily, a flurry of conversations and music and people playing lawn games while Agatha looked on from the deck chair she’d co-opted. Jen and Alice arrived about an hour after them, and they easily slotted into the group, Wanda complimenting Jen’s dress (pink, ruffled) and Alice’s necklace (silver, heavy, reminiscent of a medieval torture device).

Agatha had to give it to her—Wanda knew how to host a party. She’d decked the back garden out with fairy lights and a couple of red lanterns, but thankfully, hadn’t gone in too hard on the patriotic theme. She didn’t feel like having a conversation about politics or nationalism with anyone’s uncle, thank you very much.

Plus, she had a sneaking suspicion that if someone got Rio onto the topic of the Fourth of July’s origins, she’d have a lot to say about slavery. And racism. And sexism.

From her position on the exterior of the group, Agatha’s eyes drifted over to Rio. She was playing one of the lawn games with Alice, Billy, and Tommy, arm outstretched as she tried to roll a pin towards a ball or something just as inane. Clearly, she’d achieved what she had set out to do, because when the pin landed, she let out a triumphant whoop and threw her arms into the air. 

“I am the champion!” Rio crowed, her hair catching the breeze as she pranced around, gloating. Alice was grinning, head tilted in Jen’s direction where she stood on the sidelines, half-watching like a dutiful girlfriend while she talked to Vision and sipped a beer.

“You’re staring,” Wanda appeared next to her, as if the devil himself had summoned her. 

Agatha jumped. “No, I’m not,” she covered, focusing on the condensation that was sliding down her red solo cup, a byproduct of the scorching day. “She’s just… intense.”

“Yeah, she kinda is,” Wanda admitted, an amused look on her face as her eyes flicked between Agatha and Rio. “But I don’t think anyone cares. Least of all, you.”

“She just—I don’t know, fascinates me, in a way,” Agatha sighed. “Like, she’s so completely herself. It’s admirable. And a little unsettling.” 

Wanda didn’t say anything in reply, but Agatha could feel her looking.

Across the yard, Rio caught her eye—like she’d felt it too. Her smile softened for half a second, and she offered a quick wave before turning back to say something to Alice and the boys.

“You know, you seem like you’re doing a lot better than when I came over a couple weeks ago,” Wanda mused. “Not as… burdened. Your angst levels are way less alarming.”

“Yes, Dr Maximoff,” Agatha rolled her eyes.

“Honey, I’m not trying to be your therapist. That’ll cost you $100 an hour,” she joked. “I’m just glad you’re okay. And maybe a little curious as to why.”

Nope.

“Billy,” Agatha called out, swiftly rising from her chair. Her nephew whipped his head around to look at her, face lighting up. “Give me the fucking baton, or whatever.”

Rio’s eyes glinted once she saw Agatha walking towards them. She mimed throwing an invisible lasso in her direction and pulling her in, and oh god, she was so fucking dumb. 

This time, she wasn’t sure if she was referring to herself or Rio.

———

After a game or two where Agatha had proven she was terrible at anything that required hand-eye coordination, everyone sat down to eat—a welcome reprieve from the sports of it all. In a surprise to no one, Rio and Tommy had dominated the pins-and-batons game, trading off wins and exchanging just as many teasing insults. 

If Agatha hadn’t been there for their introduction earlier that day, she would’ve guessed Rio had known the Maximoffs their entire lives—they just clicked. It gnawed at something deep in her chest, seeing them all together. Seeing how easily Rio interacted with the people she cared about.

Rio navigated the lunchtime conversation with the same confidence and ease, but not without a few asides meant for Agatha’s ears only. 

“How do you survive family events with that little showoff?” she murmured, gesturing to Tommy, who was waving his fork around as he told a convoluted story about an exploding science project.

“Booze, usually,” Agatha replied dryly. “Shit outta luck this time, though.” Rio chuckled and took a long pull of her beer. At least one of them could drink.

Later, when a work friend of Wanda’s asked Jen and Alice how they met, Rio leaned in close to Agatha before either of them could answer. “Tinder,” she whispered. “And don’t let them tell you otherwise.” 

Agatha let out a loud snort, drawing Jen’s ire from across the table.

Once everyone finished off their burgers and hotdogs, Wanda stood up from the table and disappeared inside before Agatha could feebly offer to help. She’d probably just flick her off, anyway—the perks of being pregnant.

A few minutes later, her best friend re-emerged from the house, red hair blazing in the summer sun as she carried a cake topped with more candles than Agatha could count. 

As Wanda walked over to the group, they briefly made eye contact. She’d said nothing to Agatha about a cake for Rio, but it was so perfectly in-character, she wasn’t remotely surprised. 

Rio, on the other hand, definitely was. She’d clocked the cake too, and was now doing an exceedingly bad job of hiding her embarrassment as the group launched into an off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’.

Agatha looked over at Rio, pressing her lips together apologetically. I’m sorry, she mouthed in her direction—but she couldn’t tamp down her amusement at the whole situation. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as Wanda placed the cake at the head of the table and ushered Rio over. 

Rio looked like she was praying for the earth to swallow her whole. But, she let herself be dragged to her feet by Billy anyway, and took her rightful place in front of the cake as everyone sang and cheered.

“Make a wish,” Billy clapped his hands excitedly. “Oh, and don’t touch the bottom when you cut it, otherwise you’ll have to kiss the closest boy… which is me.” 

“That sounds like a pretty raw deal for both of us, kid,” Rio joked, before pulling her hair away from her face and leaning down to blow out the candles. Alice grabbed her phone to take a photo, and despite her initial embarrassment, Rio beamed—before raising both hands to give the camera the finger.

Agatha watched on while Rio took the knife from Wanda with a heartfelt ‘thank you’ and began to cut careful pieces of the cake, waggling her eyebrows at Billy, no doubt threatening to scrape the serving plate and send him into a spiral. 

Bit by bit, the rest of the crowd went back to their conversations and their final scraps of food, until it was just the boys and Wanda gathered around Rio, Agatha still listening in from a couple of chairs down.

“What’d you wish for?” Tommy asked through a mouthful of cake.

Rio hummed for a second, considering her answer. She swiped one finger through her own slice, collecting the white frosting.

“Well, if I tell you, it might not come true,” she smirked. 

Her eyes didn’t even reach Tommy’s as she said it. She was too busy pinning her gaze directly on Agatha as she drew her finger into her mouth and licked off the sugary frosting.

It wasn’t seductive, exactly—more playful, if she had to guess—but it still sent panic shooting up her spine.

She needed to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Now. 

“I’m gonna clean some of this up while they’re cutting the cake,” Agatha stood up abruptly, grabbing Wanda by the wrist. “Come help me?”

Wanda looked confused for a second, but clearly something in Agatha’s expression said don’t fuck with me right now, because she dutifully collected a handful of paper plates and followed her into the kitchen.

After tossing her own collection of plates and cups and empty trays into the trash, Agatha leaned her elbows on the counter, head in her hands. Through the gaps between her fingers, she could see Wanda looking at her curiously, teeth worrying at her lower lip.

“Agatha,” Wanda started. “What’s going on? Is it something I said earlier, because—” 

“Do you think Rio likes me?” Agatha interrupted her. Her voice came out differently to how she’d expected—edgy and insecure, rather than cool and nonchalant. “Because Jen mentioned something the other day when we had coffee, and now I can’t get it out of my fucking head.”

“You’re asking me if I think Rio has feelings for you?” Wanda clarified. Agatha nodded, head bobbing up and down rapidly.

Wanda hesitated, twisting a ring around one finger. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

Well, that was her worst fear out in the open. Another thing that everyone had seemed to see but her—and this one was beginning to feel indisputable.

“Fuck,” Agatha groaned, covering her face again. She didn’t want to see what might be written on Wanda’s—pity, judgement, a shit-eating grin. Probably a combination of all three. 

Eyes squeezed shut, Agatha felt Wanda reach for one of her hands and pull it free. “Look at me, Agatha.”

She reluctantly cracked an eye open and glared at her best friend, who looked… ugh, she couldn’t read her. Goddamn passive therapist face.

“What are you thinking right now?” Wanda asked gently.

“I’m thinking that I should’ve picked up on this, and I don’t know why it took two people meddling in my personal life for me to see it.” She took a moment to collect herself before speaking again. “What exactly is it that makes you think she likes me?”

“It’s kinda obvious, hon,” Wanda chuckled. “I’ve spent one day around the two of you, and I can say without a single doubt, that girl looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Hell, she treats you like you’re the only person in the room.”

Agatha exhaled forcefully. She supposed Wanda was right—Rio did treat her well. And up ‘til now, she’d rationalised the absolute fuck out of that concept. Rio was kind, Rio was good, Rio was charming. But the pendulum was starting to swing the other way.

She looked up at the Maximoffs’ ugly popcorn ceiling and tried to gather the courage to ask her next question. “So, in this hypothetical world where Rio has feelings for me… what do I do now?”

“I can’t answer that question for you. But what’s your gut telling you?” 

“My gut is telling me that I feel sick all the time, and I don’t think it’s the baby’s fault.”

Wanda just looked at her, probing without saying a word.

“I don’t know, Wanda,” Agatha moaned again, stretching out every syllable like it pained her. “How do you figure out whether you have feelings for someone back without, like… actually dating them? Or sleeping with them?”

“You are so damn obtuse sometimes, it’s alarming,” Wanda muttered. Agatha chose to ignore it, instead just waving a hand urgently in her direction to get her to keep going. 

“Start with the basics. How do you feel when you’re around her?” 

Agatha pursed her lips. Vulnerability was so overrated, which is probably why it’d taken her four decades and then some to try it. But she was trying it—and although she loved to poke, and chide, and call her out on her bullshit, Wanda was safe.

She let out another breath and willed her pulse to calm down. “I feel… good,” she admitted. “Happier. Like my problems aren’t as… heavy.” 

“Honey,” Wanda looked at her again. This time, it was definitely pity. “I feel like that’s all you really need to know.”

“Yeah, but…” Agatha trailed off, frustrated at herself. “What about the other stuff? I like spending time with her, but I don’t know if I want to be with her. And I—” she said, voice breaking. “Fuck.” She wrung her hands and felt the hot tears pricking at her eyes before she could stop them.

Wanda laid a comforting hand on her arm, a gentle nudge to continue when she was ready.

“I just don’t know how to figure out how I feel,” she finally bit out, reaching up to swipe at her eyes. These pregnancy hormones were no joke.

“You don’t have to figure it out this second,” Wanda replied softly. 

Agatha wished she had an iota of the insight her best friend did—maybe she wouldn’t be in this situation right now, or half of the other ones she was dealing with, either. 

“Remember what my sweet, intuitive, very wise son said to you the other day,” Wanda reminded her.

Agatha’s mouth dropped open. “That was a private conversation,” she complained. She’d get that Billy Maximoff if it was the last thing she did.

“You can’t keep shit from me, Harkness,” Wanda grinned widely, but Agatha couldn’t bring herself to match it with a smile of her own.

Wanda’s expression turned kind again. Maybe a little worried, if she had to guess. 

“Hey,” she said, walking around to where Agatha was standing on the other side of the counter, gripping the marble like it was the one thing keeping her together.

“Take some time. Sit with your feelings,” Wanda continued, prompting a watery eye roll from Agatha. “And talk to someone when you feel more ready. Me, Rio, whoever,” she said, before hesitating. “Well, maybe not Jen. She’s far too quick to say ‘I told you so’.” 

Agatha just nodded. She couldn’t even manage a laugh at Jen’s expense: she felt too uncertain and drained and small. All this emotional shit really took it out of a person.

“You wanna go back out there?” Wanda asked.

Agatha stared at the door that led out to the backyard. It felt like walking into a gunfight unarmed, but she didn’t really have a choice.

“Yeah,” she said, still sounding miserable. Honestly, she felt a little miserable. How a simple solution to paying her mortgage had turned into Agatha Harkness vs Every Feeling She’d Ever Bottled Up, she’d never know. All she knew was that she was losing, hard.

Wanda plucked a tissue from a box on the counter and reached for Agatha’s face, dabbing at the tiny clumps of mascara that had accumulated beneath her eyes. She didn’t say anything about the stray tears that had slipped out. Small mercies.

“There,” Wanda smiled, tossing the tissue into the trash can behind them. “Good to go.”

When she and Wanda emerged from the kitchen, Rio sidled up to her right away. She waved a paper plate with a slice of birthday cake in Agatha’s direction. “Saved you a piece.”

———

“Ugh,” Rio exhaled as they slipped into the car later that evening. “I’m so done with people.”

Agatha’s brow crumpled into a frown. It had been a long day—for everyone, if her own outburst in the kitchen was anything to go by. But Rio had flitted from one animated conversation to the next like it was nothing. She’d talked to practically everyone at the party, held court with all the kids, and to Agatha’s amusement, won most of the lawn games.

Even after all the attention had been turned on her, which she had clearly hated, she’d brushed it off and spent the rest of the evening deep in conversation with Jen, Alice, and Agatha, their chairs arranged in a tight circle to deter uninvited participants from joining in.

So, her statement made zero sense. Or at least, it would have to the Agatha from 12 hours ago. 

“You love people,” Agatha said doubtfully. “You’re like the biggest extrovert I know.”

Rio pulled a disgusted face in her direction. “I hate people, Agatha,” she intoned seriously. “I just like my people. I could take or leave the rest of ‘em.”

And there it was—the final, pointy nail in Agatha’s coffin. Jen’s words had raised her suspicions. Wanda’s had sharpened them. But hearing it from Rio, though not in so many words, cemented it.

Rio liked her. She had to—it was the only explanation. The unbridled kindness. The way she always anticipated Agatha’s needs, like she was ever-present on her mind. The little touches.

There was still room for the possibility it was just friendly. Some people moved quick and loved their friends hard, and Agatha could sense that when Rio found ‘her people’, she was the type to latch on—her sisterly bond with Alice was evidence of that.

But she knew. Oh god, she knew. It wasn’t just friendship.

And she’d just been ignoring it, blinders on. 

She started the car, fiddling with the air conditioning for something to do before pulling out of Wanda’s driveway and onto the road. The interior of the car was stuffy from a long day of being parked in the blazing sun.

“So, did you have a good time?” Rio asked, blissfully unaware of what was going on inside Agatha’s head.

“I did,” Agatha agreed. “What about you?” she asked tentatively. “Birthday everything you’d hoped it would be?”

“Best birthday I’ve had in years.” 

Agatha cleared her throat. “Hey, open the glove compartment,” she said, fixing her eyes on the road ahead of her. She couldn’t see Rio’s expression in her periphery, just her hand as she reached in and found the bundle of brown paper Agatha had stashed there earlier.

She’d thought about giving it to her at the barbecue, when there were people around and she could just hand it off and disappear. But she’d let that moment pass her by, too consumed with cornering Wanda for an impulsive psychological evaluation—so it was now or never.

Agatha heard the crumpling of the paper as Rio ripped it open. Suddenly, she regretted doing this while she was driving, gripped by an overwhelming desire to watch Rio’s reaction to the gift, to the message she had scrawled on a piece of notebook paper in lieu of the card she’d forgotten to buy.

The present was silly, really. A book about serial killers that she’d asked Sharon to special order for her. And a proper lighter, better than that Bic piece of shit Rio had left out on the balcony table. This one was green with an ornate silver leaf design running across it. She knew she probably shouldn’t encourage Rio’s vices, but it was pretty, and it reminded her of her.

And then there was the note: Thanks for being your annoying self. I’m lucky to have you in my life. Happy birthday, Rio. - A xo

The car fell quiet for a second as Rio observed the gift, the road and the soft music playing through the speakers the only audible sounds.

“Agatha,” Rio breathed. “This is really nice.”

While she didn’t love the idea of getting into a car accident right now, Agatha couldn’t help but tear her eyes away from the road—it was all stop lights and traffic anyway—and look at Rio, turning over the lighter in her hands.

“I mean it,” Rio said, brown eyes flicking up to meet Agatha’s. She glanced down at the lighter again, thumb tracing the silver leaf. “It’s perfect.”

That look was enough to make Agatha wonder how she’d been so damn blind.

In a way, it should’ve been a relief. It was confirmation, or as close as she could get without putting her big girl pants on and actually asking Rio about it.

But the hard part was only just starting—the part where she had to untangle her own feelings. Still, beneath the confusion, there was a flicker of something familiar. Comfort, maybe. Or hope.

She gave Rio a small, cautious smile of acknowledgement. “Don’t get used to it,” she said lightly. 

There was a waver in her voice she didn’t expect. Because she didn’t know anymore. Maybe she wanted to get used to it—or at least see what ‘it’ could be.

(She also wanted to take all these fucking feelings, shove them in a box, and throw them out onto the goddamn interstate. But that was beside the point.)

Chapter Text

One of the downsides of being pregnant was spending a fuckload of time in doctor’s offices—which, if you asked Agatha, were some of the fakest places on earth. On the surface, they pretended to be warm and inviting, dog-eared magazines stacked on tables and shitty top 40 music echoing in the waiting room. 

But it was all just a front to hide what really lay beneath: sickness. Discomfort. Fear. And, critically, the sizeable egos of people who thought they were god’s gift to humanity—doctors. 

It wasn’t that Agatha didn’t trust the medical profession. She was just sceptical, and that, to her, was healthy. The concept of other people, even those with hundred-thousand-dollar college degrees, knowing her body better than she did triggered a deep self-preservation instinct.

And yet, she’d accepted her fate when she’d decided to keep this baby. At least a year of poking, prodding, and too many fucking questions—about her, and eventually, about her kid. 

Agatha made it through the first part of the appointment unscathed: the totally unnecessary weigh-in, the well-meaning scrutiny from the nurse about her symptoms and lifestyle.

She didn’t mention her caffeine intake, although in her defence, she was observing the one cup a day rule. No one had explicitly said how big that cup was meant to be, and she was ready to argue for it if anyone crossed her.

Then came the ultrasound. Agatha had already seen her baby on the first scan at 10 weeks pregnant, but it had been little more than a blob in a sac then, impossible to make out from the rest of its blurry grey-and-black surroundings.

Propped up on the bed with her shirt hiked up around her bra, she waited quietly while the nurse covered her stomach in cold goop and fiddled with the ultrasound wand.

She remembered the panic she’d felt last time, expecting the worst but hoping for the best. It was still lingering, but the last few weeks had been so damn tumultuous that it had tucked itself away behind other, heavier thoughts.

“There we go,” the nurse cooed, in that voice medical practitioners clearly put on for expectant mothers to remind them of the miracle of life. 

Agatha didn’t need reminding. It was, by all accounts, a fucking miracle she was pregnant. 

She looked at the monitor as the nurse moved the wand around on her belly—just a small bump that could’ve easily passed for a big lunch.

This time, the image she saw was more defined, and it knocked the wind out of her. 

She saw a head, a neck, two feet, and two hands. It was still alienesque, like a rough sketch of a baby done from memory, but fuck —there was a real human growing inside her. It even had a face; a little profile that she couldn’t quite make out as hers or Ralph’s or a mix of both.

“Everything looks good,” the nurse appraised.

Agatha looked at her, searching for any hint of worry or a lie. When she didn’t find it, she smiled, relief washing over her.

“I could make an educated guess at baby’s sex from this ultrasound, but it wouldn’t be for sure. We’re better to wait for your anatomy scan at 20 weeks,” the nurse explained. 

Agatha nodded absently. She didn’t really know if she wanted to find out, anyway. On one hand, she loved to be prepared—but gender roles were outdated, and it wasn’t like she had a nursery to decorate. That little fantasy had gone out the window the second Ralph left. 

Now, her baby’s room belonged to the kind, charming, sometimes-strange woman who’d been plaguing her thoughts for weeks.

She turned her attention back to the screen. “Can you print this?” Agatha asked. The hope in her voice bled out into the quiet room. 

The nurse smiled warmly at her. “Of course. I’ll have it ready for you when you leave.”

After getting cleaned up and pulling her shirt back down, Agatha opened the adjoining door to her obstetrician’s office. He was a middle-aged man with greying hair and nondescript facial features whose name she always forgot—Goldman, Goldstein, Gold-something. 

“Agatha,” he greeted her without standing up from his desk. “Take a seat.” 

She sat, eyeing the nameplate on his desk. Dr Goldberg, it read. That was it.

“How’s everything going?” he asked lightly.

Agatha tried not to scoff at the question. Mmm, my boyfriend left me, my book’s just a mess of words in a Google Doc right now, and, oh yeah—everyone seems to think I’m gay and have feelings for my roommate. Who definitely has feelings for me. So, just peachy, doc.

“Fine,” she lied.

“Morning sickness let up since we put you on those new meds?”

“Yeah, it’s a lot better now. Only chucking up my guts every so often,” she quipped. Dr Goldberg chuckled nervously, running a hand over his bald spot before switching focus to the computer screen.

“I called you in because there’s something we need to discuss.”

Oh, that was never good. Agatha felt the blood drain from her face, the easy smile she’d been wearing since seeing her baby on the ultrasound gone in a flash.

The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to grow louder as they sat in silence for a second, Agatha pre-empting Goldberg’s next words. He didn’t appear to notice how she fidgeted in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Her face was a mask of indifference, but her body was actively trying to betray her.

“Because of your advanced maternal age,” the doctor started, gaze flicking back to Agatha just as she rolled her eyes defensively. He cleared his throat and continued. “You’ll need an amniocentesis. It’s a test to diagnose things like birth defects and genetic abnormalities. It involves inserting—”

“I know what it involves,” Agatha snapped, cutting him off. “Sticking a giant fucking needle into my womb.” 

“Well, that's only partially correct, but…” He trailed off, smiling sympathetically. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, fixing the doctor with a stony glare. This could not be happening. “Is there any world where I don’t have to do it?”

“It’s elective, but highly recommended,” he replied, clearly trying to be gentle lest Agatha fly off the handle in his very calm, very sterile office. “For mothers your age, the risk of not diagnosing a potentially life-threatening issue now far outweighs the risk of performing an amnio.”

“I thought you could see everything on the scans these days.” 

“A lot, but not everything. An amnio is the only way we can be sure.” 

“Fine,” Agatha gritted out. The room was spinning. “When?”

“I can get you in for later this week. How’s Friday?”

She didn’t need to pull out her phone to check her calendar. Her social life was worryingly light-on for the middle of summer in New York—Friday was fine. “Yep,” she agreed tightly. She willed her heart to calm down, but it took no notice, beating arrhythmically in her chest. 

Dr Goldberg nodded, clicking the computer mouse a few times. “You’ll need to arrange someone to come with you to help you get home afterwards.”

She nodded, eyes pressed closed. Yet another thing to add to the list. She’d call Wanda when she got home—when she’d had some time to herself to process exactly what this all meant. “Okay.” 

———

On the train ride home, Agatha went down a rabbit hole, Googling everything she could about the procedure and panicking when she lost reception in the tunnels. Research felt like the only way to cope with a spiral of this magnitude—to pack every corner of her brain with indisputable information; with facts instead of feelings. 

Her frantic searches didn’t turn up anything alarming. It should’ve been enough to put her at ease—the risks were, by all accounts, minimal, like Dr Gold-whatever had reassured her. But it didn’t. For someone who dealt solely in rational thoughts, Agatha felt more beholden to her fluctuating emotions than ever.

She held it together as the subway stops ticked by, people filtering in and out of the carriages on their way home from work. When she exited at Lorimer Street, she strode the few blocks back to the apartment in silence, too concentrated on reaching her destination to put in her headphones.

It wasn’t until she walked through the door and collapsed onto the couch that the dam finally broke.

Crying wasn’t exactly in Agatha Harkness’s repertoire—or at least, she thought it wasn’t until she got pregnant. Everything she’d read had said hormones were supposed to calm down in the second trimester, but the days were ticking by, and she felt no less on edge. It was becoming a bona fide pain in her ass. 

The tears rolled down her face—fast, hot, and unrelenting. She tried to blot at them with a tissue scrounged up from the bottom of her handbag, but they quickly gave way to that sobbing, snotting kind of cry that was powerless against paper. 

This was silly. Every source she could find was telling her not to worry, not to blow this out of proportion. Millions of women probably had amnios every year and were completely fine. And the nurse had said everything looked fine—great, even.

But there was something about seeing that sweet profile on the screen today that had changed things, making everything feel way more real. And now that it was real, it was something she could actually lose.

Agatha exhaled heavily, hyper-aware of the fact that there was snot running down her face. She grabbed a big wad of tissues and mopped up the evidence.

The only way out of this was through, and making plans for the appointment on Friday seemed like the logical next step.

She tried calling Wanda twice, then three times, but she didn’t answer. Finally, a text came through. 

Wanda: Hey hon, just about to get on the plane. I’ll call you when I land if it’s not too late there. ❤️

Fuck. Agatha had forgotten Wanda was going out of town. She had reminded her about it at the barbecue last Friday—some week-long conference in California where all the best therapists in the nation got together, drank too much, and bitched about their clients within a cone of silence. 

She’d be on the West Coast for ten days, stopping off to see a friend in San Francisco once the psychology circle-jerk wrapped up in LA. Which meant she wouldn’t be back until Thursday next week.

The gears turned in Agatha’s mind. If Wanda was out of the question, who would take her to her appointment? It wasn’t like she had a mother, or a partner, or other friends. Well—only the two that she could count. Dragging Jen along to her fucking OB/GYN’s office sounded about as palatable as rehashing their squabble in the middle of Times Square, so there was only one other option.

Rio.

Something about asking Rio to come with her felt like crossing a boundary she couldn’t come back from. It was intimate, taking someone to the doctor’s—supporting them emotionally through a big, uncomfortable moment. The awareness that had been sitting in her periphery since the barbecue told her it wouldn’t be a good idea, not just for her, but for Rio.

But who else could she even ask?

After what felt like hours of wallowing, but was probably no more than twenty minutes, Agatha heard the soft jingling of keys in the front door lock. A fleeting thought emerged—she should go to her room. She didn’t need anyone seeing her like this.

But maybe she could use a distraction. Or some comfort. A bit of both would be nice, really. And, she supposed, now was as good a time as any to ask Rio if she wouldn’t mind being her emotional punching bag while a doctor sapped amniotic fluid out of her with a syringe.

“I’m home,” Rio called out. Agatha heard the soft sounds of her tossing her bag on the counter and opening a cupboard. She didn’t acknowledge her with a hello, but she didn’t move from the couch, either.

Rio wandered into the living room, hand buried in a packet of Cheetos. When she glanced up from her snack, her eyes fell straight to Agatha, brows knitting together in a worried frown.

“Hey,” she said, voice turning tender immediately, like it was instinctual. “What’s going on?” 

Agatha waved a hand dismissively, but she knew she couldn’t come off aloof—the worry was etched into her face, her red-rimmed eyes giving her away. “It’s nothing,” she said shakily.

Good fucking god, here come the waterworks again.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Rio replied gently. “Doesn’t really look like nothing either.” She gestured to where Agatha had cocooned herself beneath blankets, the A/C in the apartment set to a terrifyingly low number.

Rio didn’t have to prod her gently this time; to tell her that friends talk, Agatha. She just sat down on the armchair adjacent to her and propped her head in her hands, waiting.

“I need an amnio,” Agatha sighed. Her eyes felt salty, burning with unshed tears. 

“Forgive me for not having a clue what that is,” Rio winced, dropping the bag of Cheetos onto the coffee table.

“They have to poke at the baby with a big needle to figure out if something’s wrong with it.”

“Oh,” Rio breathed. She ran a hand through her hair. “That sounds fucking terrifying.” 

Agatha nodded, clutching a throw pillow tightly.

“Is it… safe?” Rio asked. “Fuck, it’s cold in here,” she muttered off-handedly, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Can’t wallow without blankets,” Agatha shrugged. She lifted up a corner of one of the throws, a green hand-woven one she’d bought at some upscale homewares store in Manhattan, and looked at Rio expectantly.

If Rio felt any type of way about joining her, she didn’t show it. She just rose from the armchair, wandered around to the couch, and plonked herself down, thighs inches from Agatha’s. 

Agatha sighed, drawing the blanket back around them both. “Google says it’s pretty safe. But there’s still a risk that I could…” she shuddered, “lose the baby. Or that they diagnose some life-threatening illness no one’s ever heard of.” 

A single tear fell from her face and landed on the velvet of the cushion, leaving a dark, wet mark in its wake. She brushed at her eyes in frustration.

Rio drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, Agatha…” 

And that made her crumple. The kindness in Rio’s voice, the obvious concern. She tried to blink back the tears, but they were falling hard and fast now. 

Rio opened her arms, an invitation for a hug. She didn’t draw Agatha in—it was clear she was waiting for her to make the decision herself; to consent to being embraced in a way they’d never embraced before.

She fell into them wordlessly, as unconscious and easy as breathing. Rio snaked a hand around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. Their thighs were touching now, the only barrier between them the thin cotton of Agatha’s pants. 

See, if this is what being with Rio could be like… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Having someone there to comfort you when you cried sounded pretty nice, even though Agatha hoped her crying days would soon be behind her. And Rio was so good at making her feel better—always on hand with an easy smile or a sweet gesture to bring her solace in dark moments.

It was just the other stuff that she couldn’t reconcile. Like what would happen if she let the absent-minded touches, the mere brushes of hands and thighs, escalate into something more. What it might trigger in her if she let it.

Agatha took a deep breath, steadying herself amidst the tears that were still escaping. Her cheek was pressed against Rio’s chest, making a mess of the button-up she was wearing, undone over one of her many ribbed tank tops. 

“The doctor said I’m meant to have someone come with me. To the appointment.” Agatha kept her eyes trained on the wall in front of her, unsure of what she’d find if she looked up at Rio. “Wanda’s out of town ‘til the middle of next week, and it’s not like its dad is anything more than a sperm donor right now…” 

She hadn’t asked directly, but the question was there—and Agatha found herself praying that Rio saw through her flimsy facade. 

“When is it?” Rio asked.

“Friday.” 

“I can be there,” Rio confirmed. 

Even though she’d known deep down that Rio would agree without a second thought, it hit her hard. Not just Rio’s response—but her own reaction. The relief was palpable, and she felt it seep into her posture, relaxing into Rio’s hold a little more. Her arms were warm, and strong, and safe.

“Do you want me there?” Rio asked quietly, realising Agatha hadn’t said the words outright. She sounded unsure, like she was trying not to push again. 

She could lie and claim it was out of necessity. The doctor had said she’d need someone to help her get home safely, and Rio was the easy choice—they lived in the same house.

And yet, Agatha was beginning to realise that denying your feelings got exhausting, even when you had 42 years of killer practice. So, although it was terrifying to admit to needing someone, she took a breath and said what she meant.

“Yes, please.” 

She was even saying please now—god, she barely recognised herself.

Agatha had expected to feel weak once the words left her mouth; once she’d exposed the chink in her armour. But Rio never made her feel like asking for help was a burden. And maybe if Rio was okay with sharing in Agatha’s discomforts, she’d be okay with sharing in her joys, too.

“Do you want to see a picture?” Agatha asked quietly, looking up at Rio. She nodded back at her. 

Agatha reached for her bag, sitting on the coffee table, and produced the ultrasound image. It was black and white and grainy, but it was also unmistakably there—the little demon that had taken up residence in her uterus. 

She handed it to Rio, wondering what she’d say—whether she’d see fear written across her face, or awe. 

Rio turned to her, eyes wide. A bit of column A, a bit of column B, if she had to guess. “That’s fucking wild.”

“Yeah,” Agatha laughed, voice hoarse from all the crying. “It is.”

———

By the next day, Agatha felt a little calmer about the appointment darkening her calendar. Talking to Rio the previous night had helped, and knowing that she wouldn’t be alone while a doctor poked and prodded at her helped even more. 

Still, she couldn’t shake it entirely—the invasiveness of the procedure, the miscarriage risk, the idea of putting her baby’s fate into the hands of some decaying quack with a god complex.

It was yet another thing out of her control. And Agatha had learned a lot about control in the last few weeks—mainly that she had way less than she’d originally thought.

All that tension had settled uncomfortably into her body overnight. Her sleep had been fitful, a daze of tossing and turning and waking up again, and now her shoulders and back were aching. After hours of pacing around the house in an unsuccessful attempt to loosen them, she’d given up trying and thrown herself on the couch, limbs sprawled out every which way.

When Rio had returned home from work, she’d taken one look at Agatha’s unbrushed hair and dirty joggers and uttered three words: “I’ll make dinner.”

And if Agatha was stubborn? Well, Rio was a damn mule, never one to take no for an answer, even amidst Agatha’s half-hearted protests. 

While she got to work in the kitchen, Agatha let her mind wander, taking a journey of its own accord. Something about the setting sun and the breeze filtering in through the windows made her feel more introspective than usual. 

She wondered if this was what it was like when you really, truly cared about someone—that you’d do literally anything for them without being asked, whether that was making them dinner or holding them while they cried. 

She’d never felt that with anyone before. But Rio seemed to feel that way about her. 

She picked at the thought a little longer. Would she do the same for Rio, if the roles were reversed? 

Yes. Of course she would—in a fucking heartbeat. 

She’d make her dinner, although her cooking skills were limited to eggs on toast. She’d hold her while she cried. She’d read some essay on a topic she knew nothing about and give her feedback; hell, she’d rewrite the entire damn thing if she had to. She’d call up a bookstore she’d only been to once in months and put a rush order on an overpriced book about serial killers because she knew Rio would like it.

But would she kiss Rio? Stare into those brown eyes and pull her in, closing the gap between their bodies? Would she fuck her—let herself be fucked by her?

It made her shudder, how stark and raw those questions were. She didn’t know the answer to any of them, or how to even begin to find out.

The sound of Rio’s voice pulled her out of her interrogation spiral like a fishing line tugged tight. “Dinner’s ready,” she said, strolling into the living room with two plates and a dopey smile. 

Agatha blinked. What time was it? Barely five minutes ago, Rio had been starting her prep—and now the food was done, the delicious scent of her cooking filling the apartment. It was like she’d blacked out, too deep in thought to register a single one of her senses.

Rio looked at her curiously, placing the bowl of pasta down in front of her. “Wanna watch something?” she asked easily, settling into place in the armchair. 

“Uh, yeah,” Agatha stammered. Not only was all this thinking depleting her energy, but clearly, it was robbing her of her time, too. She looked at her watch—forty-five minutes had passed in the blink of an eye. Time flies when you’re having an existential crisis. 

Rio had taken hold of the TV remote and was now flicking through Netflix, balancing her food on her knees. “Movie?” she questioned.

“Mmm,” Agatha agreed through a mouthful of food. “You like horror?” 

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Rio replied, selecting some C-grade slasher from Agatha’s watchlist and pressing play. “Didn’t pick you for a horror movie fan, though.” 

Agatha laughed, just a quick puff of air. She rubbed her back absent-mindedly. “Love them. They’re so predictable.”

Which, now that she thought about it, was a blindingly obvious tell. The woman who gripped at control like a security blanket had a penchant for films that felt formulaic; where the ending was always the same? Shocking.

They sat and ate their pasta, and Agatha did her best to keep her eyes trained on the screen, letting herself be distracted by the arguably not-that-bad movie. Every now and again, though, Rio would let out a little gasp or a chuckle of laughter—clearly she agreed that horror movies were more funny than scary—and she couldn’t help but look over at her.

Am I attracted to this person? she pondered, the screams of the TV fading away as her inner voice got louder.

No—she wasn’t doing herself any favours by keeping things vague. Am I attracted to this woman? 

It skirted around the edges of her mind, all while the killer ran rampant on-screen, leaving a trail of dead bodies in his wake. 

Rio, meanwhile, was content to sit and watch, commentating whenever someone did something she thought was dumb or too funny not to acknowledge. 

By the last ten minutes of the movie, Agatha was no closer to figuring her shit out. Worse, she was becoming aware of how sore she really was. She let out a small noise of discomfort, shifting in her seat.

“Are you just gonna keep groaning over there, or do you plan on telling me what’s wrong?”

Rio was watching her with a raised brow, focus shifted away from the movie where the bloodied final girl was now climbing into the back of an ambulance.

“I’m just sore,” Agatha huffed. “I’ve never slept so badly in my life. I need a new mattress.”

Rio stilled, considering something. “Do you…” she started, but trailed off as quickly as she began. She closed her eyes like she was trying to banish the thought, or steel herself to say it —maybe both.

That was odd. Rio wasn’t the type to shy away from saying things out loud. Like a dog with a bone, now Agatha had to know what Rio was holding back. 

“What were you going to say?”

Rio pressed her lips together in silent surrender. “I was going to ask if you wanted me to help.”

“What, you’re gonna buy me a new bed?” Agatha joked.

“No, Agatha,” she rolled her eyes. “But I can give you a massage, if you’d like.”

Agatha’s cheeks flamed at the mere suggestion. 

Oh. That. She’d conveniently tucked Rio’s special skill into the back of her memory, but here it was, rearing its head at what felt like an extremely inopportune moment.

She couldn’t let Rio do that. She couldn’t risk sending the wrong message, now that she knew how Rio felt. It would be cruel. 

But maybe it would also be a solution. A way to finally discern between this person makes me happy and I want more. She hadn’t expected the opportunity to present itself to her so soon or so clearly. But the universe worked in mysterious ways, and she’d be an idiot to ignore the signs. 

Her thoughts had been untrustworthy lately, but maybe her body would tell her the truth.

“Come on,” Rio pressed. “I’m a professional, after all.”

Agatha pursed her lips. The girl made a good point. 

(Although, come to think of it, Rio hadn’t mentioned much about taking massage clients recently—and she’d been home more often, too. Weird.) 

“Okay, fine,” Agatha relented. “But be fast.” 

The last thing she wanted to do was drag this out for either of them. All she knew for sure about this thing with Rio was that she didn’t want to hurt her, nor did she want to turn it into something it wasn’t if she didn’t feel the same way.

Leading Rio on was the worst-case scenario.

And the best-case scenario was… well, the jury was still out.

“Lie on your side,” Rio gestured towards the couch, where Agatha was already sprawled on her back, head tilted towards the TV.

She hit pause on the credits and obediently angled herself towards the couch cushions, away from Rio.

“Back and shoulders are what hurts, right?”

Agatha craned her neck so she could look back at her. Rio was sitting on the floor, stretching her arms above her head. Her t-shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of tanned, taut skin.

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured softly. Why did this feel like stepping onto the edge of a cliff with no way to see what was waiting below? 

“Easy,” Rio replied. “Hang on, I’m gonna go grab some oil,” she said, jumping to her feet and padding down the hall.

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut. Something about using massage oil didn’t say ‘fast’ to her. Or convenient. Or, perhaps most critically, platonic.

And jesus fuck —if she was going to use oil, that meant Agatha would have to take off her shirt. She looked down at her clothes and breathed a sigh of relief when she remembered she was, in fact, wearing a bra. She sent a silent thank you to past Agatha for being so smart. 

It didn’t quell the nerves that were building in her belly.

Rio returned a moment later, plopping back down onto the floor and scooting close to the edge of the sofa, knees pressing against the purple upholstery.

“Don’t be messy if you’re gonna use oil,” Agatha warned.

“I’ll be careful,” Rio promised. “Shirt off, please.” 

Agatha inhaled, before gingerly reaching for the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her face. She tossed it on the end table beside her, draping it half-across a stack of books.

The air hit her skin, cool and bracing. BandAid, ripped, she thought, trying not to linger on the fact she was now half-naked in front of her roommate.

Rio didn’t speak for a minute, but she could hear her shifting around, maybe trying to get comfortable. Finally, she brushed a careful thumb over Agatha’s bra. “I’m gonna have to unhook this.”

Agatha knew it was what she wanted—what she needed—but the intimacy of it all came as a surprise. She felt her skin prickle under the contact, even though it was slight, mostly focused through the fabric.

“You can leave it half on, just hold a pillow or something so you’re covered up,” Rio said.

Agatha didn’t reply, so Rio didn’t take it any further, her hand slowly retreating from Agatha’s back. “We can just—I don’t have to use the oil,” Rio hesitated. 

The uncertainty in her voice landed with a dull thud in Agatha’s chest. Oh god, was she pushing her too far? The instinct to set Rio at ease, to tell her not to worry about it, was overwhelming—but her need to know was stronger. 

If this sent Rio into a spiral of her own… well, she just hoped she’d forgive her for it.

“No, no,” Agatha shook her head. She held her own chest with one hand and reached around herself with the other, pinching the clasp of her bra to set it free. “There.” Thankfully, the cups stayed firmly in place, giving her enough time to nestle back into the couch and pull a pillow tightly against her body.

“All good?” Rio asked. Agatha nodded, curling inward so her back was exposed. 

Logistically, she had to turn away from her. It made sense—Rio couldn’t help her if she lay on her front or on her side facing outwards, and she wasn’t meant to put pressure on her stomach.

But as Rio’s hands made contact with her skin, she really, really wished she could look at her face. To connect the feeling of being touched for the first time in a long time with the person she was so desperately trying to see more clearly.

The pressure started light, careful—like she was testing the waters. They were both quiet as Rio’s thumbs ran over the tops of her shoulders before travelling down to knead gently at her upper back.

After a minute or two of contact, Rio pulled away. The loss immediately made itself known—the warmth of her hands and the firmness of her fingertips gone. 

Agatha wanted to cut through the silence, but the words evaded her. Usually, she’d make some kind of snarky joke— what, finished with me already?—but that didn’t sit right when what she really wanted to say was come back. 

Before she could open her mouth, Rio’s hands returned. They were even warmer this time, slippery with oil that smelled floral and spicy. She spread the wetness with her palms, tracing the length of Agatha’s back from the curve just above her joggers, all the way up to her shoulders. 

Rio’s hands focused there for a moment, trying to ease some of the tension that had built up—that had been building there for weeks, long before that one terrible night of sleep. 

Agatha concentrated on relaxing into Rio’s touch. Let go, the little voice in her head murmured, begging to be heard. Her body softened as Rio’s hands kept wandering over bare skin, languidly tracing the path she’d established. Shoulders to lower back, a rhythmic up and down.

As the minutes ticked by, Agatha became increasingly aware of the sensations in her body. On the surface, it was working—she could feel the ache in her body ebbing away, melting under firm fingers. 

But what was occurring underneath it all felt indulgent, dangerous. Like a live wire sparking low in her belly, sending goosebumps rippling across exposed skin.

Rio’s hands stilled again, resting flat on her lower back. “You have a big-ass knot,” she tapped a spot, “right here.” Agatha hummed in agreement, vibrations echoing through the pillow.

“I’m gonna work a little harder on it,” Rio continued. Her tone was all-business—like this wasn’t lighting her up from the inside the way it was Agatha. Good fucking god, she wished she could see her face; to know what she was feeling. “Tell me if it hurts.” 

Agatha didn’t protest. Pain would make more sense than whatever this was. Her whole body felt like it was on fire, flames stoked by the feeling of Rio’s hands on her and a mental tug-of-war only she was privy to. 

Rio’s fingers dug into the sorest spot on her lower back, kneading deeper now, but still erring on the side of caution. “You can use more pressure,” Agatha said, voice hitching as she handed over permission.

Rio paused mid-motion. Then one of her hands drifted slightly, like she’d meant to return to the same spot but got caught on the curve of Agatha’s waist instead. Her fingers flexed once, then steadied.

When she found the knot again, she didn’t hold back. She dug into Agatha’s bare skin with ease, pressing deeper and deeper until—oh, that was the spot. Right there, don’t stop.

The pain was enough to make her wince, to clench her jaw and bury her face in the pillow. Rio faltered. “That too much?” 

Agatha shook her head. “Just enough.” 

A lie. It wasn’t even in the ballpark of enough —just not in the way she’d expected. 

She closed her eyes again, imagining what it would feel like if Rio’s hands didn’t stop at her lower back. If they were to travel further, palming her ass, tracing along the back of her thighs. If the pain was allowed to give way to pleasure.

The answer flared hot and needy between her legs before she could intellectualise it.

It was clarity in the form of a deep, resounding jolt to her clit and a moan she had to choke down. 

Fuck. 

She resisted the urge to squeeze her thighs together as Rio’s hands kept going, unaware that a simple exercise in pain relief had quickly turned into an arduous back-and-forth.

She wasn’t thinking straight, not as her body hummed and her mind scrambled for a foothold. She didn’t know if she wanted to cry, come, or confess something.

All she knew was that Rio’s touch felt too close and too far away and she had to stop it now before she did something she couldn’t take back.

“That’s—that’s enough,” Agatha forced out, trying to keep her voice level. She felt Rio’s hands freeze before leaving her back a split second later. 

The silence stretched out between them, spilling into every crevice of the apartment.

If Agatha had been bolder or more sure of herself, she might have asked: Was that as good for you as it was for me? 

Instead, it was Rio who broke through the quiet. “Did that help?” she asked, careful and steady. 

Agatha was still turned away from her, and while the desire to face Rio had been overwhelming earlier, now she couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact.

She eased her head from the pillow, feeling the indentations it had left behind, the traces of evidence written on her face. 

“Yeah,” Agatha said slowly. Her own voice sounded disembodied, like it was very far away. “It helped a lot.”

Chapter Text

Rio didn’t reply right away. The quiet pulsed between them again, but Agatha couldn’t connect the dots—not while she was faced away from her. She had to look at her, even though it felt like staring down the barrel of a very loaded gun.

She flipped over onto her side, securing her bra tightly shut, and found Rio watching her. Not with curiosity or concern, but… something else. It was charged, like electricity running between them. 

Agatha wondered if she should say something. Maybe sharing her feelings with Rio, even in their messy, half-formed state, would be productive.

No. Not yet, not with the pieces just beginning to lock together, still fragile enough to come apart under her hands. And not while she felt awkward, itchy, and extremely aware of her own arousal.

“Glad to hear it,” Rio finally said, averting Agatha’s gaze like she’d flipped a switch on purpose. She wiped the oil from her hands onto her shirt. 

Agatha’s heart hammered in her chest. Oh god, she’d made Rio feel awkward, too—she could tell by the way she was fidgeting, rubbing her thumb along the edge of one finger to ground herself.

Her limbs felt shaky as she reached for her shirt from the end table and pulled it over her head quickly before standing. “I’m gonna go shower,” she said, altogether too casually. 

Rio raised her head and nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. It was gentle and uncomplicated, so unmistakably Rio it almost hurt. 

If Rio was upset or disappointed by what had just transpired between them, she didn’t show it. And if she was consumed in the way Agatha was, she couldn’t tell.

So, she fled to the bathroom before she could say something weird—or worse, make it obvious just how flustered she was.

When Agatha stepped into the shower, the bracing cold water hit her skin like a slap to the face.

She willed herself to calm down, for the ache that had taken up residence between her thighs to stop—but it took no notice. Her body had won out. 

Fine. She flipped the water to warm, sick of shivering away under the faucet for no reason other than her own stubbornness. If that wasn’t going to work, there was only one alternative: give in. 

Agatha leaned against the tiles of the shower, bracing herself with one hand while she gripped the showerhead in the other, angling it between her legs. 

The pressure didn’t build slowly like it usually did. The moment the stream of water made contact with her clit, a low moan rumbled in her throat.

Oh my god, it had been so long since she’d done this—too fucking long. With Ralph, sex had been nothing more than a calendar item to tick off, and most of their infrequent interactions had ended with Agatha finishing herself off somewhere away from his prying eyes and dumb questions. 

But since he’d left—since getting pregnant—she’d rarely been in the mood. Her vibrators were collecting dust in a drawer, batteries long dead. Nothing had been able to break through the constant cycle of rumination, the feeling of being trapped in her head and so distant from her body. 

Until this. Until Rio. 

She removed her other hand from the wall and parted herself with two fingers, moving the shower head around in slow circles. She needed more—more friction, more pressure, more everything.

Closing her eyes, she pictured Rio on her knees in front of her, hands gripping at her hips to steady them both as she lapped at her clit. Those hands—her long fingers, the callouses on her palms from tending to plants all day. And that tongue. The one that was always tucked into her cheek when she found something funny or had to hold herself back from making a sly comment. 

In her fantasy, that tongue knew exactly how to make her come undone, flicking and sucking at all the right spots until Agatha came, screaming. 

She wondered if sex with Rio would actually be like that, or if she was just building it up in her head.

“Rio,” she exhaled softly, tilting her head back. Fuck, she hoped the bathroom was as soundproof as it was purported to be back when she’d bought the place—Rio’s room was literally right next door. Still, she couldn’t help her name from spilling from her lips, not now that she’d crossed the mental threshold from friendship to desire.

The Rio in her mind looked up at her with a smirk, eyes dark under thick lashes. She removed one hand from Agatha’s waist and slipped two fingers easily inside her, pumping lazily while she circled her clit with that tongue like it was her goddamn job.

Desperate to feel full, Agatha pushed her own fingers through her wetness and curled them inside herself, dragging them against the perfect spot before thrusting them forward again—all the while imagining they were Rio’s. 

When she came, repeating Rio’s name in her head like a mantra, it was intense enough to make her legs buckle underneath her. She quickly slid her fingers out of her pulsing cunt and gripped the wall for dear life again so she didn’t crumple onto the hard tiles. 

“Fuck,” she exhaled, her heartbeat still pounding in her ears.

After a minute of trying to regain control of her breath, Agatha let her legs give way, sliding down the shower wall and onto the floor. The shower head clattered next to her, sending water in every direction before she reached up and gingerly hooked it over the taps. As the warmth began to spray over her, soaking her face and hair, she realised she was crying.

She touched the wetness on her face, tears and water practically indistinguishable. 

It didn’t feel like despair. It didn’t feel like confusion, either. It just felt like release.

———

Calling your best friend after you’d just masturbated was weird—Agatha could admit it. But it didn’t stop her from firing off an emergency text within five minutes of getting out of the shower.

What she’d just done with Rio was out of character. Reckless. Possibly self-sabotaging.

But the aftermath had been really fucking hot… and oddly cathartic. She wouldn’t dispute that. Well, maybe in a court of law—but Wanda demanded the truth, and she needed someone to hold her accountable right now.

Agatha: SOS 🚨

Wanda: what’s going on!?

With the confirmation Wanda was awake and coherent enough to deal with some light emotional labour, Agatha dialled her number. She picked up on the second ring, and Agatha almost sagged with relief.

“I’m freaking out,” she whispered frantically, not bothering with the niceties Wanda was always prying out of her. There was no time for hellos when you were a second away from losing your shit.

“Calm your goddamn tits and tell me what’s happening, Harkness,” Wanda said impatiently. She could hear an egregious amount of background noise, probably coming from one of the boring therapist mixers that counted as fun at a national psychology conference. Her voice sounded a little off, less steady than usual—Agatha wondered if she was drunk. 

“Hang on,” Wanda chastised. “It’s like one in the morning there. Why are you awake? And why are we whispering?” 

Agatha drew in a deep breath. She needed to spit it out; to get it over and done with. “Because I just let Rio give me a fucking massage and, well—” she paused, running a hand over her face. Fuck, this was so embarrassing. “I think I'm figuring it out.”

The line was ominously quiet before sharp barks of laughter broke through in quick succession. 

“Oh my god,” Wanda cackled. Oh, she was definitely drunk—or tipsy, at the very least. “You’re gay panicking,” she accused. 

If Wanda was here in person, her finger would definitely be inches away from Agatha’s face, a self-satisfied grin on her lips. Fucking know-it-all. 

“Is that what it is?” Agatha groaned, as quietly as she could. 

“Yes, honey,” Wanda said. “I assumed you’d get there eventually, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.” She hesitated, like she was mulling it over. “Did anything else happen?” 

Maybe it wasn’t too late to lie. Wanda wouldn’t be able to tell over the phone. 

No —she needed to be honest. “I had to… take care of it in the shower.” 

The line went dead for a second, and Agatha looked down at her phone, confused, but the call was still running. “Wanda, did you put yourself on mute?” 

Her best friend’s voice returned, wheezing with borderline-hysterical laughter. “Sorry, had to go outside,” she cackled. “I don’t need the entire APA hearing a play-by-play of your little solo sesh.” 

Laugh it up, Red, Agatha thought, running a towel over her damp hair while she death-gripped her phone between ear and shoulder. I’m glad my misguided decisions are such a great source of entertainment for you.

“You’re about to lose your honesty privileges,” she warned, tossing the towel on her bedroom floor. 

“Fine, I’m sorry,” Wanda apologised. “So you let your hot roommate touch you, and it turned you on, and then you got yourself off to the thought of her. Am I following okay?”

It sounded so salacious when you put it like that. Agatha felt more like a horny (and extremely confused) teenager than a grown woman right now. And she’d never really had a horny teenager phase—oh, jesus fuck, maybe she was gay. Not important. Well, probably important—but this was less about labels and more about Rio right now.

“Yes,” Agatha gritted out. She pressed her fingers to her temples, rubbing slowly. “Task at hand, Maximoff. What do I do now?” 

“I think we’re past the point where I can pull the strings for you, honey.”

Agatha didn’t reply, instead exhaling a loud sigh directly into the receiver for Wanda to hear. God forbid her best friend help her in her time of need.

“Agatha, just—” Wanda cut herself off, irritation flaring. After a beat, she continued, softer this time. “Stop trying to out-think your feelings. Feel them.”

Feel her feelings. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing? She was trying, and that had to count for something. 

She took a deep breath and geared up to say what had been weighing on her mind since she’d emerged from the shower. The truth of it felt lodged in her throat. “It didn’t feel wrong like I thought it would.”

“How did it feel?”

“Hot,” Agatha admitted. “And… right. Inevitable.” 

“Okay,” Wanda replied slowly. “So what’s stopping you, then?” 

“I don’t know!” Agatha cried. She clamped a hand over her mouth, words a little too loud and her reaction a little too late. 

She lowered her volume back down a few decibels, cheeks blazing. “I just want to be certain, you know? I– I don’t know what I’d do if I tried something and it didn’t turn out well.” 

“You’re not gonna know until you give it a shot,” Wanda replied matter-of-factly. “Until you let go of the reins a little bit.”

“Wanda, I can’t hurt her,” Agatha breathed, the honesty flowing through her now. “I need her in my life.” 

That was as big of an admission as any. She’d gone from holding Rio at arm’s length to not knowing what she’d do if she wasn’t there beside her, but another shift in proximity might prove impossible to navigate. 

Rio was already embedded in her every day—hell, they lived together—but what would happen if she let her get even closer? It wasn’t like Agatha came without any baggage. She was pregnant, for fuck’s sake. 

Being more than friends with Rio wouldn’t just mean opening herself up physically in a way she never had before. It would mean showing every side of her; the ugly parts, the self-doubt, all the traumatic stuff she’d stashed away. Some of it had already begun to bleed out between them, but there was more where that came from, waiting to be unravelled.

“Agatha, you need to tell her that,” Wanda said. “Talk to Rio, sooner rather than later. I don’t even want to imagine what she’s going through right now.”

The idea of Rio agonising over what this all meant made her sick to her stomach even more than her own shit. But Wanda was probably right again. 

“I know,” Agatha acknowledged, inhaling sharply. “I will.”

After a reluctant thank you and a few minutes of chatting about what her best friend had been up to in California, Agatha hung up the phone, entirely spent. 

Wanda’s advice was as sound as always. She was also going to take no notice of it—at least the part where she suggested she stop intellectualising her feelings. 

She fought the urge to reach for a pen and paper to make a physical pros and cons list, instead just tallying things up on either side in her head as she laid in bed, a hand absent-mindedly drifting over her stomach. 

Pro: She loved spending time with Rio. Con: All the feelings she had around her made her uncomfortable.

Pro: She knew she wanted to have sex with Rio now. Con: She’d never had sex with a woman before. 

Con: She still had no clue how to define her sexuality. Pro: Everyone seemed to be telling her she didn’t have to. 

Con: She’d been peddled the same ‘gay is bad’ narrative as half of America as a child. Pro: Her mother was in the ground, and no one else in her life cared. Hell, they were all fucking gay anyway. 

The mental math told her that both columns were equally stacked, no clear sign telling her which way to go. Maybe being rational was stupid, after all. It evidently wasn’t getting her anywhere. 

But she didn’t know how to feel her feelings, not when they’d gotten so murky and complicated. Not now that there was so much at stake. 

As she eventually settled into sleep, twisted up in the sheets, she tried to think good thoughts—the way she did when she was banishing a nightmare.

All she could come up with was Rio, Rio, Rio.

———

If Agatha had met gay panic for the first time on Tuesday night, they were well on their way to becoming best friends by the week’s end.

On Wednesday, Rio had come home from work with dirt smudged across her cheekbone. Agatha had to sit on her hands to restrain herself from reaching over to wipe it off. It unsettled her, how quick her body was to react now that she’d unlocked this part of it. 

The panic continued on Thursday. Usually, Agatha didn’t see Rio in her PJs—she always changed into basketball shorts or loungewear while they were sitting on the couch together. But that day was exceedingly hot, the mercury climbing to an uncomfortable 95 degrees that the apartment’s air conditioning did little to quell. 

Rio had sauntered into the living room in nothing but a cropped muscle tee and a pair of black boxer briefs with a rainbow waistband, and it had made Agatha’s entire mouth go dry. She tried to avert her eyes from the swell of her ass in her tight underwear, the lithe muscle of her exposed abdomen—but it was no use. 

She was down bad.

On Friday morning, the day of her amnio appointment, Agatha spent a little more time getting ready. She put on real clothes, a midi skirt and a t-shirt, and brushed her hair properly for the first time in days. It felt good, to put herself together like this—the only vestige of control she could cling to while everything else eddied around her like a goddamn whirlpool. 

Once she was ready, Rio had met her in the living room with an easy smile, looking like the picture of summer—the same cut-off shorts she’d worn on their trip to the bookstore, her hair off her face in a flower clip. Man, she was so damn pretty. 

They took the Q into Manhattan, and Agatha grew more and more anxious with each passing stop. Whether it was the impending appointment or the butterflies having a party in her gut every time she looked at Rio, she couldn’t be sure.

Now, they were sitting in the waiting room together, Agatha’s hands clenched tightly at her sides while Rio scrolled on her phone. She’d tried to strike up conversation on the subway, but Agatha’s answers had been brief, although not unkind. 

“Agatha Harkness?” the receptionist intoned dully, barely looking up from her computer screen. A nurse was standing off to the side of the desk, waiting to take her through to the procedure room.

“You ready?” Rio nudged her. 

“Mmm-hmm,” Agatha nodded, closing her eyes to brace herself. She rose to her feet slowly and walked toward the consultation room, casting a quick glance behind her to make sure Rio was following. She was, and it put her at ease.

It wasn’t lost on Agatha, that while she and Rio were over 10 years apart in age, it was the younger woman supporting her—always steadying Agatha when her emotions tried to topple her, like a baby giraffe learning how to walk. 

If it had been anyone else, it would’ve made her feel suffocated. Too reliant on another person. But the way that Rio was just there without question or comment strangely had the opposite effect.

“Mrs Harkness,” the nurse greeted her. It was a different woman to last time, shorter and older, her tone more abrupt. 

“It’s Ms,” Agatha grunted. “And please, Agatha’s fine.”

“Agatha,” she confirmed, before pinning Rio with a curious look. “And you are?” 

“Rio,” she introduced herself. She lifted her hand in an awkward wave, and it made Agatha smile.

“The doctor said I could have a… person,” Agatha said, tearing her attention away from Rio and back to the nurse. She felt the need to defend herself, to defend them. There was no way she was going in there without someone by her side.

“Of course,” the nurse replied. “I’ll leave you to get set up. Gown on, shoes and jewellery off, and just pull the blanket over you when you’re ready. The doctor will be in in a moment.” 

Agatha set her bag down and fiddled with her necklace, unclasping it and dropping it onto a table while Rio stood looking around the room. “Uhh—” Agatha stammered, clutching the medical gown to her chest. Fuck, she was short-circuiting. “I need to change,” she gestured down at her clothes, hoping it was self-explanatory.

“I can close my eyes,” Rio chuckled, pulling a hand over her face. Thank god—she’d already been partially naked in front of her, and look where that had gotten her. She didn’t need to pile any more panic on top of what she was already feeling.

Agatha undressed quickly, shucking her clothes in the corner of the room, and threw on the gown. Once she’d settled on the procedure bed, blanket up over her hips, she spoke again: “All done.”

Rio opened her eyes and shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts. She looked a little nervous, like she wasn’t sure where she fit into the equation.

“Where do you want me?” Rio asked. 

“You can just sit over there,” Agatha nodded towards the chair across the room. She faltered as she gave the instruction, but making Rio stand beside her and hold her hand would be too close for comfort right now. Right? 

Before she could second-guess herself aloud, Dr Goldberg swept into the room, all bravado in a crisp white lab coat. “Agatha, how are you?”

“Fantastic,” she deadpanned. Rio shot her an amused look from over in her chair, their eyes finding one another instantly. Quack, she mouthed, and watched as Rio tried to stifle a laugh that quickly turned into a cough.

The doctor turned in Rio’s direction, like he was just noticing she was there.She lifted her eyebrows and offered him a tight smile. 

“Rio,” she introduced herself for the second time, extending a hand for the doctor to shake. She didn’t stand up, and Agatha had to bite back a snort at how unimpressed she looked. Maybe they shared the same distaste for authority figures.

“Lovely to meet you,” Dr Goldberg replied. He walked back over to Agatha, rubbing his hands together. “Now, let’s get this show on the road.”

Ugh —like it was nothing. Like it was a game. Like Agatha wasn’t anxious enough to barf all over his ugly shoes.

The nurse re-entered with a smile Agatha was sure was fake. “Quick ultrasound before the procedure,” she explained, unceremoniously lifting Agatha’s gown up and squeezing gel onto her belly. She flinched at its coldness—this nurse had no fucking bedside manner. Nothing on the last girl.

A grainy baby filled the screen again. It had been less than a week since her last ultrasound, but Agatha was comforted by the fact that it was still there. She’d received a notification that morning on the pregnancy app Wanda had told her to download: Baby is the size of an avocado!

Her eyes darted to Rio to see what she was making of this. She looked pensive, like she was deep in thought about something. Huh—that was new. Usually Rio was the epitome of calm, never batting an eyelid at any of the baby-related stuff Agatha shared with her.

It made her wonder whether the other night had changed something for Rio, too. Maybe, like Agatha, she’d realised that their connection could become complicated if they let it—that there would always be a third person involved, even though they hadn’t actually been born yet.

Christ, like this whole situation wasn’t already rife with reality TV-level drama. She shook her head to expel the thought and turned her focus back to the ultrasound. 

“Baby seems happy,” the nurse said blithely, turning the screen away from Agatha and cleaning off her stomach.

After a few minutes only punctuated by the sounds of Dr Goldberg snapping on gloves and single-finger typing into the computer by the bed, he produced a long, thin needle that made Agatha’s heart race. “I’m going to insert this into your abdomen and draw out some of your amniotic fluid.”

“I don’t need reminding, thanks,” she snarled back. Did all doctors make it a point to terrify their patients with unnecessary information, or was it just hers that had no fucking filter to speak of?

While the nurse winced, clearly Goldberg was used to Agatha’s snarkiness by now, because he just went about his business. He swabbed a spot on her right side with an antibacterial wipe and cleared his throat. “Ready?” 

Agatha gave a small nod, though she felt the furthest thing from ready. The sooner he jabbed her, the sooner this would be over.

She stared off into the distance, searching for something to focus on as the needle materialised in her peripheral vision. She could watch the clock on the wall; count down the seconds until this was all over. She could fixate on the art hanging there, some tacky, kitschy oil painting of babies in a cabbage patch.

But of course, Agatha’s eyes landed on Rio again. Sitting there, watching her, too respectful to overstep but too invested to look away. 

This felt wrong.

“Stop,” Agatha choked out, the needle hovering inches from her belly. Thankfully, the doctor did as he was told, looking up at her patiently.

She couldn’t do this alone, not with Rio right there. She reached a hand out towards her and shot her a pleading look, not giving a second thought to what it might mean. 

Rio’s eyes widened, then softened. She was up off her chair in an instant, striding over to Agatha’s side. She took her hand gently, stroking a thumb along the backside. 

“Hi,” Rio said quietly, brown eyes locked onto Agatha’s. 

“Hi,” Agatha whispered back. The panic ebbed away.

The doctor glanced back and forth between them, waiting for a sign to continue. Eventually, Agatha nodded. 

She didn’t look as the needle went in. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating on the feeling of her hand clasped tightly around Rio’s. Her nails were probably leaving a mark, scattering those weathered palms with tiny crescent moons. 

She dug her fingers in harder as she felt the pressure of the needle, then relaxed when Rio’s other hand found her arm, rubbing it reassuringly. She could hear the distant sound of the doctor counting down, talking her through what he was doing, but her focus was tethered to the physical. The grounding feeling of skin-on-skin, holding her there so she didn’t float away. 

“All done,” the doctor finally proclaimed. He didn’t seem fazed at all, considering he’d just poked at her stomach like he was trying to pop a balloon.

Agatha exhaled a shaky breath as she opened her eyes. It was over. There were no sirens going off, she wasn’t bleeding out on the table, and the doctor looked so chill about it that she half-expected him to start whistling. 

She looked up at Rio, then down at their conjoined hands, then back up at Rio. Her expression was warm and proud, the moment curling around them like a vine. Agatha didn’t want to let go of her hand—so she didn’t. 

“You should have the results by Monday,” Dr Goldberg broke through their bubble. “In the meantime, take it easy. Tylenol if you experience any cramps, and no strenuous exercise or sex for a few days.”

Yeah, like that would be hard. Agatha’s gym membership had become nothing more than a charitable donation to Planet Fitness, and the only sex she was having was with herself.

“Your partner can take you home now,” he finished, smiling kindly at Rio.

Agatha caught the blush on Rio’s cheeks at his assumption, and felt the warmth creeping up her own to match. Still, neither of them said anything. 

———

Once they’d shuffled out of the appointment room, Agatha and Rio found themselves on the street in front of the doctor’s office, the searing heat hitting their skin in a welcome contrast to the chilly air conditioning inside.

“Coffee?” Rio asked, squinting up at the sun. “You haven’t had one yet.” 

Agatha chuckled tightly, still pent-up with nerves. “What, you’re conspiring with my doctors now? Monitoring my caffeine intake?”

“Just observant,” Rio shrugged. She pointed at a cafe down the block. “Let’s go get you your daily dose of legal stimulants.”

The promise of a pick-me-up was, yet again, too good to pass up, so Agatha followed Rio the few paces down the street. She sat at a table outside while Rio ordered their coffees—not without first shoving a ten-dollar note in her hand to pay for them—looking out at the cars and people passing by while she waited.

After a few minutes, Rio emerged, Agatha’s cappuccino in one hand and a sweltering iced coffee in the other. “How are you feeling now?” she asked, lips wrapped around the straw. “Nerves calmed down?” 

“Mmf,” Agatha replied. “Yes and no. Coffee’s probably not helping,” she admitted, although she immediately took another gulp. 

“And yet, I don’t see you quitting any time soon,” Rio raised an eyebrow.

“Not happening,” Agatha snorted. “I don’t need another hard thing to deal with right now.”

“Hey, why don’t we go for a walk?” Rio asked suddenly. “Central Park’s literally right there, and I’m never in Manhattan.” 

Even if the offer of a distraction was obvious, it was sweet—and Agatha wasn’t going to turn her nose up at it, or make an aside about how the native New Yorker never came to Central Park. “Sure,” she replied. 

Clutching their to-go cups, they strolled through the city streets, past the New York Public Library and over into Central Park. The grey of skyscrapers and concrete slowly gave way to green: trees, grass, the lush meadows not yet crisp from the summer heat. 

Rio inhaled deeply through her nose, face cast towards the sky. Agatha could’ve read that look from a mile away—peace. Calm. The feeling of finally being outside after an hour confined in a sterile procedure room. She knew because she felt it too. 

They kept walking through the park, chatting about topic after topic—Agatha’s book. Rio’s week at work. What Jen and Alice were up to. The smarmy doctor and disinterested nurse at the OB/GYN office. Agatha sipped her drink slowly, collecting both her and Rio’s cups and taking them to the trash once they were done. 

Finally, they passed by the red brick building that held the carousel. Agatha just cast a smile in its direction, listening to the squeals and giggles of kids as she continued her journey through the park. But she quickly realised Rio wasn’t with her, her familiar presence no longer lingering by her side.

She looked around and saw her standing stock-still in front of the carousel, back turned. Even from across the way, her posture looked different—rigid. 

“Thought I lost you there,” Agatha said, sidling up to Rio with a careful smile. Rio didn’t glance in her direction, but Agatha got a glimpse of the look on her face: sadness. Fear. Longing.

“My mom used to take me here,” Rio breathed. Her gaze was fixated on the carousel, entranced by it as it circled round and round.

“Lilia?” Agatha asked curiously. Usually, when Rio spoke about Lilia, she used the term ‘foster mom’—a clear distinction between what was and what wasn’t. She’d never heard her just say mom. 

“No, my biological mom,” Rio murmured. “Before she died.” Her voice was distant; not cold, but deeply coloured with something—grief, Agatha supposed. 

“I’m sorry,” she replied quietly. “I assumed as much, but… I’ve never heard you talk about her before.”

Rio looked down at her sneakers. A tendril of hair escaped from her clip, falling into her face. “I don’t.” 

The words were simple, but they carried something heavy. It reminded her of their conversation over bagels a few weeks ago, when Agatha had pulled back before things got too deep. 

This time, the need to console Rio was overwhelming. She spoke before she could even think about it, before she could analyse the implications of getting even closer—of tightening the string that ran between them. “Well, you can with me,” she said. “If you want to.” 

Rio hummed in agreement, but it was half-hearted.

Agatha hadn’t felt like herself much lately, but this moment drove that home. The old Agatha—the one who built an impenetrable fortress to stop people from getting too close—would’ve just shrugged it off and moved the conversation along, probably by making an awkward joke. She definitely wouldn’t have offered to listen; to shoulder the weight of someone else’s burden. 

She wasn’t that person anymore. It had happened over a matter of weeks, slowly but surely, but it felt shockingly sudden. Like she’d been jolted from a dream and had woken up changed, all because of Rio.

“Hey,” she said, putting a hand on Rio’s arm. Rio tilted her face up to look at her, and shit—the sight of her trying to blink back tears almost split Agatha’s heart clean in half. “I mean it. You’ve been there for me so much over these last few weeks,” she continued. “If you need me, I’m here for you too.” 

Rio just nodded, but her smile was real, expression a little more open than it had been before. 

Agatha drew in a deep breath, steeling herself to be vulnerable again. “Thank you for today,” she said. Her hand was still gently resting on Rio’s arm, next to a tattoo of a needle and thread. She’d noticed it a few times, wondering what it meant—maybe she’d get to find out, one day.

God, she was fucking stupid. She’d been waiting for an a-ha moment, for an anvil to fall on her head and leave her reeling. But maybe it didn’t have to feel like a big romantic realisation, and maybe she didn’t have to be sure. She was already doing the hard part—letting Rio in, opening herself up to her, offering to be there in the same way. 

It could just be an accumulation of thoughts and moments that built into something undeniable.

It could just be this: coffees in Central Park, a conversation that felt like it would stretch on forever if she let it, and the warmth of Rio’s arm wrapped around hers. And a little bit of gay panic, thrown in for good measure.

“You’re welcome,” Rio said simply. All traces of her sadness from seconds ago were gone, replaced by that untroubled smile Agatha knew so well. “Ready to keep walking?” 

I would walk anywhere with you, she thought. It popped into her head and settled there before she could fight it off, or recoil from it, or pick at it ‘til it was just bone. 

And that’s how Agatha Harkness knew she was in trouble.

Chapter Text

Agatha woke on Saturday with a renewed sense of purpose: she was going to talk to Rio. No, she had to, before she burst and spewed her feelings all over her after holding them in for too long.

The day prior had ended pleasantly, despite the mildly traumatic procedure. They’d walked around Central Park for over an hour, talking and observing and lapping up the sun. When Agatha had started to get tired, Rio called them a cab. They’d driven home in companionable silence, only interrupted by the occasional yawn and the sounds of Rio humming along to the radio. 

Back at the apartment, Agatha had fallen into bed in that way you only could when tiredness had seeped beneath your skin and blurred the edges of your concentration. The nap had been deep and dreamless and a medal-worthy three hours long. 

Later, she had wandered into the living room to find Rio sitting on the floor by the coffee table, a documentary about manatees on in the background while she did, of all things, a 1000-piece puzzle. The sight of her, focus sharp while she carefully turned over the pieces in her hands, was fucking adorable—Agatha’s heart had threatened to leap out of her chest.

But yesterday hadn’t felt like the right time to say something. She had been basking in the moment, content to sit with it a little while longer before having a conversation that might be hard, or awkward, or could change things forever. 

So she’d just made them both a cup of tea and settled on the floor next to Rio, their crossed knees bumping together as she helped click the pieces into place.

The domesticity of it all wasn’t lost on her, but it wasn’t like anything had really changed, either. This is just how they were, now. Who they’d become to each other; how they slotted into each other’s lives. It gave her hope for the topic she was about to broach. 

And today felt like the right day. She had slept well, even with the amnio anxiety curling around the edges of her thoughts. As she stretched in bed, the sunlight brightening her room, she felt positive… happy, even.

Since the night before, after they’d finished the puzzle (a scene of a dark, moody forest with way too many pieces that looked the same), Agatha had been rehearsing what she’d say to Rio. 

The script in her head started light and upbeat: she’d tell her how much she enjoyed their time together, how grateful she was for all the support she’d offered. That part would come easily, after their moment in the park.

It was the next bit that made her uneasy, although she knew she had to push through it. The part where she confessed feeling something more to Rio; where she explained that somewhere along the way, through all the gentle conversations and gestures big and small, she’d parsed that their connection wasn’t just friendly. On either side. 

It was more eager, more honest, than anything Agatha had ever said or done to anyone in her entire history of being. She wanted more than anything not to overthink it, and instead, to clutch tightly to the calm certainty that yesterday had instilled in her. 

She kept circling back to one thing, as doubt bobbed in and out of her consciousness—they were good together, plain and simple. There was nothing standing in the way of telling Rio that, at least that she could see from her precarious position. 

It wouldn’t be easy; her circumstances assured her of that. She was certain Rio hadn’t asked the universe to plop her in the lap of a pregnant woman over ten years her senior who’d barely given her sexuality a single thought until now. 

But Agatha was also certain, down to her bones, that she wasn’t alone in this. The cups of tea, the quiet conversations, the way they made each other laugh so much their ribs hurt. How Rio steadied her as the world shifted beneath her feet—it all told her what she needed to hear.

So, it was time. Agatha landed on talking to her later that day, when she got home from work. 

She didn’t know what she’d find when she cracked Pandora’s box, but she had to trust that whatever Rio felt, it wouldn’t shatter the fragile thing blooming between them.

———

When Rio opened the front door to their apartment that afternoon, Agatha was practically vibrating with anticipation. She did her best to not corner her the second she entered, instead lolling on the couch, pretending to work.

She waited while Rio puttered around in the kitchen, washing up her food containers and grabbing things out of the fridge. Each second that ticked by made her more anxious, breath catching in her throat as she ran over the notes she’d prepared in her head.

Finally, Rio entered the room and gave her a bright smile. “Hey!”

“Hey,” Agatha said carefully, returning her smile. It didn’t reach all the way to her eyes—the nerves made sure of that. She inhaled a deep, steadying breath. “Can we talk?” 

Rio glanced at her watch before looking back up with an earnest expression. “Of course,” she replied. “What’s it about?”

Oh, nothing. Just the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you, want to spend every waking minute with you, and hope you feel the same way. Also, I’m scared shitless about telling you, because I don’t know what I’ll do if this breaks down. Simple stuff, really.

“Umm, nothing too crazy,” Agatha lied. “But it might take a while.” 

Rio grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, Jen and Alice are like twenty minutes away, and I still need to get ready,” she gestured down at her rumpled work uniform. “Later?”

It wasn’t a rejection, but it wasn’t what she’d hoped for, either. “Oh, sure,” Agatha agreed, trying to temper her disappointment. She didn’t want to put this off any longer, but she supposed she had no choice—she needed Rio to be a present and willing participant in the conversation. “Going out?” 

“Yeah, although I have no idea where they’re taking me,” Rio shrugged. “Alice texted about needing a night out, and I couldn’t really say no.” 

It made her chuckle—Rio was a good friend. “Fair enough. When you get home, then. I’ll probably still be up,” she said, patting her stomach.

“Cool,” Rio agreed, before excusing herself to her room.

Well, that was a lot of fucking worry for nothing, Agatha thought. Rationally, she wanted to talk to Rio at a good time for both of them, because surely that would affect the outcome—there was no use in rushing it. But she could still feel the suspense buzzing in her body, all the way from her feet to her fingertips. She sighed and flopped backwards on the couch, closing her eyes. 

Thirty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. 

“Harkness!” Jen called out as she strode into the apartment uninvited, heels click-clacking against the hardwoods. Seconds later, she appeared in Agatha’s view, a striking figure clad in an abundance of pink—because when was she not? Her glittery halter top and tight mini skirt made her look like the Black version of Paris Hilton. Annoyingly, it worked. 

“Long time no see,” she greeted, rounding the couch to peer at Agatha’s laptop, sitting open on the coffee table. “How’s that novel cooking?”

“It’s… simmering.” A bold-faced lie—she’d barely worked on it over the last few weeks, too wrapped up in her own shit to give her characters the attention they deserved. 

They could wait a little longer, Agatha supposed. They’d already had to push her publication date back because of the pregnancy knocking her on her ass, and now all these feelings were doing the same. Still, she was cautiously optimistic—about her book’s progress, sure, but more importantly, about Rio.

Good things took time.

“And the kid?” Jen asked, gaze drifting to Agatha’s stomach, a sliver of roundness peeking out from between her t-shirt and sweat shorts.

She looked down at the hand splayed across her belly, drumming her fingers there fondly. “Much better than the book.”

Agatha hoped it was true—she still had at least a day to kill before the doctor’s office would call with her amnio results. But while the waiting was proving difficult, it had nothing on what was building inside her now, the swirling doubt of words unspoken.

“Alice coming in?” she asked, looking back over at Jen. Her agent was perched primly on the armchair across from her now, no space to join Agatha on the couch.

“Yeah, she’s just having a smoke out front,” Jen nodded. “She’ll be up in a sec.”

“Where are you guys headed?”

“To the holy land,” she said sagely, wiggling her eyebrows. “AKA, the better of New York’s two remaining lesbian bars.”

Agatha snorted. Of course they were. “And what inspired this little pilgrimage?”

Jen shrugged. “It’s Saturday,” she said, like that was reason enough. Ugh—Agatha recalled a time where her Saturday nights were spent at bars and clubs, rather than stretched out on her couch in sweats, drinking sparkling juice just to feel something. “And Rio could use a fun night,” Jen continued.

Ouch. 

“What, staying in with me and watching shitty horror movies over takeout isn’t fun? Jennifer, you wound me,” Agatha said, flinging a hand across her forehead dramatically.

A strange expression flashed across Jen’s face, but before she could question it, Alice appeared at the open front door of the apartment. She too was dressed up—or at least, in what Agatha guessed was her own Alice way. Black pants, heeled boots, and an effortlessly cool bomber jacket to rival Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

“Hey, Agatha,” she waved, walking tentatively into the living room. “How are you?” 

Agatha realised she hadn’t seen Alice since they’d all had dinner together, and while she’d patched things up with Jen, she wasn’t sure how Alice felt about her. She offered a warm smile in her direction, hoping it would put her at ease. “I’m good, Alice. You?” 

“Can’t complain,” she replied, coming up behind Jen in the armchair and resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. Jen looked back at her and grinned. They were sweet together, it was true—Jen’s sharp edges buffed away by Alice’s solidity and calm.

Could she and Rio be together like this, if they let it? Would things still be easy like they were now, or would the complicated nature of Agatha’s life get in the way? She didn’t know—yet another thing to add to the mystery tally—but she was determined to find out.

“Rio almost ready?” Alice asked. 

“Uh, she was just getting dressed, I think.”

“I’m coming,” Rio called from her bedroom, voice echoing through the apartment at the sound of her own name. Seconds later, she strolled out, head down as she rustled through her bag.

Oh, and if this was what it felt like when your heart stopped, Agatha just prayed no one would perform CPR. Rio was wearing a tight black bandeau top, paired with tailored, high-waisted black shorts that exposed miles of tanned leg. She tried to stop herself from gaping at the firm expanse of middle that was on display thanks to the mere scrap of fabric covering Rio’s chest. 

Whoever this was, she was a far cry from the Rio Agatha was used to—the one that lived in baggy basketball shorts and had an impressively large collection of tank tops. Her hair curled loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing an uncharacteristic amount of makeup, brown eyes rimmed with black and cherry red painting her lips.

Jesus fucking Christ, Agatha had never thought about ravishing someone before in her life… but she was beginning to see the appeal.

“Fuck, you look hot,” Jen nodded approvingly, echoing Agatha’s inner monologue. “Doesn’t she look hot, baby?” she asked, turning to Alice.

Alice wrinkled her nose. “Ew, that’s like asking me if I think my brother is hot,” she said, before relenting: “But yeah, she cleans up damn good.” 

Hot? Cleans up good? Understatements of the year. Rio was a fucking revelation, and just looking at her stirred that now all-too-familiar sensation low in Agatha’s belly. She couldn’t even be bothered to fight it now—the attraction had grown legs of its own.

“Thanks, guys,” Rio said. She rolled her eyes to deflect the attention, but there was a pleased smirk on her lips. Agatha blinked as Rio’s gaze flicked towards her, just a split-second glance that no one else in the room seemed to notice. Was this for her? Or was there someone else out there—a faceless woman waiting at the bar, ready to be charmed by Rio in the very same way?

“Everyone ready to go?” Alice asked, grabbing Jen’s hand and pulling her up from the armchair. Rio and Jen both nodded. 

“Have fun,” Agatha raised her hand in a half-hearted wave. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That would rule out a lot,” Jen retorted sarcastically. Rio chuckled under her breath at the joke, but not before tilting her head in Agatha’s direction again and giving her a short, sharp wink.

Oh, no—her insides were on fire again. She bit her lip, trying to stop the blush from rising to her cheeks. They needed to talk, soon , even if it was just so this didn’t keep happening. 

She watched as the three friends traipsed out of the apartment, talking and laughing. The door shut behind them, and everything fell quiet again. Agatha stared at the space where Rio had been standing, her skin still tingling with the memory of that wink.

Clearly, she’d waited too long to talk to her. Because now, thanks to her own uncertainty, she had to wait some more—all while Rio was out at a bar, her actions completely out of her control and sight.

It was going to be a long night.

———

After nuking a plate of leftover empanadas and microwave veggies for dinner, Agatha sat back on the couch, the thoughts coming thick and fast. She turned each one over in her head with the precision of a surgeon.

Rio could use a fun night. Had she said something to Jen and Alice? Was she sick of spending all of her precious downtime with her pregnant, emotional roommate? Although it hurt, Agatha couldn’t exactly blame her. Their dynamic had gotten… intense.

It hinted at something darker and more serious, though—at least in Agatha’s mind. Was this night out a setup? A chance to find someone else, someone less complicated? 

And then there was the wink—she couldn’t even begin to dissect that one in the context of the evening. Yeah, yeah, Rio had winked at her before. Maybe it was nothing. 

Maybe it was all nothing. Maybe she was just making it up in her head, and the conversation she still planned on having with Rio eventually would go the way she wanted it to. 

Or maybe it would send everything up in flames. 

Jesus Christ, she was spiralling again. A common occurrence, though certainly not a welcome one.

Her fingers itched, eyes darting over to her phone. She could text Rio, see how her night was going. It wouldn’t be weird—they were friends, and friends checked in with one another. 

But normal, non-neurotic adults probably didn’t do that. No, what she needed was a good old-fashioned distraction… and while it literally had Rio written all over it, she had just the thing. 

Agatha walked over to her bedroom and extracted the first draft of Rio’s college essay from the mess of her dresser drawers. The pages were lined and worn, still showing signs of the ball Rio had crumpled them into on the night they’d talked on the balcony. She’d smoothed them back out before handing it to Agatha with a rueful smile: go easy on me, she’d joked.

The next week, Rio had emailed her second attempt over with Not urgent written in the subject line. She’d reassured her again in person that there was no rush for Agatha to look over it, and that she’d be doing her a huge favour—always endearing with her earnestness and freely given thank yous.

Settling back on the couch, Agatha flipped through the first draft, red-penned notes swallowing the page. Some of the comments were right—the original draft was verbose, the points struggling to emerge in a few sections. But Agatha could see Rio’s heart in it; in the way she emphatically tried to make her case. 

She cared so much. About her job, about school, about Agatha. About Agatha’s unborn child, whom she owed absolutely nothing. Surely that care couldn’t just vanish in an instant. 

Once she’d gotten the gist of the first essay, Agatha pulled her laptop onto her knees to read the latest version. This one was good—really good. She’d taken a different tack, structuring the argument methodically, and it made it much more impactful.

Just her luck. Not only was Rio hot, funny, and attuned to her every need, but she was smart, too. Another reason that everyone in New York’s best lesbian bar was probably fawning over her right now, telling her how fucking gorgeous she looked in that crop top.

Agatha zeroed back in on the essay, tearing her focus away from what Rio may or may not be doing. She started from the top, adding comments where she could expand or refine, but they were far and few between—Rio had nailed it. She couldn’t wait to hear what her advisor thought of it when she read it; what grade she’d get when all was said and done.

She wrote her last comment, leaving a little smiley face and a this is fantastic!! in the margins of the document. Finished, the cursor blinked at her inanely. Now that Rio’s paper was out of the way, she had no excuse not to work on her novel, but she wasn’t in the mood—it wasn’t enough to keep her from her thoughts. 

Not while she was weighed down by this, what would you call it… jealousy? Longing? No—she didn’t get jealous, didn’t yearn for people like a lovesick teenager in a YA novel. 

Pfft. A lie. She hadn’t done a lot of things, but then she’d met Rio.

Agatha scrambled for another distraction. She’d already dumped enough on Wanda these last few weeks, and she didn’t want to talk about it —she just needed an escape until Rio got home. So, she dialled the number of the only other person who could possibly make her feel better.

“Aunt Agatha?” Billy answered, his voice raspy and tired. Was he sleeping? She glanced at her watch—he couldn’t be. It was barely 10pm on a weekend in the middle of summer. 

“Hey, kid,” Agatha said. “Just checking in to see how you’re going.” 

“Well, I was good, until you woke me up,” he grumbled. Jesus, teenagers today—they were way too fucking soft.

“It’s Saturday night,” she chastised. “Why aren’t you out with the other teenagers being a menace to society?”

Billy groaned, the sound muffled. “I have work at 6am.” 

Agatha pictured him with his face buried in the pillow, curly hair mussed from sleep, and laughed to herself. He’d always been such an angelic sleeper, ever since he was a little kid—a stark contrast from Tommy, who’d gone from keeping Wanda up all night as a toddler to crashing out like the dead, mouth open and snoring, as a teenager.

She wondered which camp her own kid would be in. She hoped it was Billy’s, although if her pregnancy insomnia was anything to go by, the latter seemed more likely. 

“You got a job?” Agatha asked curiously. Wanda hadn’t mentioned it to her, but they hadn’t been texting as much while she was away. 

“Mm-hmm,” Billy confirmed proudly. “At the cafe in town.”

“Makes total sense,” she snorted. “You have barista energy. Probably took one look at that eyebrow slit and hired you on the spot.”

Billy let out a disgruntled gasp, but there was a hint of laughter in there. “That’s homophobic.”

She chuckled, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Okay, well I won’t keep you from your exciting plans, then.”

“No, no,” Billy protested. “What are you up to?” 

Agatha looked down at the scene in front of her, a cup of tea resting precariously on the arm of the couch and the stapled pages of an essay about pedagogy on her chest.

“I was just sitting on the couch reading one of Rio’s college papers. Extremely interesting stuff,” she said dryly, although a smile threatened her lips. Who was she kidding—while the subject matter was relatively boring, the insight into Rio’s mind fascinated her. Agatha would read another ten college papers if it meant getting to see more below the surface.

“Rio, huh?” Billy replied slyly. Jesus—the mention of her name seemed to have woken him right up. “You tell her you like her yet?” he asked casually. 

Like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in her lap, or anything. 

Agatha opened and closed her mouth a few times, astonished by the fucking gall of her best friend. Sure, Wanda didn’t have a sparkling reputation as a secret-keeper, but she’d assumed she’d at least zip her big mouth shut until Agatha had the chance to talk to Rio. 

“I am going to murder your mother,” she huffed. “You’d think a therapist would understand doctor-patient confidentiality.” Not that she was actually her shrink—her unofficial one, maybe. She probably needed to start paying a real therapist, but that was its own fucking can of worms. A different thread for another day.

Billy hummed knowingly down the line, as if Agatha had just given him all the confirmation he needed. “She didn’t say anything to me,” he said lightly, “but she didn’t have to.” 

“Ugh,” Agatha sighed, tilting her head back. Too smart for his own good. Now she couldn’t even deny it—Billy had led her right into his trap. “What tipped you off?” 

He was quiet for a second as he thought it over. “I’ve just never seen you look at someone like that,” he finally said. “Or laugh that much. Even at me.”

Those words were familiar. It clicked in her brain immediately—it was exactly what Wanda had said to her, but not about her own feelings. About Rio’s. 

“God, you really are your mother’s son,” she muttered, trying to joke her way out of it.

“She definitely likes you, too,” Billy pressed. “You should tell her.”

Well, that had been the plan—that is, until Jen and Alice had strongarmed the object of her affection out of the safety of their apartment and into what she could only picture was a crowd of hot, queer, not-pregnant women.

Now the possibility of being with Rio felt like it was rapidly slipping out of her reach, before she’d even had the guts to grab onto it. And what if it did? What if Rio moved on, and Agatha had to live in this apartment watching it happen, day after day?

“Yeah,” she agreed softly. “I was starting to think that, but…” She drew in a breath like it pained her. “I’m wondering if I’ve left it too late.”

She could practically hear the frown on Billy’s face. “What makes you think that?”

“She’s out at a bar tonight, with her friends,” Agatha shrugged. “I’m sure she’s got a line of lesbians out the door for her.”

“Oh, no,” he brushed her off. “That girl wants you. That doesn’t just go away overnight.”

Agatha wasn’t sure. Maybe it hadn’t happened overnight—maybe Rio was sick of waiting around for a self-proclaimed straight woman who’d taken way too long to figure out her own feelings. 

It was poetic, in a sick kind of way—that once Agatha was finally ready, Rio could possibly be retreating without hazarding a glance in her rear-view mirror. Ships in the night, or something like that.

But Billy didn’t seem to agree. “Trust me,” he emphasised, with all the confidence of a seasoned relationship expert. “I’ve been losing my shit over Eddie for like a year.”

(Yeah, and look how that was playing out. Those two had been circling each other for way too long, and it was starting to get irritating—although, Agatha realised she couldn’t talk; not now.)

“Well, maybe you should take your own advice and tell your little crush you like him,” Agatha teased, thankful for the change in topic.

“Absolutely not,” Billy said indignantly, like the mere thought outraged him. She hoped he hadn’t picked up some of her emotional unavailability over the years. While they weren’t genetically related, nurture was often just as strong as nature.

Agatha checked the time on her phone—they’d only been talking for a few minutes, but she didn’t want to keep Billy up too late. The kid needed his beauty sleep, and at least a couple of brain cells to make people’s long-winded coffee hours before the sun had fully risen. “You should really be getting to bed,” she said. “Come to the city for a visit when your mom’s back.”

That perked him up almost as much as talking about Rio had. “Can we go see Hadestown?” he asked excitedly.

This adorable little teen and his gay little interests. She loved him so much, even if the idea of sitting through a two-hour-long Broadway show about Greek mythology made her want to take a spoon to her eyeballs. She’d do it for him… the musical, not the eyeball gouging.

“Sure,” Agatha agreed easily. “Tell me when and I’ll buy the tickets.”

“You’re the best.” 

“Goodnight, Billy. Oh, and tell your brother I say hey,” she added off-handedly.

“Tell him yourself, you have his number,” Billy muttered, before his tone became soft and sweet again. “Night, Aunt Agatha,” he said, before hanging up the phone. 

By midnight, after lots of flipping through TV channels and Googling random things, Agatha had begun to realise that Rio probably wasn’t coming home—at least, while she was still awake. The thought was eating away at her insides, like there were two batteries trying to attract one another somewhere within the lining of her gut, leaking acid along the way. 

If this had happened before she was pregnant, she would’ve had a foolproof feelings exit plan. Two glasses of whisky, a smoke on the balcony, and half a sleeping pill. Thirty minutes, tops, and she’d be fast asleep in her bed with a blissfully numb brain. 

But she was pregnant, and there were no vices available to her, as high and low as she’d searched for them. Maybe that’s why the last few weeks had brought such a goddamn onslaught of feelings—she didn’t have any other choice but to face them, to try to process them. 

Feel your feelings, Agatha, Wanda’s voice rang self-righteously in her ears. 

Well, right now she was feeling… strange. Itchy. Un-fucking-well. And ready to sleep this shit off.

She hauled herself to her feet, limbs sore from a good half a day spent lying on the couch. Tomorrow, she thought, walking towards her bedroom, where she’d undoubtedly toss and turn for at least a few hours. I’ll do it tomorrow. 

———

A new day dawned, as it always did. Agatha woke earlier than she’d hoped to, but spent the morning stewing in bed, running over her plan to talk to Rio just like the day before. 

The script had changed, though—it was more tentative, less sure. Coloured by the idea that Rio might not want her anymore, especially if she’d found someone else to occupy her attention last night.

She wandered into the living room, wondering if she’d find it empty or not. Her question was answered within a few short seconds: Rio was sitting on the couch, all traces of yesterday’s glam gone and replaced with a bare face and an oversized t-shirt. She looked tired, but unerringly beautiful—maybe even more beautiful than she did with a face full of makeup and fancy clothes.

Agatha’s instincts told her to breeze past Rio and make a coffee in the kitchen to give herself a little more time. Though her feelings were still true, last night had muddied them—and she didn’t trust herself not to lead with jealousy or defensiveness.

Rio caught her before she could tiptoe quietly past. “Good morning,” she mumbled, sounding a little sleepy. Still, she wore a warm smile. 

“Morning,” Agatha hummed. She took a seat across from Rio, sitting awkwardly on the armchair. Were they about to do this now? While Rio was potentially hungover and Agatha was definitely still mid-spiral? That sounded… inadvisable. 

“Didn’t hear you get home last night,” Agatha said casually, trying not to let her complex emotions permeate her voice. It was fine—Rio was her own person, and she didn’t owe Agatha anything. They’d talk, Agatha would listen to what she had to say, and if that meant facing rejection… well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. 

Rio grimaced. “I didn’t,” she admitted, and it sank to the bottom of Agatha’s stomach with all the weight of a boulder. “I passed out on Alice’s couch at like, 3am.” 

Okay, that was kind of reassuring. At least she hadn’t stayed over at some woman’s house, though Agatha supposed something still could’ve happened. There were always club bathrooms, and the back of cabs, and dingy alleyways to consider—all viable places for a quick fuck when you were in your early 30s. 

But that didn’t sound very Rio. Agatha berated herself for thinking otherwise—she knew this woman. She knew her heart, and it was so fucking full of goodness it made her want to cry. There was a ninety-nine-percent chance that even if she poured her heart out to Rio and she didn’t feel the same way, she’d handle it with grace and kindness. 

“What was it that you wanted to talk about yesterday?” Rio asked suddenly. She crossed a leg underneath her on the couch, readying herself for the conversation. 

“Oh, yeah,” Agatha stammered. She ran a hand through her hair nervously. Shit , this was it. The moment where she threw everything into the void on a prayer and hoped it panned out the way she wanted it to.

Before she could open her mouth, though, her phone began buzzing wildly on the coffee table. She frowned, reaching over to grab it, and clocked the caller ID: Westside Family Medical. Her OB/GYN’s office.

Her panic arced, shifting from Rio to what the fuck and why now. They were meant to call on Monday. It was Sunday morning. Did that mean something was wrong? Doctor’s offices rarely called on the weekends unless it was important… didn’t they?

She looked down at the ringing phone, then back up at Rio. “It’s my OB’s office,” Agatha said shakily, holding it up like it might explode. 

Concern flashed in Rio’s eyes, the energy in the room turning swift and urgent. “Answer it,” she said. “I’ll be right here.” 

Agatha nodded. She stood up abruptly from the couch and walked to the other side of the room. This felt like the kind of conversation that warranted pacing back and forth, and her feet seemed to get the memo just as her brain did.

“Hello?” 

“Mrs Harkness?” It was the nurse from Friday, the grumpy one who couldn’t get a simple honorific right. She didn’t correct her this time. 

“Speaking,” she replied. Her voice trembled as the hand she was gripping the phone in trembled, too.

“I’m just calling to let you know we’ve received the results of your amniocentesis,” the nurse droned. Fucking hurry up, Agatha thought, the panic rising in her chest, heart thumping a million miles a minute as she strode across the room, back turned to Rio. Just tell me. 

“We didn’t identify any genetic abnormalities or issues with the pregnancy.” Agatha’s feet stopped of their own accord as the nurse continued. “Everything looks to be perfectly fine.”

All the air left her lungs.

Perfectly fine. Nothing to worry about. An anticlimactic ending to days and days of all-consuming fear. Agatha felt like she was going to throw up—perhaps that was the only way to purge herself of all this build-up, the tension that had tucked itself away underneath her ribcage that was now trying to escape by any means necessary.

Somehow, though, she wasn’t sick all over her living room. In a voice that didn’t feel like her own, she quietly thanked the nurse. 

“We’ll see you in a few weeks for your next scan,” the nurse finished, her tone a little kinder than before. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“You too,” Agatha echoed, ending the call. She turned around slowly, trying to control the rhythm of her breath, and saw Rio standing up off the couch. Her hands fidgeted at her sides.

“What did they say?” she asked, taking a careful step forward.

Agatha just blinked at her for a minute, processing the news. She saw the worry edging Rio’s features, her eyes wide and lips parted softly, as if she was trying her best just to breathe, too.

“Everything’s okay,” she finally managed, but the words were distorted by the sob that escaped from her throat. Tears instantly crowded her vision and her knees went weak, buckling beneath her as the room began to tilt. She braced herself for impact, to fall on the floor in a crumpled heap, a worn-out shell of a human being unable to keep herself upright as the relief consumed her entire body. 

But there was no cold, hard crack of joints on hardwood—because suddenly Rio was buoying her up, like a life preserver in a storm. Like it was easy, like it made sense, like she’d been there all along.

“Hey,” Rio whispered, her voice so close that it vibrated against the shell of Agatha’s ear. “Everything’s okay,” she said soothingly. 

She kept repeating it while Agatha simply dissolved into her hold: you’re okay, everything’s okay. They stayed like that as Agatha cried, for minutes that easily could’ve been hours.

As the sobs wracking her body slowed, giving way to calm, she became more aware of the press of their bodies against one another—Rio’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist, her own grasping at strong shoulders. One of Rio’s hands was rubbing gentle circles against the small of her back, providing even more comfort than her words. 

Maybe they didn’t need to talk about it first. This right here was a safety she’d never felt before; not with Ralph, certainly not with her mother, and not even with Wanda, although it came close. And she’d already interrogated the fuck out of it, had come to the conclusion that she wanted it—that she needed it, like air or water or food.

Her face was tucked into the crook of Rio’s neck, leaking tears all over her yet again. She pulled back, sniffling, and caught a flash of brown eyes watching her with concern. 

Rio fished a tissue out of her pocket. “Here you go,” she said gently, dabbing at Agatha’s eyes with the thin paper. The warmth of one hand was still pressing against her waist, and their faces were so close their noses were almost touching.

If the last few weeks had been a lesson in listening to her body rather than her mind, this was the final test. It blazed in every fucking inch of her: certainty.

Her gaze locked onto Rio’s, and this time, she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached up and touched Rio’s face, ghosting her fingers along the sharp line of her jaw, the fullness of her cheek. Anchoring herself there, she closed the gap, pulling Rio down into a slow, tentative kiss.

It was careful at first, like they were standing on the edge of something they couldn’t return from. But then Rio kissed her back, and everything inside her lit up, and the fear was just… gone. Replaced by something so much better—hope, desire, and freedom. 

The fireworks metaphor was overdone. Agatha would never dare to use it in one of her books. But in her own life, it felt pretty apt.

Boom.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for the fireworks to turn into missiles.

Not for the reason the Agatha from a few weeks ago would’ve guessed—not because she was kissing her much-younger, extremely female roommate.

But because she’d ignored the plan, and run the risk of turning the sweet thing between them into something trivial before she could tell Rio how much it actually meant.

She’d convinced herself she was right, but in taking the reins, she’d done Rio a disservice, not giving her a chance to say her piece or play a role in what happened next.

So she savoured the feeling of Rio’s lips on hers for one final second before pulling away, praying to a god she definitely didn’t believe in that this wouldn’t fuck everything up and they’d get to do it again soon. Like, the next five minutes kinda soon.

“I’m sorry,” Agatha exhaled, extracting her arms from where they’d been slung around Rio’s neck and dropping them by her sides. Rio’s hands were still hooked around her waist, but she got the memo and awkwardly followed suit. 

“I shouldn’t have done that… like that.” She smiled tightly up at Rio, hoping it conveyed what she was feeling. Not stop or I don’t want this, just let’s slow down. 

But Rio’s expression had already turned resigned. Sad, but like she’d expected it. And fuck, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Rio drew in a sharp breath through her nose, like she was bracing for impact, filling her lungs so she didn’t deflate. “You— you don’t have to apologise,” she replied slowly, shaking her head. She was quiet for a moment, and Agatha watched as she rubbed her thumb along one finger, back and forth. Her anxious tell.

“It was an emotional moment, I get it,” Rio said. Her voice was steady, but perhaps for the first time since Agatha had known her, there was something harder in it. “We can just forget about it.”

No, no, Jesus no. Fuck, she needed to fix this right now.

Because letting Rio slip away before she’d even had the chance to hold her would’ve been hard.

But watching her leave now, after they’d kissed and Agatha had felt every cell in her body light up like a goddamn glowstick? That might just be a pain she’d never come back from.

Her hand shot out and grabbed Rio’s wrist before she could turn away. “No, Rio—” she stumbled. Something different flashed in those brown eyes, then—confusion, but tinged with hope.

She looked down at Rio’s hand, the way her fingers twitched like she desperately wanted to grab onto Agatha’s but didn’t know if she should yet. 

“That’s just not how I pictured that happening,” she finally said. 

It was true—kissing Rio today hadn’t even been on her radar; not really. She’d been hell-bent on talking to her first, but the heat of the moment had won out. Their bodies had fit together so perfectly, so safely, like the pieces of the dumb puzzle that still decorated their coffee table, and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from leaning in.

From her vantage point, it didn’t change anything. She’d wanted to kiss Rio. But Rio didn’t know that. She probably assumed it had been a byproduct of all the emotion swirling between them, relief driving them into each other’s arms.

So hopefully her words would put her at ease. 

She looked at Rio again, watching as a hesitant expression came over her face. “You pictured it?” Rio asked. Her voice shook a little, like she didn’t believe it—like she was leaving room for Agatha to take it back.

There was no way she was taking it back. She took a breath and summoned all of her confidence, before removing her hand from Rio’s wrist and intertwining their fingers gently. Rio looked down at them in wonder as Agatha continued: “I absolutely did.”

Rio exhaled, long and slow, the life returning to her eyes. Oh, thank god. “Wow,” she chuckled. “And here I was, thinking I’d be pining over you forever.”

Agatha blinked, startled. “You’ve been pining?”

Sure, she’d guessed that Rio liked her. Everyone had told her Rio liked her, like this was high school or some shit. But pining was kind of a surprise.

Rio’s lips twisted into a sheepish smile. “Just a little bit,” she said, holding up a thumb and forefinger.

“I’m sorry I’m so fucking oblivious sometimes,” Agatha sighed, pressing the hand that wasn’t linked with Rio’s to her face. She peeked out at her from the cracks between her fingers. “Although, I knew. Or at least, I was pretty certain.”

Rio huffed a laugh. “Wouldn’t take a private investigator to figure out.” 

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Before she responded, Rio gave Agatha’s hand a tug and led her to the couch. They’d been standing there since she’d gotten off the phone with the nurse, since Rio had literally and figuratively held her up as she received life-altering news.

Since she’d made a rash decision that was certainly going to change things between them, though she didn’t know exactly how, not yet.

They settled opposite one another, legs crossed, still a few inches away from touching. 

“I was processing my feelings in my own time,” Rio began to explain. “And I probably would’ve said something soon. But I didn’t want to put pressure on you.” She reached over and brushed a hair out of Agatha’s face, tucking it carefully behind her ear. “You’ve had a lot going on.” 

“Mmm,” Agatha hummed in agreement. She didn’t know the half of it—that a lot going on included navigating an extremely out-of-left-field attraction, and, dare she say it, crush.

Rio cocked her head at her, scooting closer so their knees brushed. “What did you want to talk about, by the way?”

“Oh,” Agatha laughed tiredly. “Us. This,” she said, gesturing down at their interlaced hands. Rio’s nails were painted black, some of them chipped, no doubt from handling soil and plants all day. 

“Really?” Rio did nothing to hide the shock in her voice. “And what had you planned on saying?” she asked curiously. “I know you’ve got a script rattling around somewhere in that overactive mind of yours.” 

Agatha bit her lip, worrying the flesh between her teeth. While she’d explicitly asked for this—she’d even traded the damn fireworks for it—the vulnerability still caught in her throat. 

Breathe, Harkness. 

“I was going to tell you how much I like being around you,” she started, casting her eyes down to her lap. “And that I’ve realised…” 

Rio ran a reassuring thumb over the back of her hand, as if to say keep going. But fuck, she didn’t know if she could. Repeating it over and over in her mind was one thing, but saying it aloud was a different ball game. She blew a raspberry, exasperated at herself. “Sorry, I’m really shit at this.” 

“You can tell me,” Rio encouraged softly. “Hey.” She tilted Agatha’s face so she had no choice but to look at her. “You can say whatever you want to say. I’m listening.”

Agatha exhaled a shaky breath. You’re a grown woman, and you can do this, she urged herself. “I’ve realised that I have feelings for you. That I’m… attracted to you,” she confessed, suddenly shy under the weight of Rio’s stare.

Her heart began to pound as the words fell out. “And although I made a huge fucking deal about even being your friend, I… would like to be more than friends. Or figure out what that looks like. If you, uh, want that too,” she finished hurriedly.

It sat in the small space between their bodies for a moment while Agatha searched Rio’s expression for an inkling of what she was feeling. She wasn’t sure what she hoped she’d find there—confirmation, maybe, or relief. 

Eventually Rio hummed, like she was pondering something. “I guess I’ll have to think about it,” she said, but Agatha swore she saw a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Of all the iterations of the moment she’d turned over in her mind, she hadn’t predicted this one. Worse, she couldn’t tell if Rio was serious or not—her words said one thing, but the softening of her shoulders, the tightening of their joined hands, said another.

Agatha took a deep breath. “Okay,” she nodded quickly, though it stung in a way she couldn’t describe. But she owed Rio this. “Take all the time you need.”

Rio glanced at her, then at her watch, the gold of it glinting in the midday sun streaming in through the windows. Her gaze lingered there for a minute, tongue pressing against the side of her cheek. Wait, she knew that look, that gesture. Was Rio… trying not to laugh?

Agatha’s eyes narrowed, trying to process what the fuck was happening—but before she could speak, Rio cut in. “Alright, I’ve had enough time to think about it,” she said flippantly, before leaning over and capturing her lips in another kiss.

Oh, she’d been played. This fucking guy. 

She was going to kill her. She’d settle for kissing her first.

———

Turns out, there wasn’t a rulebook for how to share 1,200 square feet with someone you’d just kissed—Agatha was realising this quickly. After the initial shock of faux-rejection had worn off (and she’d berated Rio for giving her the fright of her fucking life) they’d kissed for a while longer, soft and chaste. 

Every time they’d pulled back to breathe or readjust, something flickered in her chest, slight but unmistakably there. Like she was waiting for one of them to speak something into the quiet that would pop their bubble. But the words never came. 

She could sense that Rio didn’t want to push; that she knew that Agatha’s confession had been delicate, held together by nerves and adrenaline. That Agatha herself was a little delicate right now, although she’d never admit it out loud.

Rio had eventually disappeared to shower, claiming she felt the stickiness of last night’s alcohol seeping from her pores. Her departure had been gentle, reinforced by a quick kiss to Agatha’s knuckles before she leapt up and strolled down the hallway to her room.

Now, in her absence, Agatha felt herself spinning again. It was disconcerting and prickly, wanting to actually talk about it like a fucking adult when all she’d ever done in the past was run or dodge.

The baby, obviously, was at the top of her mind. Before, her pregnancy had existed on a parallel track to her feelings for Rio. Now, they were about to crash into each other.

And then there was their living situation. The lack of physical distance that had made them grow so close in the first place now carried the potential to destroy it all.

Her worries had been stacking up like unpaid bills on the counter—always there, always consuming her attention, never quite getting dealt with. But she couldn’t keep defaulting to self-sabotage if this was going to go anywhere. Amidst the rumination, she was determined not to spiral again. At least, not alone. 

So, yeah. Even though the mere thought of it made her feel like she was standing naked in front of a crowd, they needed to talk more.

Agatha went into the kitchen and started making a coffee. She pulled out a pod, then grumbled and reluctantly swapped it for a decaf one.

A few minutes later, Rio entered the room, towelling off her wet hair from the shower. Her cheeks were rosy from the hot water. “Hi,” she said simply, pulling out a stool from under the island and perching on it. “Can I have a coffee, please? My head kinda hurts.” She leaned her cheek against one hand and looked up at Agatha, batting her eyelashes.

“You may,” Agatha nodded, a smile curling on her lips. Turning around, she rescued her mug from under the coffee maker and switched it with one of Rio’s, taking a sip of her own drink as she went.

After the machine dribbled out the last of the steaming hot coffee, she placed it in front of her, then grabbed the carton of oat milk creamer from the fridge. Rio eyed her appreciatively as she poured in a generous helping.

She let her take a few sips before releasing the words that had been building up inside her. “So, about that kiss…”

Rio looked up, her eyes just visible over the top of her cup. This one had a dinosaur on the front, with a tiny speech bubble that read shit’s fucked.

Yeah, and it was only going to get more fucked if they didn’t talk about it.

“What about it?” Rio asked carefully. Agatha caught the apprehension in her voice, and it served as a reminder that she wasn’t playing a one-person game. She racked her brain for the right way to settle her own anxieties without raising Rio’s hackles.

“What do we do now?” Agatha asked. She took a nervous gulp of coffee and waited for a response.

“What do you mean, what do we do now?” Rio chuckled, as if Agatha’s awkward attempt at discussing her feelings amused her.

“I mean, like…” Agatha sighed. “Aren’t we supposed to talk about this more?”

“Good god, I thought dating a straight woman would mean I’d be spared from all the talking,” Rio joked, burying her face in her hands.

“Well, last time I checked, you were a woman, so I’m clearly not straight,” Agatha deadpanned. Rio removed her hands from her face and rested them underneath her chin, revealing raised eyebrows and a vaguely surprised expression: you said it, not me.

And, oh —that was the first time she’d actually acknowledged her sexuality out loud. It drifted through the air and out the window, like it wasn’t all that serious. Not that she didn’t mean it—she definitely did, if the way her heart pounded in her ears when she kissed Rio was anything to go by. But just that it didn’t really matter.

She liked Rio, and Rio was a woman, and there wasn’t really much more to it than that. It nestled warmly under her skin, the soft and comforting feeling of progress.

“So, we’re… dating?” Agatha asked tentatively. 

Rio shrugged. Her posture was relaxed, but it didn’t hide the hope that shone in her eyes. “I’d like to date you.”

The way she just said it took Agatha’s breath away for a second. She didn’t reply right away, too floored by the simplicity of it all. 

It was yet another thing she wasn’t used to—being wanted without any conditions. But that was the problem—there were conditions. Messy, complicated ones.

She wanted to bring them to her attention, to wave all of her red flags in front of Rio’s face until she relented and admitted that no, she hadn’t thought about the repercussions of developing feelings for someone who was less than six months off having a baby, who was effectively her landlord, and who often had the emotional capacity of a shotglass.

Before Agatha could decide which one to broach, though, she noticed Rio falter, her grip tightening around the handle of the mug. She hadn’t affirmed her open admission of wanting to date aloud, and the doubt was probably filtering back in again. God, she was so bad at this.

She reached over and pried Rio’s fingers loose, taking her hand. Amidst all of the many threads in her mind, she was sure of one thing. “I want to date you, too.”

Again, Rio visibly relaxed, and it eased something in Agatha’s body at the same time. “Okay,” she said. A bashful smile crept over her face slowly. “Good.”

“It’s just…” Agatha cast a glance down at the swell of her abdomen. Earlier, she’d tugged on a t-shirt and found it too tight at the bottom, and it had made her oddly giddy. “I’m pregnant, and all.”

“Really?” Rio gasped. “That is brand-new information!”

“Christ,” Agatha muttered. “Is this what I’m signing up for? Dad jokes?” 

“Mmm, the dad joke response would’ve been hi pregnant, I’m Rio.” 

“Seriously,” she urged, though she couldn’t stop herself from letting out a laugh at Rio’s stupidity. Always armed with a joke to cut the tension. It was one of the things she liked so much about her—how easy Rio made things feel. 

They couldn’t joke around it forever. “I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” Agatha admitted. “My life is complicated. But I want to try.”

Rio softened at the honest admission, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s okay,” she agreed. “We can go slow. Although,” she laughed as the thought hit her, “we did kinda accidentally U-Haul.”

“Oh god,” Agatha groaned. “I’m already a lesbian stereotype.”

“Rite of passage,” Rio replied dryly. It made Agatha snort into her coffee.

When she looked back up, Rio’s gaze was focused. Determined. “Why don’t we start with a date?” she said. “Y’know, something outside of the four walls of this apartment, as lovely as it is.” 

A date. That would be a good start—a way to get to know each other in this new context. An organic outlet for all the conversations that were seconds away from giving her an aneurysm. 

“Mmm,” Agatha pretended to think it over. Obviously, it was a no-brainer. She’d go to the fucking garbage dump with Rio if she wanted her to, probably. “I guess because you asked so nicely…” 

“Oh, shut up,” Rio said, cracking a smile.

“Fine, but it better not be something fucking cheesy like mini golf.” 

Rio scoffed, pressing a hand to her chest as if Agatha’s brutal dismissal physically pained her. “Mini golf is indisputably a top five date idea.”

“Anything but mini golf,” she repeated, levelling Rio with a glare. 

She held up two hands in surrender. “Okay, noted. I’m sure I can come up with something that’s more suited to your refined tastes,” she joked.

“I don’t even know what that looks like, anymore,” Agatha mused. “I haven’t been on a first date in seven years.”

“Yeah, well… I haven’t been on one that mattered in a while, either.” 

Agatha blinked at her, the sincerity catching her off guard.

“So maybe we figure it out together,” Rio offered, voice quiet but sure. She reached across the kitchen island again, linking their fingers. “You set the pace. I’ll follow your lead.”

———

After the morning they’d had, Agatha found herself yearning for normalcy. So, they’d made sandwiches together in the kitchen after both realising they hadn’t eaten all day, then devoured them at the dining table while Rio studied and Agatha moved words around aimlessly in a Google Doc.

Although she knew Rio would just humour more of her questions with a good-natured smile, the quiet was a nice reprieve from the heaviness of earlier.

The sun had almost set when Agatha stretched in her seat, noticing the uncomfortable ache that came with perching on a stiff dining chair for hours. She looked over at Rio, who was drumming her fingers against the keyboard, eyes glazed over.

She reached over and patted Rio’s hand to get her attention. “Movie?” she asked hopefully.

Rio tipped her head back and closed her eyes, like it was the best thing she’d ever heard. “Thought you’d never ask. I’ll get the takeout menus.” 

“Or you could just use Uber Eats like a normal person,” Agatha chuckled.

“What can I say, I’m old school,” she shrugged, clicking her laptop closed and standing up. 

While Rio rustled around in a kitchen drawer, Agatha made her way to the living room and relaxed onto the couch, flipping through movie options.

Horror didn’t really fit the vibe, though she wouldn’t say no to an excuse to hold Rio’s hand through the scary parts. Not that she really needed it—Agatha had never met a jumpscare she didn’t like. 

Something mindless with lots of action and car chases might be better, but it would probably be too loud and overstimulating.

A romcom felt kinda on the nose… so if Rio asked, her finger had slipped. She cued up When Harry Met Sally—because the only good romance films, in her opinion, were from before the 2000s—and curled up against the couch cushions.

Rio walked back into the room a beat later, holding two menus. “Thai or Indian?” 

“Thai,” Agatha replied. Indian was a one-way ticket to heartburn, and selfishly, she didn’t want to kiss Rio with biryani breath. That is, if they were going to kiss again.

“Pad see ew with… chicken? And egg rolls?” Rio asked, rattling off Agatha’s usual order. It made her chest flutter a little.

“Not gonna subject me to tofu this time?”

“Nah, healthy isn’t gonna do shit for this hangover,” Rio mused. “The beauty of flexitarianism.”

She stayed standing for a second, texting in the order to their local delivery place. “45 minutes. Start the movie while we wait?”

“Sure,” Agatha agreed.

She looked at the empty space next to her, then over at Rio expectantly. But Rio seemed to have other plans that started and ended with overthinking. Her eyes flicked between the armchair, where she usually sat on nights like these, to the couch that Agatha was currently occupying. 

“Do you want to…” she said, trailing off before she could finish.

Yes , she thought, answering Rio’s question in her head. Although, something about cuddling didn’t scream slow to her, not after what had happened when she let Rio give her a massage. 

But the desire to get a little closer, to bring Rio back into her physical orbit like she’d been before, was too strong to second-guess what she said next.

“Have an excuse to sit close to you?” she quirked a brow. “I’d like that.” 

Rio licked her lips, her gaze falling back to the sofa. In a few quick strides, she was settling there like they’d never left. Emboldened by the invitation, she snaked an arm around Agatha’s shoulders, stretching her legs out between them. Agatha curled into her, head resting below her collarbone.

“This okay?” Rio asked softly.

Agatha nodded up at her, relaxing into her grasp. It was wild, she realised, how quickly things could go from platonic to romantic. How the little rituals they’d established as friends lent themselves so easily to this new way of co-existing. 

It wasn’t what she was used to. She’d never been friends with anyone she’d dated in the past—truth be told, she’d never more than tolerated any of her boyfriends. They’d just been outlets for her basic needs: help around the house, unresolved anger, and sex.

She’d never wanted to talk for hours, or spend the whole day with someone, or cuddle on the couch. She felt it, though, deeply and honestly—an invisible pull towards Rio.

While she was reluctantly okay with leaving her many other questions half-answered—for now, at least—there was one that had been nagging at her since last night. As Rio’s hand stroked her hair gently, Agatha shifted onto her side so she could look into her eyes.

“Yesterday, when Jen was here, she insinuated that maybe…” she began, searching for the words. The anxiety crept up unwittingly, making her face flush—but she pressed on. “That doing this all the time was holding you back, or something. That watching movies and eating takeout on the couch with me wasn’t exciting enough for you.”

Rio chuckled. “I’m learning Jen likes to meddle,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But to reassure you, I very much enjoy doing nothing with you,” she continued easily. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” 

“Really?” Agatha heard it over the top of the movie, the way her voice came out—needy. She cringed at the sound of it, but she couldn’t take it back. 

Rio didn’t seem to care. “Yeah,” she said. “Take no notice of Jen. There’s no place I’d rather be right now.”

God, she was adorable. “You’re such a simp,” Agatha smirked.

“Surprised you even know what that word means, old lady.”

“Hey,” she protested, swatting at Rio’s chest playfully. “Watch yourself, Vidal.”

Something dark flared in Rio’s eyes as Agatha’s hand made contact with the space between her breasts. She grabbed her hand and held it there, two fingers deliberately pressing against Agatha’s wrist, rubbing back and forth.

It felt entirely new again, and fuck, Agatha wondered how many changes in state she’d have to cope with in a single day. They’d gone from being friends this morning, to hesitantly kissing each other around noon, and now, as the light-sprinkled darkness of New York City blinked at them from out the open living room windows, Agatha knew they were about to cross another line.

Slow, my fucking ass. 

It was Rio who broached it first, pulling Agatha towards her and into a hungry kiss. She felt teeth graze against her bottom lip, then gasped as Rio bit down, taking advantage of her open mouth and slipping her tongue inside.

Agatha’s pulse ratcheted up as the kisses quickly became deeper, more bruising. Rio’s tongue licked into her mouth like she wanted to taste every inch of her. She returned the favour eagerly, seeking out the little gap between Rio’s teeth that winked at her every time she smiled.

She felt like she was about to explode, her desire only growing in size when Rio switched focus from her mouth to her bare skin, trailing kisses along her jaw and neck.

“Text the delivery driver,” Agatha panted, lifting herself upright and swinging one leg over Rio’s hips to straddle her. “Tell them to leave the food at the door.”

“Yes, boss.” Without breaking the connection between them, Rio wrestled her phone out of her pocket, shot off a quick text, then threw it halfway across the room onto the armchair. It landed face-down with a satisfying thump. “Now, where were we?”

Agatha grabbed Rio’s hand firmly and clamped it down on her tit. “Right about here.” 

Rio stilled for a moment, looking up at her under half-lidded eyes, hand resting on her breast. The movie played on in the background, and oh, that was Meg Ryan’s famed diner orgasm Agatha could hear. She’d barely noticed it over the sounds of their heavy breathing.

Agatha glanced down as Rio began circling her nipple through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. Like most days, she wasn’t wearing a bra—useless things they were. Satisfied, she removed her own hand and focused on Rio’s thighs, skimming careful fingers along the hem of her shorts, the olive of her skin. 

She stared down into brown eyes, turned almost black with arousal. “Full of surprises,” Rio murmured softly, rolling a nipple between two fingers. 

Agatha moaned as Rio reached up to palm her other breast, both hands full now. Her boobs had never been particularly sensitive before, and it made her wonder if it was the pregnancy or just Rio, touching her in a way that felt akin to something fucking holy without even taking her clothes off.

It occurred to her suddenly—she could have sex with Rio right now, right here on the couch in their living room. The fantasies she’d had in the lead-up to this could come to fruition if she just let it happen, if she ground her hips down against the firmness of Rio’s body and let her hand wander between her thighs.

She wanted it to play out—Jesus Christ, she wanted it. But beneath the hunger was something brittle, something that made her chest tighten. She wasn’t ready, as much as she wished she was. She needed this to last. And they’d agreed to go slow.

So if the thoughts that parried with her actions were right, which she suspected they were, Rio could wait a little longer—they could both wait a little longer.

“Stop, stop,” Agatha breathed, though she didn’t push Rio away. Their bodies stayed flush, but Rio’s hands travelled down to her waist immediately, holding her there as she obeyed her command.

There was nothing in Rio’s expression that indicated she was offended or hurt. It was just the same look she always fixed her with, the one that said I’m here, I’m waiting. I’ll keep waiting. 

“Hey, you set the pace, remember?” Rio reminded her gently.

Maybe she could see the fear and desire waging war in Agatha’s mind, and maybe she couldn’t. Either way, she was thankful when Rio leaned up to kiss her, then helped her shift so they were head to chest again, Agatha’s leg draped over her hips.

They fell into silence, but it wasn’t thick or heavy—just calm. Rio’s fingers began to thread through her hair absentmindedly as they laid there, Agatha’s heart thumping through the thin layers of fabric resting between them.

She burrowed in closer, allowing the sounds of the TV to permeate their world again. Rio pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, and Agatha draped a hand across her chest, their fingers interlinking and dangling off the edge of the couch.

They’d get there soon enough, Agatha knew. She’d be ready soon. But for now, she was content with just this.