Chapter Text
Agatha was awake.
The relief that flooded your veins was immense, overwhelming. A high you never wanted to come down from.
You didn't care that she was eavesdropping. Didn't care that she'd probably heard things she wasn't supposed to.
Right now, all that mattered was that she was conscious.
"Hey, you," you said sweetly, lovingly. One of your hands was still on her cheek, the other tangled in her hair. "Rest well?"
"As well as one can on the ground."
It wasn't like there were many options. The Road didn't leave you much to work with; a conjured up fire, her coat as a blanket, and your lap as a pillow was the best that you could do under the circumstances. Beggars couldn't be choosers.
"Not all of you is on the ground," you pointed out, brushing your knuckles against her cheek in a playful caress.
"Aren't I lucky?" she quipped with a scoff.
You rolled your eyes. If you didn't know any better — if you didn't know her — you would be offended. She was just messing with you, just trying to rile you up. Why show appreciation when she could put up a bitchy front?
With a heavy grunt, her left arm (the one she'd been lying on) holding her up for support, Agatha rolled onto her back.
"You shouldn't move around too much," you told her. She seemed to have regained some of her strength, but she was still pale, still cold as an iceberg. "You've lost a lot of blood. You should rest."
"I'll live," she said with a tad too much bite for someone who'd been so close to death — no pun intended.
"You almost didn't."
Tears burned your eyes; you swallowed, willing them back. You weren't going to cry. You weren't going to do that to yourself again.
Just breathe, you reminded yourself. In and out. Your girl was okay. She was her bitchy, cheeky self. She wasn't dead. She wasn't going to die — not today, anyway. As close a call as that was, it was in the past.
"Oh, please. That was nothing," Agatha said with feigned nonchalance that hurt just as much as it would if it was real. As if she felt nothing at all.
She used to be open with you. She used to let you in. She used to allow herself to be vulnerable with you; not always fully, but enough for you to drop everything and hold her for a few hours until she was okay again.
Then she'd walked out, and you hadn't followed, and all that trust you'd built over the centuries had vanished. Almost as if it had never been there at all.
Regret squeezed at your heart, cut in like a knife straight through your chest. Your hands felt sticky again, caked with blood. The metallic scent burned your nostrils. Scarlet stained Agatha's coat, so much of it that the mere sight made you queasy. Soaking through the fine fabric. Pouring out, out, out in an endless loop like rain draining from the sky.
"You almost bled out," you said, shaking your head in an attempt to banish the memory that kept taunting you, mocking you, pouring salt over a gaping, bleeding wound, much like the one that, mere hours ago, marred Agatha's side.
Much like the one that kept replaying before your eyes like a snuff film.
A tear broke free, then another, and another, dripping onto Agatha's face. What was the point of holding back? What was the point of trying?
Out of the two of you, you were always the first one to break. Why would this time be any different?
"I almost lost you." Your voice was shaky, breaking up with every letter, with every uttered word. "Again."
The first time had been your fault.
This time, it was all on her.
"You should've told me you got hurt."
You expected another uncaring response or a sarcastic remark. Instead, in her tenderest voice, she said, "You know why I didn't."
Because she'd convinced herself that she didn't need anyone.
Because she hated relying on people.
Because she didn't want anyone to see her at her most vulnerable.
Because…
You swallowed, long and hard. "Because you're pissed at me."
She said she didn't hate you, but that didn't mean she wasn't resentful. She'd lost three years of her life because of a misunderstanding. Because you had thought so little of her that you'd never even tried to look for her.
Who wouldn't be angry?
You certainly would.
You hated yourself for it enough for you both.
Agatha shook her head. "Because I knew you'd blame yourself."
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not." Her hands, cold as ice, squeezed yours. "I wouldn't."
"Yes, you would."
She had, in the past. It was to lighten the mood, but still.
Agatha Harkness was a known tease.
She sighed; you had her there. Then, softly, she repeated, "I'm not."
And, despite everything in you protesting, you believed her.
What reason would she have to lie? If she wanted to mock you, she would have done so openly. She wouldn't deny it. She wouldn't speak to you in the same tone she used when you had a bad day to promise you everything would be okay. She wouldn't look at you like she, herself, wanted to cry along with you.
She meant it — every word.
"You almost died," you said, a tad angrier than intended.
"That wasn't part of the plan."
"And what, pray tell, was the plan?"
"It was supposed to heal on its own."
This woman was going to be the end of you. "You're a fucking idiot."
"Hey, I can't always be the brains of this relationship. I need my scheduled downtime."
You playfully smacked her hand, which earned you a pout — one of her most adorable ones that she knew would make you melt.
"I hate you," you muttered.
Agatha chuckled, seeing right through your bullshit. "No, you don't."
Holding on to your leg for support, she propped herself up into a sitting position.
"Careful," you said, helping her lean against the tree beside you. It was far from a comfortable position, but it would do. It did for you.
"Honey, I'm not made of glass," Agatha quipped, then winked suggestively. "You can feel me up again if you don't believe me."
A rush of heat scorched your cheeks. "I wasn't feeling you up."
"Oh, no?"
"I was just…" Feeling her side to make sure her wound hadn't returned. It sounded ridiculous in your head; it would come across as even more so out loud. "It doesn't matter."
Instead of ridiculing you, as you expected, Agatha grabbed your hand and pressed it against her side. "See? All good. No need to go all mother hen."
You couldn't help it. When it came to her, concern came as naturally as breathing.
Agatha lived a dangerous life. She took unnecessary risks, crossed people — witches — that you wouldn't dare look at the wrong way. If she wanted something, she took it. If she had something to say, she made sure everyone heard her loud and clear.
Somebody had to look out for her.
Somebody had to care.
"Old habits die hard," you said casually, as if it were an obligation, a job.
In reality, it was everything but.
It was just another part of loving her.
"I'll say," she quipped.
"You know me."
You'd always had a protective streak. Some witches had taken to calling you a pitbull. Agatha didn't have to sic you on anyone; your instincts would urge you to attack, to eliminate any possible threat. To ensure her safety by any means necessary.
You'd taken many lives for her, and would take many more in a heartbeat.
Anyone that posed a threat to her was as good as dead.
The witch killer and her pitbull — her faithful bitch.
Agatha was yours to protect. Yours to care for. Yours to love.
Yours.
She — all of her; mind, body, and soul — belonged to you.
Just as you did to her.
"I do," Agatha said. "Which is why I knew you'd blame yourself."
Maybe so, but why shouldn't you? She had gotten injured protecting you. She'd almost lost her life defending yours.
You may not have been to blame, but some of the responsibility fell on your shoulders.
"It was my Trial," you told her, stubborn as a mule. Never one to back down.
"And my choice."
And she would do it again. The intense look in her eyes and the fervor in her tone said as much.
You weren't the only protective fool in this relationship.
"Right, because it was more practical to save me than to have to summon another backup witch," you echoed her words back at her.
Agatha shrugged, barely holding back a smile. "Exactly."
Lying through her teeth like she expected you to believe her yet fully aware of the fact that you weren't buying any of her shit.
Teen was right. You wouldn't be here if she didn't want you to be.
When she'd told you of her intention of restarting her Road con in order to replenish her power and you'd demanded to accompany her, she'd given in right away. Hell, she hadn't put in a fight at all.
Your intentions had been clear from the start — ensuring Agatha's safety, her wellbeing. If one of the witches had happened to reach for a weapon, you'd wanted to protect her. If the Salem Seven had happened to come for her earlier than expected, you'd wanted to fight for her.
Now that she was powerless, she needed someone to look out for her, to have her back.
You were more than happy to volunteer for the position.
It had, after all, been yours before.
"So… how much did you hear?" you asked.
The conversation you'd had with Teen had brought you some comfort. Say what you will about the kid; he was a good listener.
It felt good to let some of those pent up emotions out. To share your burdens with someone else. To be heard. To be listened to. To be understood.
To not be judged for you'd judged yourself for too damn long.
"Enough," Agatha said with a shrug. "You sure like spilling secrets."
"Not yours." You'd made sure to not cross that line. Had toed it, maybe, but didn't cross it. "I kept my word."
You wished you'd never given it.
The other witches should know about Nicky. They should know that the only reason he'd been allowed to live for as long as he had was that she'd begged Death to spare his life. That not a day passed that he didn't cross her mind.
As wicked as Agatha could be, she would have never hurt her son.
She loved him too much for that.
"I know you did," she said with a small nod.
"I needed to talk to someone."
Because you don't want to.
You'd tried to broach the subject countless times to no avail. Something always came up. Something was always more urgent, more important.
"I never said we couldn't talk," Agatha said.
You couldn't hold back a cynical snort. "Could've fooled me."
"Things have been so hectic and—"
"Save it, Agatha. You're avoiding it like you avoid everything else."
She looked away, avoiding your gaze. Avoiding the truth staring her right in the face.
"Listen, you… you don't have to forgive me." The words hurt; a knife straight through the heart. "I know I fucked up. I should've looked for you, and I didn't."
Your inaction would haunt you for the rest of your life.
Agatha was alone, in pain, trapped in her own mind, and you were none the wiser. Instead of looking for her, you were pitying yourself. Crying your eyes out night after night in your half-empty bed, wishing her side of it wasn't a block of ice. Wishing she would walk back in anytime now and say that she was sorry.
Not even considering that there would come a day when you would be sorry.
"Nothing I say is ever gonna change that."
Sorry wouldn't take away the trauma that had been inflicted on her. It wouldn't take away the hurt that she was feeling, the torment that she had been through.
Words could do a lot, but they couldn't undo the damage that actions — or lack thereof, in this case — had caused.
"Just, please, know that I mean it. I truly am sorry." You wiped your tear-filled eyes with the back of your hand. "Don't forgive me. But, please, believe me."
"I believed you the first time you said it," Agatha said with a smile, squeezing your linked hands. An emphasis on her words. An assurance that what you were hearing was real, that you weren't stuck in a dream or lost in a daydream. "And I forgave you right after."
Your heart just about stopped.
She believed you.
She forgave you.
As cold and detached as she'd been since your reunion, she didn't think you a monster. She didn't think you unworthy of being in her life.
She'd meant what she'd said — she didn't hate you.
Your eyes fell to your hands. Agatha's fingers were wrapped around yours almost protectively, as if frightened to let go. As if, if she were to release you, she would never get to touch you again. As if you were to vanish into a puff of smoke at any moment now and she would be alone all over again, this time for the rest of her long, long life.
"Then why were you acting like you hated me?"
"I was angry. I wanted…"
It didn't take a genius to know what it was that she was so reluctant to admit. "You wanted to hurt me."
Agatha gave the smallest of nods. She had the decency to look ashamed.
It took everything in you to restrain a scream that threatened to tear from your mouth. Acid nibbled at your throat like shards of glass, singing it, shredding it to bits. Your heart was in pieces, a porcelain tipped over the edge, shattered beyond repair.
"You're the one who left," you reminded her, a part of you itching to give back as good as you got, to hurt her as much as she hurt you. To make her feel what you were feeling, and more; so much more. "You didn't tell me what you were planning to do."
"I didn't exactly plan it." She shrugged. "I needed a distraction. It presented itself."
"It was a stupid thing to do."
"You think?"
You shot her a look.
Agatha pursed her lips, feigning nonchalance. "We weren't on speaking terms."
Yeah. You supposed you weren't.
If she had reached out, what would you have done?
Would you have gone to Westview with her? Would she have wanted you to? Would she have let you?
Would you have tried to stop her from going?
Would that have only made the fight worse?
"Are you still angry?" you asked tentatively, a part of you dreading the answer, wishing the earth would open up and swallow you whole before the response could find you.
Agatha smirked. Playful. Conniving. "I'm always angry."
You glared at her with the intensity of a livewire, a clear threat. You weren't in the mood for games. Not now. Not after what she said, what she admitted she wanted to do.
She cleared her throat. "No." Her freezing hand cupped your cheek. You didn't have it in you to pull back, to shove her away. "You didn't deserve that."
No, you didn't.
"If I knew what happened, I would've come for you."
You knew what mind control spells, like the one that she'd been under, did to people. What damage they left in their wake. The kind of pain long term exposure inflicted upon the mind. No matter how angry you were, how much you were reeling from the fight the two of you had had, you never would have let Agatha suffer. One inkling, and you would have been there in a heartbeat.
"I know," Agatha said in her smallest voice.
You sniffled. "You can't keep punishing me for things I didn't do."
"I know."
"It's not fair."
"I know that, Y/N."
"Do you, really?"
"Yes." Then, so soft you could barely hear it, "Yes. I do."
She pressed her forehead to yours, a block of ice against your warm skin. Even so, you leaned into her, welcoming the touch. Welcoming the tenderness with which she radiated even through the harshness of her confession.
"I'm sorry, my love."
Agatha was baring her soul to you, exposed, vulnerable. A prey animal baring her neck to a predator.
It would be so easy to crush her. To shove her away and tell her to go to hell. To tell her her mother had been right — she was unlovable, worthy of nothing but scorn and condemnation. To make her hurt hundreds of times as much as you were hurting.
She was giving you an opportunity to even things out. A part of her may even think she deserved it following her poor treatment of you, especially now that she'd listened in on your conversation with Teen. She was welcoming the penance, however harsh. However much you wanted it to hurt.
Still, despite her words ripping you apart, you didn't have it in you to stab her in the heart and twist the knife.
With a tired sigh, you said, "I know you are, Agatha."
And, like a fool, you forgave her.
Like many of your decisions — many of your actions — when it came to her, you couldn't not forgive her.
Old habits died hard.
The woman could set you on fire, and a part of you would find a way to look past it.
You ran your finger across her icy cheek, the softest, tenderest caress, a wordless acceptance of her apology. "You can be such a bitch, you know that?"
Agatha chuckled. "Would you prefer me kept in line?"
"I'd settle for you communicating."
A small, stifling pause broke out.
She took in a breath. "That's never been my strong suit, has it?"
"Nope."
Understatement of the century.
"I can do better. I can be better." It was raw, straight from the heart. A promise that she vowed to make good on.
"All I ask is that you try."
Agatha was far from perfect. She would make mistakes. She would push you away and shut down like she always did. She would say and do things to get back at you for a perceived slight, and would stubbornly refuse to address whatever it was she convinced herself was wrong.
Habits nursed through centuries didn't disappear overnight.
True, genuine progress took time.
What mattered most was commitment.
One couldn't stumble if they never took a step forward.
"I will," Agatha said. "I promise."
You pulled back and held up a hand in an attempt to lighten the somber mood. "Pinky swear?"
She stared, incredulous. Her eyebrows flicked up like you'd grown a second head right before her eyes and she wasn't certain how to broach the subject.
You thought she was going to laugh in your face.
Instead, she linked her pinky with yours. "It's like dating a middle schooler."
Pot, meet kettle.
You quirked up an eyebrow, hoping your face didn't give out the excitement that bloomed inside you, a geyser about to burst under pressure. "Dating?"
Agatha shrugged, putting on a mask of nonchalance, of sheer disinterest. "Don't you want to pick up where we left off?"
There was nothing in the world you wanted more. "Of course I do."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I need a moment to process everything."
Being around her was one thing. To be with her again, to be hers — it was something you thought you would never get to experience again.
You thought you'd lost her forever. That, when she'd walked out the door three years ago and had — you'd thought — cut all contact with you, you'd never get to see her again. That you were nothing more than a blemish on her shoe; easy to wipe off and forget about as if you'd never existed.
And here she was now, inviting you back into her life with open arms as if nothing had ever happened. As if, in your anger, you hadn't thought the worst. As if she hadn't tried to get back at you for having abandoned her.
Grabbing your chin, Agatha pressed her mouth to yours. Yet another thing you thought you would never get to experience again. You gave yourself over to her, allowed her to devour you, to swallow you whole. To remind you of everything you'd both been missing for three impossibly long years.
"Still processing?" she asked as you parted, lips curling into a teasing smirk.
Your mouth was tingling, begging for more. Aching to feel her again. "Getting there."
"Mmm."
Agatha suddenly made a grimace, then wrapped her arms around herself.
"You cold?"
"Mmhmm."
"That would be the blood loss, sweetie."
You opened your arms, and, as if led by instinct, she instantly nestled into them and leaned her head against your shoulder. She allowed you to pull her discarded coat up, pressing her knees to her chest as you draped it over her like a blanket.
"You should eat something," you told her, cradling her to you like a child.
Even marble cold, having her so close felt comfy, safe. Like home.
It felt right.
"I'm good."
"I'll go ask—"
"No! Stay. Please."
The tender pleading in her voice broke your heart.
She knew damn well you could never fight her when she spoke to you like that.
"Okay."
"Good girl," she cooed; music to your ears.
"I'll stay however long you want me to, as long as you do the same."
As long as she didn't storm out again.
As long as you didn't have to spend countless nights crying yourself to sleep, wondering where she was. Wondering if she'd replaced you like you'd suspected.
Agatha was quick to respond. "I promise."
You believed her.
Promises, she always kept.
"Then, so do I," you said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
You both made good on it.