Chapter Text
When you stepped back into the house, you could've sworn it felt warmer. You could hear children playing somewhere outside, soft laughter and chatter from down the street, a quiet, normal evening in Westview. Even though you knew it was everything but. Agatha had just closed the door behind the two of you, looking around her home in what seemed some kind of quiet contemplation. You tried to keep holding her arm, fingers twisted into the fabric of her sweater, but at some point she stepped away from you and gave the living room another glance.
“You really let this place gather some dust, huh?”
You pressed your lips together, ignoring the urge to reach for her hand again. You kept wanting to make sure she was really still there, still alive. Part of you was expecting her to drop to the ground and go back to being a ghost, or worse, just stay dead. But all she did was sigh at your lack of answer, and lock the front door.
Senor Scratchy peeked out from behind the couch at the noise, curious of all the commotion, then sniffed in her direction and made his way over to her. She paused, and you caught her split second of hesitation, how her eyes went your way briefly as if checking whether you were watching before she bent down to pick him up, cradling him in her arms.
“Hey there mister.” she murmured softly, one hand moving to pet his soft fur, “Did you miss me too?”
There was something soft in her expression.
You fought down the urge to step over there and join in. Try to get her to hug you again. You weren’t going to be jealous of a bunny for hell’s sake. No matter how much something in your chest twisted every time her hand went over his head, soothing and gentle.
“We both missed you.” you said, forcing yourself to look away.
“You’re about the only ones.” Agatha replied, gently plopping the rabbit back onto the carpet. You watched him sniff at her shoes and then hop off, scurrying into the kitchen. Agatha glanced at your backpack on the couch, and you felt a jolt in your stomach as you remembered what was in there. Before you could panic any further about giving your mentor a Mother’s Day card briefly after successfully bringing her back from being dead-- or at least from being a ghost-- she interrupted your internal panic by sighing loudly, and in that all-too-familiar Agatha manner you so desperately missed, tossed her hair back and said after a loud eugh and a huff,
“I look like I just rose from the grave,” she frowned, and pointed a finger at you before you could say that she technically just did.
You fell silent.
“I need a shower.” she said, turning around disappearing into the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your slowly increasing nerves. “And so do you, by the looks of you clothes.”
You looked down at yourself, jeans patched with streaks of green from the backyard lawn and the occasional splotch of freshly dug earth, dirt, and your own sweat.
She was right. You did need a shower.
You stood there for a moment more, listening to the sound of her room door closing and drawers opening. The bathroom faucet turned on. Then the shower too. Senor Scratchy knocked something over in the kitchen, snapping you out of your reverie. Sighing, you picked up and unzipped your backpack, rummaged through it until you found the mug, still in the same box you’d left it, purple bow and all.
You undid the ribbon.
Opened the box.
Stared at the mug, emotions swirling in your chest, anticipation coursing. Then you closed the box and hastily redid the bow.
It was fine. This was fine. You’d just--
Give it to her.
Approach her, smile, tell her the truth, tell her thank you. You had so much to thank her for. You weren’t expecting a huge reaction, she wasn’t too big on the touchy feely stuff, always covered it up with the snark and attitude, but you knew she cared. You only wished you could tell her just how much you did, too. You set your bag down in the kitchen, gave Senor Scracthy some fresh food and water, and went down the hall into your room. It was just as you’d left it. Clothes strewn over the place-- you picked out a clean outfit and dumped the rest into the hamper.
Agatha was right- the house was dusty, and you had yourself to blame, but you couldn’t find it in you to come back while she was gone. You should’ve, should’ve stayed behind to set things straight and clean up and look after the damned rabbit instead of the neighbors, but you couldn’t. Coming back alone was too heavy. Grief was heavy. You pressed a knuckle into the corner of your eye, wiping away tears that had gathered there again.
You had to pull yourself together.
It was a good day, a happy one, you brought her back and she was fine, so you were too.
Right?
You dismissed any further thoughts of tidying your room and went into the bathroom to clean up. Then, in fresh clothes and with a foe smile, you stepped back in front of the mirror to tie your hair back loosely. Fixed it. Tugged a few strands loose. Then untangled the tie from your hair and threw it off to the side. You took a breath.
When you came back into the living room you were surprised to see that she was already out of the bathroom, lilac sweater on, soft clothes and wet hair spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of dark brown. She seemed... softer, somehow. More approachable. More vulnerable.
Unlike herself.
You simply stood for a moment, watching her sitting on the couch, sipping from a mug. It was a scene so normal and familiar to you yet somehow so far away from what you were used to, from what used to be routine.
She looked up ahead, but you knew she knew you were there.
“I see you made sure to leave a pot of lukewarm coffee for me as a welcome back present,” she said, voice nonchalant as ever, “could’ve at least warmed it up.”
It was a joke and you knew it, but it was hard to laugh for some reason. You tried to smile. Maybe you failed a little. If she noticed she didn’t say, simply took another sip and sighed into the quiet space.
“That’s uh, mine.” you said eventually, a little awkwardly. “I made it while I was digging up... your…”
You stopped. She didn’t seem too bothered that you were apparently talking about digging up her previously dead body in her own backyard, and instead set the mug down. You fought the brief urge to pick it up and smash it across the floor. How could she be so casual about this? About being gone, being--
Did she not know how hard it had been for you? The damned chaos everything was in after you’d stormed off and left her here with Billy? Of course, she didn’t, she couldn’t, because she wasn’t here, so she couldn’t have known how hard it was for you when you came back that same day later, came into the empty house, tried to get back to a normal life without her there and cried in your room for hours. The way you’d curled up in her bed, face pressed into her pillow, trying your best to find comfort in the faint ever-lingering traces of her presence there, in the echoes of her perfume, her scattered things, her sweater you held and clutched as you cried yourself to sleep. It was hell, knowing the one person you so deeply cared about, considered family, your only family, was now gone, and there was seemingly nothing possible you could do to bring them back.
You supposed to her, after so many years of being used to everyone wanting her dead, seeing your grief and sorrow and despair was too foreign of a concept. You didn’t blame her for that. They asked you to join them, her and Billy, expected it even, and you just stormed off and left, not wanting to face the facts that were then true. Now they weren’t anymore. You watched as a droplet of water slid down one of her dark curls and fell onto the armrest of the couch.
“Where did you go?” she asked suddenly, voice soft and low, but also curious. “After you left, where did you go to?”
You glanced away.
“Just stayed with a few people. Asked around about some spells.”
That was a very big understatement of the truth. Yes, you stayed with some friends. Yes, you asked about spells, but that asking was more of a you banging on every known witch’s door demanding they share all their gathered-thus-far knowledge of bringing people back from the dead, every spell, every charm, every enchantment involving chaos magic or potions or rituals or sacrifices. You hoped you wouldn’t get to the last part, and fortunately you hadn’t in the end, but the nights you didn’t spend crying into your pillow you spent staring up at the ceiling or out the window, wondering quietly to yourself how far you’d go to do this. Would you end up like her too? Earn yourself a reputation for the lengths and sacrifices you were willing to achieve to get what you wanted, what you needed?
And most importantly, how would she react? You thought maybe she would be proud, but then later you started to wonder of she’d secretly feel disappointed, because she didn’t want you to be like her.
Either way, it was all irrelevant now. She was here and she was back. Once and for all.
You circled the coffee table to sit next to her on the couch, a little space between you, enough for you to see one of her fingers tangled in the thin gold chain of her brooch.
You hesitated.
Glanced at the clock in the kitchen.
It was almost ten at night, later than you’d thought. You both lost track of time.
“Thank you.” her voice startled you a little, and you turned abruptly.
“Uh- I—”
“For bringing me back.” she said, tilting her head a little, “Must’ve took some real magical effort, and I’m here without any missing pieces so I guess that means you did well.”
It was a clumsy was of saying she was proud of you, but you took it with grateful want in your heart. You allowed yourself to smile a little.
“You’re welcome, I guess. It was- well- I just-”
“Really wanted to earn my favour?” she smirked, “I’ve seen other witches go to great lengths, toots, but this—”
You laughed a little. “Shut up.” but you were already feeling lighter. You glanced briefly to the kitchen. To your backpack on the floor. Bit your lip.
“One second,” you said, quickly getting up and going into the kitchen, leaving her with a muttered “Okay, whatever…” still in the living room. You knelt down and unzipped your backpack before you lost the nerve for it, and took out the box and card. Holding both in a slightly shaky grip, you went back over to her, both items hidden behind your back. She gave you a very obvious and suspicious look.
“What?”
“I, uh. I have something for you.” you blurted.
She blinked. Looked you up and down once and set down her mug.
“Is it a decent cup of coffee? You’d think being dead earns you one, but apparently-”
“No. It’s- um. It’s-- for today.” you practically winced when she gave you a confused look, “I know you probably don’t, uh, but...just- here.”
And you shoved the card into her half-outstretched empty hand.
She paused. Stared at the card, stared at the text on it.
Happy Mother’s Day.
She didn’t say anything.
And suddenly you started to panic. Why did you even think this would be a good idea? Like, at all? Giving your mentor-- who is also Agatha Harkness-- this? And calling her like a-- a mother-- when you knew she had-
That she was once-
An apology was half-ready at the tip of your tongue when she opened the card. And started to read. You had half a mind to snatch the thing from her hand and bury yourself in the yard in the hole from her grave. This was so much worse that you thought-- what if she-- if you- if-
You saw her eyes skim over the words once, then again, more slowly. She read your scribbled text, and you fought to try and forget the exact wording you’d used. Something like thank you Agatha, for being the best and most awesome and chaotic and witchy mentor ever, and also sort of a mother-figure--
Or had you written for teaching me about more than just magic and how to hex someone--
You wanted to hide behind your hands. Brace for a hex sent your way. Something. Anything.
All you got was just-- silence.
You couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad kind of silence, but Agatha, for once in her three-hundred-and-fifty years of life and death and being a ghost and then life again, had nothing to say. No snarky comment. No teasing smirk. No mocking remark. Nothing.
And that perhaps scared you more than all those sleepless nights combined.
You swallowed.
“Um… Agatha?” you tried hesitantly, your own voice rather frail and tentative.
“Are you, uh-”
“You got this… for me?”
You nodded.
“Today?”
Another nod. “Yeah, cause it’s… I wanted to-- today, cause-” you fumbled, “I mean of course I would’ve gotten you back anyway I just thought- today- cause- it’s… yeah.”
She didn’t reply.
“I also got you a gift.” You blurted again, cursing yourself for it internally, because you weren’t even sure if you were just making this worse, whatever this was, but when you held the box out she took it.
You watched her deftly open the lid and pull the mug out.
Best Mom Ever, it said.
It was Easter sales. It was cheap. It had some silly spring themed design on it but there was a bunny that made you think of her, and you chose the one with the text in purple that just matched her robes.
“I was gonna go for ‘best mentor’, but they didn’t, uh, have those.” you said pitifully.
Agatha opened her mouth, still staring at the mug, then closed it again. She turned it over. Tilted her head at the little brown and white bunny painted on it. Turned it back over in her hand. And you were suddenly wishing you’d never done any of this.
It had been a bad idea. She was just back from being a ghost, back to being alive, and what if you made things weird now, what if she--
You blinked, fought the tears back down again.
But this time they wouldn’t listen to your will. Instead they gathered in your already glassy eyes and spilled softly once you blinked, silent as a feather. You turned to leave but she held up a hand, and you stopped. You didn’t have it in you to disobey her right now.
You opened your mouth. “It’s just…” your voice was shaky and soft, “You were gone for s-so long and I- I never got to tell you thank you- I just-”
You forced yourself to take an uneven breath.
“You don’t have to- to say anything about this, ever again, just- don’t throw it away please. I...”
Those weren’t the words you’d had in mind but it seemed your heart had chosen now to be openly vulnerable and pitiful and every bit as needy as she’d always jokingly described you. You bit your lip to stop yourself from spiraling further.
Agatha finally sighed softly. She shook her head a little. And huffed.
“As if I’d throw away something as pathetically sentimental as this. Pfft.”
You felt a tearful laugh bubble out of your throat.
You watched her turn the card over once more, eyes briefly skimming over the text.
“Guess I’ll have to find somewhere to hide this,” she said, a faint smirk back on her face, “or it’ll ruin my fearsome reputation. Can’t have everyone thinking I’ve gone soft now that I’m back, but…”
You looked up, so evidently hopeful.
“But?”
She smiled. “But... I suppose it’s not too bad that you think of me as a-- as—”
And you realized her stopping wasn’t to tease you, it was because she was flustered.
The Agatha Harkness, flustered over a Mother’s Day card. Your life was something special, with the things you got to see.
“Do you like them?” you asked, so shyly and hopefully that even she couldn’t hide a hint of fondness in her eyes that shone through.
She sighed like it pained her to say so, but gave a sort of half-nod, half-shrug.
“It’s my shade of purple.” she said, glancing back down at the mug. “Card’s a bit tacky, but I suppose your sappy writing inside adds to the overall value.”
She smiled. “You can stop holding your breath, toots. I find it embarrassingly endearing. Both the card and this.”
You felt as if the weight of the world was off your heart.
And then you couldn’t hold back any longer and hugged her.
She stumbled back a bit against the cushions at your half-tackle, both hands balancing (adorably) to keep the mug from knocking into anything as you hugged her. Then she somehow set it down onto the nearest sturdy surface, and carefully hugged you back with an exaggerated sigh.
“I suppose this is my punishment for being overly influencial in your life.” she exhaled woefully, patting your back.
You just smiled and hid your face into her shoulder, inhaling that familiar lavender-and-magic scent of her perfume, feeling the dampness of her still-wet hair against your cheek, the everlasting safety and comfort you felt every time you were wrapped in her arms. You buried your head deeper. Closed your eyes, feeling more tears falling freely.
“I really missed you.” you mumbled, “It was so quiet without you, and so lonely, and I’m sorry I wasn’t here- I just couldn’t-”
She sushed you gently, softly, warm hands never faltering in gliding over your hair.
“Don’t apologize.” she murmured. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But I should’ve been here—” you sniffled quietly, “To- to take care of Senor Scratchy a-and-”
“He’s a tough cookie.” she said, voice firm but still soft. “And so are you. You’re strong. More so thank you believe.”
“I don’t feel strong.” you mumbled.
It was true. You didn’t. At all. All you wanted was to stay in her arms and cry and have her comforting you until your tears all stopped and your heart felt full, and then have her promise to never, ever, ever leave you again. You didn’t think you could take it. Couldn’t take the loss of her.
You felt her lips brush against the top of your head as she spoke her next words.
“You know, I don’t always feel strong either.” she said, quiet as the night.
You looked up. Frowned a little. Of course it was true, you supposed no one could always feel strong all the time, that was impossible, but hearing her say it was just…
“Of course you can’t tell anyone that, it’ll ruin the fun, but…” she sighed softly, blue eyes meeting yours, finally making you feel reassured. “I think you’ve gathered my mother wasn’t the best at… anything remotely relating to care. Sometimes I worry that I’m becoming just like her.”
You opened your mouth instantly to argue but she shushed you.
“But when you go ahead and do sweet things like this…” she gestured vaguely to the card and mug you’d given her, “it’s when I think that I must be doing something right. Even if I don’t say it often. I do care about you, hun. So much.”
“I love you too.” you mumbled, tucking your face back against her sweater. You felt her still against you, her breath stuttering in her chest for one brief moment.
“You do, do you?” she murmured back.
And too exhausted to care, you simply nodded against her, because it was the truth. You did love her. She was your scary, chaotic, witchy mentor and your only family, and you loved her in a way you never loved anyone else. Maybe because you never had anyone else like that, but maybe because there was no one else like her. She was so greatly, chaotically unique, and she’d chosen to teach you, to let you stay, to let you in. It made you feel so special that you didn’t even care if she’d say it back to you of not.
So when she said in a soft whisper, “I guess I love you too, then. You little menace.” you couldn’t think of a response that conveyed your happiness, and just closed your eyes.
You stayed like that for a while. You wrapped tightly in her arms on the couch, clinging to her because she was finally, really, actually back, and then listening to her list of threats of hexes that she would cast if you ever uttered a word to anyone of what she’d just said to you. But your smile never faltered. Your relief finally didn’t dim. And after reluctantly letting go of her so she could disappear into the kitchen while she ordered you both takeouts-- you really had to go to the store someone soon to get food-- you took her teasing when she came back in a few minutes later, reappearing with a fresh cup of coffee in her new mug that she was now claiming was cheap and too suburban and basic, but you didn’t miss the genuine smile she tried to hide every time her eyes went over the words.
And later, when you went to say goodnight and stayed for another hug because you had to make up for all the time she was gone, maybe you glimpsed that card somewhere in her room, high on a shelf enchanted to repel dust, or tucked away in a desk drawer that only held some of her most important, valuable trinkets and possessions. When you drifted off to sleep that day, Westview now quiet and soft against the backround, nothing but the sounds of magic thrumming in the air around the house and the occasional cricket in the Azalea bushes outside, you felt ready to start the rest of your life again, everything and everyone now safely back into place where you needed them most. Finally, after what seemed a dozen nights of tears and sleepless thoughts, poring over spellbooks and centuries-old tomes, you let yourself rest, and softly fell asleep.