Archive of Our Own ^beta

She’s the worst.

“Homura-chan, I’m sorry.”

No, she’s not. Homura knows she isn’t. Madoka’s too clever to be sorry. She knows and Homura knows that she knows and she knows that Homura knows that she knows, and she’s testing Homura, and she’s trying to break her. There’s a hardness behind her smile that betrays everything; they know each other so well that they don’t have to say anything, really. Madoka wants to help her. Homura wants to eat her.

“No, it’s fine.” She smiles the same way Madoka does, and there’s a rift between them, a deep valley, a canyon, and dream logic dictates that they can be inches apart and miles away at the same time. Madoka is close enough to touch her, but she doesn’t. Homura is close enough to touch her, but she can’t. Madoka’s forced her way into her head, and she makes the rules here; she can’t tell whether Madoka’s commandeered her dream or whether she’s been dragged into Madoka’s head, or her Soul Gem, or wherever she exists nowadays. They’re all one and the same, probably. Madoka never changes.

“It’s not fine,” she insists, and her brow creases just a bit.

Homura’s smile broadens at her frustration. “Why don’t you just give up?”

The crease on her forehead evens out, and her expression is unreadable. “I can’t,” she says, and Homura can’t tell what she’s thinking for once, doesn’t understand why.

“I’m only going to hurt you.” There’s a breeze across the dry, dusty canyon, and her skirts flutter. Homura looks down and notices that she’s in her magical girl outfit—her old one, with the shield, with her wish. This dream feels more real than the world she’s living in now.

“You already have.” Again with the unreadable expression. Homura bites the inside of her lip. She’s right. She has to be; she’s never been wrong about anything and she isn’t about to start. She tries to think of when she hurt her, and it’s a damned struggle. She’s hurt plenty of people before, but Madoka? When?

“Not with guns,” Madoka clarifies. “Not with weapons.” She tilts her head a bit, and the breeze whips around her hair. It's short—she's in her school uniform, even though she's a goddess, a concept, something inhuman. She looks like the Madoka that Homura remembers.

So she'd never harmed her physically. Fair enough. “You’re all right with that?”

“No, I’m not. I want you to change,” she says firmly. “I know you can.”

“I really can’t.” She can feel them, now, knots of desire twisting in her throat and in her gut, setting her thoughts on fire. She licks her lips, but the dream won’t tell her whether or not they’re dry, so it’s vague, like everything else. She feels predatory, but she’s pretty sure she always has. Her head is all want. Her senses are all craving. She’s past the point of going crazy; she’s already insane. Her head hurts a little, and she reaches up to touch it. When she looks at her fingers, they’re covered in something black and distorted and immaterial. Corruption, she’s sure. Or maybe decay. She’s been dying little by little ever since then. When she dies, she’ll probably become a puddle of black goop. It’d only be appropriate. She feels like black goop.

Madoka leans in so that their faces are nearly touching, and Homura can’t move because the dream won’t let her. This is its own kind of abuse. “Yes, you can.”

“I can.” She acknowledges it for the sake of it, and Madoka smiles like she’s won something. She straightens up, and Homura clenches her teeth and says, “That doesn’t mean I will.”

“There’s a chance, at least,” she says hopefully, and all Homura wants to do is crush that hope. All Homura really wants to do is crush her, with the sort of finality that chances can’t afford. She’s tired of being disappointed.

“You’re stupid.” Madoka stares at her without saying anything, and it scares her. “You can’t protect yourself against me. You’re powerless. I’m better than you.”

She grins lopsidedly. “Eh... I don’t think you can say that the way you are right now.”

Maybe not here, Homura would agree with her, but “here” wasn’t everywhere. She has emotion, after all, and emotion can do damn well anything; despair can power the universe. She has a lot more than just despair within her. It annoys her, though, because at least here, Madoka is safe, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that, and not knowing scares her.

“You can’t run forever.”

“I’m not running, Homura-chan.”

You’re waiting, Homura thinks. Waiting for the right chance to swoop in and save the day. Madoka wants to save Homura from herself; she wants to perform miracles. Homura hates her ego. She doesn’t want her to try so hard. It’s stupid. Everything is stupid.

“Just let me protect you,” she wants to say, but she stops before she even opens her mouth, because that isn’t really the case anymore. Protection from what? From herself? If Madoka needed protection from anything, it was her, probably. Homura doesn’t really get it, doesn’t understand anymore, but she knows they’re not good for each other, and Madoka’s not invincible. She wants to murder Madoka. Maybe then she’ll finally be able to breathe.

Her mouth feels dry. “You should...” She pauses, and her eyes narrow. Her expression is difficult, like she’s clinging onto something that’s slipping from her grasp. “Stay away from me.”

That’s good enough, isn’t it? It’s enough if Madoka forgets about her. The world’s been saved; magical girls aren’t turning into Witches anymore. Homura’s volatile. She’d probably just ruin things if she were given the chance.

“No.”

She frowns. “I hate you.” She feels stuck. She shifts in place, but there’s nowhere to go; it’s just them and the rift, the canyon, the gap an inch wide between them.

“I know. But that isn’t going to stop me.”

She feels a crazy rush of fearlessness, and mutters, “I’m going to kill you.” And then I’m going to eat you, and I’ll be happy, Homura thinks. You’ll be a part of me and I’ll be a part of you and we’ll never have to worry about being separated again.

“I know,” she says, like a careworn mother. “Sometimes, you know...” her voice grows quiet, and Homura leans in despite herself, “I have my doubts too.”

Her eyes widen at that. She’s genuinely surprised. “Really?”

She nods, although Homura’s certain she’s mocking her; she’s grown sick of this back-and-forth and is stringing her along for the hell of it. “I don’t know if I should be saving you.”

Homura smiles with satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”

Her eyes are a terrifying shade of fuchsia. “You’re dangerous, you know? You might hurt me. I don’t want to get hurt.”

She practically quivers; she can’t move but in her head she’s tearing at her dream-logic constraints, aches to reach out and grab her. “You’re right. So why are you doing this?”

She smiles. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?” She hesitates, which tips Homura off, but she continues, “Maybe it’d be better if you just died after all.”

Homura grins wide, all teeth. You’re spoiling me, she thinks, you awful person, you sadist, you freak.

Madoka looks down, still smiling a little. “You’re a monster.”

“I know,” Homura says, and she’s been fighting so ferociously that the restraints bite into her skin. “Thank you,” she says, after a moment, as if it were a compliment. “I’m glad you understand.”

Her smile widens, and it’s an expression Homura’s never seen on her before. “But you’re my monster, and I won’t let anyone else have you.”

Homura wakes, and there’s a wetness between her legs and it burns.