Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buzzing. She heard insects. Their busy-ness in the air before she saw the body. Dozens…hundreds of flies creating the most horrible sound. Wings beating, overtaking. She hated their infernal low hum. She imagined she would always hate the sound.

But she raised her hand in a quick motion and held the position. Lydia couldn’t come closer. She wouldn’t allow it and it would be startling and without warning because Lydia couldn’t hear the sounds. The insistent low hum of wings she imagined would be the white noise played in hell. But Lydia would never hear them-not now and never in hell. Her niece would never have to pay the ferryman across the river Styx no matter how much they screamed at one another-hands flashing, moving rapidly, too fast for Mel to keep up and process. The older witch was always trying to digest it all because god it had been surreal-the last few months.

There was halting needles in midair and there was stopping a truck. Lydia instinctually reacted and created another act entirely. One that her fragile, witch, all too mortal body couldn’t internally withstand.

Magic has its price and its desire for balance. It will seek its payment. And the cost had been Lydia’s hearing.

Gone was her ability to listen to new music, a spoon clanging against a bowl of ice cream, birds, laughter, wind, alarms, her cat’s demands and more importantly her mother’s and aunt’s voices, their singing that played in her head like rich memories and nostalgic dialogues. She could never forget how her mother’s voice sounded when she said I love you or how her aunt said my Darling like she was their universe.

But her mother was alive. She was breathing and solid and still part of the living. And she would give up more of her senses if it meant she could embrace her and be embraced by her.

She was sixteen and bloody hell it was daunting. She had never felt that much fear and heart stopping terror and she didn’t care there were witnesses and random people to see her put her hand up, it shaking with the strain and will. She didn’t care her ears felt warm and something felt wet and liquid slowly rolled out of them, how the last thing she heard was a slight wave and a muffled sealing until there was nothing.

But there was so much now. A fury that blanketed her entire life. Her jaw constantly hurt from clenching her teeth. She daydreamed torture scenarios. Of hands around a hammer. Of the convenience of not hearing the screams as she breaks every last bone. Of standing on a bridge, slipping a noose around a neck and whispering lowly with unused vocal cords “Jump. Or I will make you.”

You cannot kill. Her words said with hands that feel like they’re restricting and trying to hold them together.

I will!  The blonde expresses, eyes narrowed, looking so much like her aunt but with a different color.

You will NOT. My Darling... she paused. I understand, hell, I understand the vengeance… she takes a shuddering breath.

It's not JUST for revenge! The youngest Jameson is standing firm and so angry and so resolute though her hands are like missiles.

I know. But it will ruin you! You won’t like what you become… her intense frown lines forming and her hands still. She knows in her flawed, but steady heart she will do what her niece wants most for her, so she doesn’t become a monster, doesn’t go down a similar path to her own.

Abby feels the press of Mel’s cool hand on her lower back and is grateful she knows not to take her hand, knows she isn’t finished talking with her niece. The unspoken is there and yet they can all feel it, the unavoidable truth and offer about to come.

Because Abby would do anything for her niece. She’s taken sign language classes, watched hundreds of hours of youtube videos and lessons, has paid for private tutors to come to her house as Lydia sat in the living room with her, vibrating with anger and thankful her aunt made such effort.

They all know Abigael will move the world and disrupt the underworld for her family, protect them-even if it means destroying herself.

I’ll do it. She says to Lydia and says it aloud a second later for Mel for clarity and how there is no room for debate. Part of their world would burn.

Lydia can feel the weight of her anger be slightly lifted; the mercy granted and burdens absorbed into her relative as her aunt looks at her like there was no other option-the inevitability of it all. And she watches as her beautiful aunt signs their fate as she says I love you to the moon and back.

Her throat closes, her chest feels like stones are pressing on her, an antiquated method for killing those in covens, another way to harm women and it’s so acute how she feels the legacy of being born into a family of powerful witches. And she sees her aunt move a little closer to Mel who can tell her body is tense, her heart hardening, barriers back up as she prepares herself for dismantling who she knows her aunt to be-someone loving, so devoted in secrecy, someone fierce, someone who was elegant and poised but cunning, someone willing to carry her burdens, someone who should never be underestimated.

She was the match. She was always the weapon.

Chapter Text

Lydia wanted to go home and sleep. She wanted to curl up against her mum and pretend she was six years old again and she didn’t care how infantile she felt for craving a less complicated life.

She had watched large men try to take her mother, force them apart as two more men came for her. It felt planned and executed. They had been shopping, laughing, talking and it had been like any other beautiful day, time with her mother. It took her what felt like the longest minute for her brain to respond, for her body to react, to hold her hand out to her mother who was reaching out to her, space between them, the air crackling.

In a way, the truck was the unexpected element that saved them. The men hadn’t accounted for it, and they had to scatter but not before knocking Waverly down in the middle of the road. Her head hit the pavement and it felt like something cracked, her eyes unfocused and blood was trickling over her eye, catching in her lashes. With a shaky hand she tried to wipe it away, preoccupied and unaware Lydia stood over her, hand raised as she brought the truck to a halting stop with tires screeching and smoke curling in the air from the friction.

The last thing she hears in her life is her mother screaming her name. 

Waverly looked up at her daughter, her beautiful, strong child and assessed her face. She was unharmed, but her eyes caught the alarming red coming from her ears and she stood on uncertain legs, hands immediately going to cup her face, fingers fanning her ears, her blood on her own fingertips mixing with her daughters. 

“Lydia! Are you okay?” Waverly held her gaze, blue eyes looked into lighter blue eyes and she watched her daughter frown and little black spots floated across her vision. She blinked but distantly knew she likely had a concussion.

“Lydia…” she watched her daughter look down at her lips as though she didn’t understand why they were moving but not making a sound.

“Oh my love,” Waverly wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders, rested her chin on her head for a second and pulled away when she scanned the area though her vision was getting blurred, adrenaline leaving her, but she saw all too familiar eyes she hadn’t seen in years.

A group of people passed before the figure, a crowd formed, and the person disappeared.  

Aunt Abby… Lydia signed slowly, as if she was longing for a different reality, different options.

I will not standby and watch the disappearance of your innocence! The brunette replied, hands strong and making controlled movements.

Mel tried to keep up, the concise gestures weren’t as rapid fire and it took her a moment but she got it. A beautiful sentiment, a hope, and what every kid should be told at some point by an adult who loves them. And Mel knows Abby is the aunt but she doubles as another parent. For what feels like the hundredth time she thinks Abby would have made the most amazing mother. Her hand keeps its pressure on her lower back to stop herself from standing behind Abby, wrapping her arms around her waist in a vain attempt to hold her together, hold her up. She can tell Abby is becoming steel but her legs are ready to give out. And she loves Lydia, but she’s focused on Abby as she looks at her profile and the lines on her forehead and her freckles on her nose she adores.

You are a phenomena I never dreamed of. She finishes, her hands resting at her side and she blindly finds Mel’s hand and gives three small squeezes-their own Morse code of I love you.

Aunt Abby…Lydia’s head tilts, looking older and tired. You have to take me off the pedestal.

Mel catches Abby smirk and the slight puff of air that escapes her with the slight amusement of the girl’s astute statement. She loves the intelligence and boldness of her niece.

Never. She signs with one hand as she still holds onto Mel.

I can help you. Lydia tries.

Not happening. She drops Mel’s hand, and the act seems congruent with the message because Abby will do it alone. She is slowly becoming her own island and the witch can only witness the rocky terrain and shores being formed.

You don’t have to do it alone! Lydia states bluntly and Mel really takes in how she’s such a Jameson. Smart, a cut above her peers, an untypical teenager who already had the luxury of going to Paris with her aunt, wandering museums and forgetting there was a world outside waiting for them to return, how similar they are in their ability to get lost in art.

Yes, I do. There are consequences. Her hands move fluidly, knowingly.

No, there isn’t. She shoots back strongly. The magical world is anarchy and- she says dismissively and with an eye roll for tone.

Well-you are not an anarchist! You are better than that. She cuts her off, a rare move as she hates talking over her niece or silencing her in any capacity. Its not that she caudles her, the opposite in fact, there’s mutual respect, but her hands are emphatic, and her resolution is unwavering.

But no one polices it! There won’t be any consequences! Lydia counters.

To your soul Lydia!

And the niece halts her movements and visceral reply she was already constructing. She could count on one hand the times her aunt has called her by her first name. It was truly a rarity, now that she realized it in the stillness. Her mother would address her by pressing her open palm against her own chest and pull it away forming the word love. Her aunt made the letter d with her hand and moved it in a circle over her face to link beautiful to Darling. They had reworked symbols and language to stay with their endearing familiarity. Mel was the only one of the adults in her life who called her Lydia with an L, index finger pointing to the outside of her eye because eye contact was important, but the teen always liked how Mel would smile as she said her name, unaware of the facial expression every time.

She remembered when she was tucked into her aunt’s side, blanket over them, thunderstorm rolling through, Mel was teaching a class and she took the opportunity to share a thought.

You know-your wife always smiles when she says my name? She smirked, though her aunt couldn’t see. Abby was focused on her hands and her face was turned away from her until she lifted her head to see her response in her all too expressive eyes. Hazel that said you brat.

Not my wife, she signed but that’s because she loves you. 

But she’s your person, you’re hers… the girl pressed for the first time as she fully sat up to look at her aunt.

She is. But I don’t need a piece of paper or ceremony to prove that. Hazel eyes looked back at her with softness she seldom saw. Over the years Lydia observed her aunt, how she could be somber, withdrawn and sometimes tormented behind guarded eyes that only seemed exposed when her family was around. And when her aunt looked haunted and talons seemed to be wrapped around her, inflicting damage, Mel would kiss her temples, the corners of her eyes and whisper things she couldn’t hear but saw it always less made her aunt less troubled. 

We work better without contracts. Abby thought and gave a small smile.

But how did you know she’s your person? Lydia asked, curious but needing to know because she was grazing close to something similar, and it scared her.

It rather..just happened. Albeit begrudgingly. She says with a smirk. It took time and managing expectations and trust. Trust before love. I don’t expect her to be everything for me. She is not a therapist. Your mother is my go-to for that particular role, but Mel doesn’t have to be my best friend as well. She doesn’t have to fill every role. It’s not her job to be the best provider, best listener, best protector, best significant other and its unrealistic. Also, not plausible. I can’t be all that for her, nor does she expect it.

And Lydia thinks its oddly romantic to accept a person with their flaws and shortcomings without demanding they be the best at anything. She frowns because she thinks she already trusts someone outside her family circle.

Why do you ask? Abby questions after seeing the contemplative expression and she notes the hesitancy from her lovely niece.

There’s a girl…she starts and Abby braces herself for what could come next. All the possibilities. Of friendship or more, of a bully, of someone faking being nice to ‘the deaf girl’ at school but Lydia says she learned signing..for me..

Abby lets her shoulders drop, the tension goes as Lydia picks at the edges of the blanket and twists the tassels. She takes the smaller hand, hers encompassing and gives a gentle squeeze then signs wonderful.

With a release of her hand, she asks tell me more about her? Its open ended and Abby is patient, more patient with Lydia than anyone else. And Lydia takes a deep breath like she’s about to speak but her hands go quickly, trying to keep pace with her thoughts.

She didn’t write her conversation or like…expect me to. She just sat next to me in class and signed. She’s smart. Really smart. And funny, but not like laugh out loud, but clever…like…she was walking me home and there was a car with a sticker that said bulldog inside and she got excited cause she says dogs are better than people, but there wasn’t a dog in the car and she said she was tempted to knock on the person’s window and say excuse you-false advertisement! 

And it took her two months for us to really have a conversation now that she’s pretty fluent. The first thing she asked me was how are you? Not in a ‘you lost your hearing and now you’re different and kind of broken’ way people walk around eggshells around me she moves her hands like she’s tiptoeing dramatically, and an eye roll comes with an exasperated huff. But she asked like she wants to…know me.

And she says I seem alright even though I’m a cat person.

Abby laughs, her shoulders shake because yeah, of course Lydia would like someone a little salty, a little unkempt and teasing. She wonders if her niece enjoys it after being told in so many ways, she’s the best of her small family.

And she’s pretty. She adds like it’s a footnote, but Abby can tell her niece is very aware how she sees this girl but she’s so glad Lydia lead with the other traits that she deemed more important.

The brunette clenches her hand in one pulse around her the blonde’s knee and gets an unexpected laugh from her tickle spot and odd sensation.

Well, when your mother is one hundred percent, we’ll have her over for her dinner. She replies and its settled, how Lydia’s implied sexuality and whatever label or lack of comes with it is accepted, as it would be without a doubt.

Okay, but don’t interrogate her! The youngest Jameson says protectively, and she watches her aunt’s face and eyes still, no movements because she’s not about to lie and she’s not about to placate her and say ‘oh, I’ll be on my best behavior.’

Now Waverly is feeling very close to normal, her headaches are gone, the concussion came with some lingering effects, but Abby knows she needs to talk to her sister and bring her into the conversation. Although the house is quiet, they’re screaming at each other and she needs a minute or a few days. She doesn’t want this to fracture them.

She scratches at her forehead, a headache coming, and she sees Mel from her periphery frown and worry.

I need to talk to your mother….

Fine. Loop me in when you two figure it out. She makes her way to the door and isn’t surprised when Mel smoothly steps in front of her and only signs her name with empathetic eyes and a well of longing as she clearly wishes she could make it all better for them. It’s taken nearly two months for Waverly to feel like herself and she was damn lucky her head hadn’t cracked open. Instead, there was a faint scar near her hairline that made Mel wonder how many scars the Jameson’s were going to acquire.

Love you. Okay? Mel signed. There were so many words, but everything was just extra. Love was what mattered. It was one of the first words she’d learned. She watched as the blonde’s shoulders dropped so similarly to Abby’s, the energy to stay angry and full of wrath fleeting with the tension.

Love you too. She mirrored back and walked out to her car.

They watched her go, both thankful she was never in the habit of slamming doors simply for the sake of drama. The rattling sound would be lost. Mel turned and faced Abby who was scratching at her temple.

“Can we talk about Lydia?”

The brunette signed back later. It was her tell she was exhausted, spent and needed time. Instead of voicing one word she chose to lift her hand and give the gesture and Mel sighed. They were hitting a wall, but she closed the distance between them and kissed her cheek.

“I miss your voice…” she said as she pulled back and looked over the half demon’s intense features and she heard Abby sigh, so slightly, but the deflation was there.

“I’m going to shower.” She replied softly.

“I’ll make tea,” she kissed her other cheek. Abby wasn’t going to share if pushed. They had been together for over a decade, and she knew what battles to choose. It wasn’t new to her but god she wished she didn’t feel so idyl and powerless.

What feels like twenty minutes later Abby comes out in a towel and Mel forgets the tea because who the hell cares when Abby looks at her likes she’s breakable and not as strong as she needs to be and what tried to kill her family will only keep coming. Its palpable, this impending presence. The full picture isn’t available, and everything feels grey, but Abby is with her, a foot away, sipping her tea, looking fragile and forlorn. Somehow, she knows when the facts come it’ll only make everything worse. She waits for her to set the cup down before she wraps an arm around her waist.

 “Come to bed…” she whispers, her voice on the verge, a crack approaching as she tries to hold onto this version of Abby who has accepted her value. But the brunette holds her hand against the counter, unmoving, solid and trapped in her head.

“Don’t retreat...please,” Mel says in a half demand and a plea. They would never be easy, never be anything other than complex and have their duality. Fire and ice, demon and witch.  

Mel pivots slightly and holds her hips, residual heat from the shower still radiating from the brunette who lifts her arm and slides it to the back of her neck, both containing one another to stay closer. Then Abby’s lips are against hers and the kiss is painful, its containing message hurting-she senses the desperation, the undertone of a goodbye in it and absolutely refuses to accept it.

She guides Abby to their bedroom, removes the towel and throws it onto the chair in the corner. Her hands hold her hips, fingertips grazing over bones and kisses her like she’s saying what she’s thinking I will stop your destruction. I’ll help you rebuild what comes after.

Her hand comes up to cradle the back of the brunette’s head and she tenderly kisses her strong jawline, telling her she doesn’t always have to be fierce, that falling apart doesn’t make you any less strong, that her fraying and splitting self was always worth loving.  

She kisses her again, lips connecting because it aches not to, and Abby rids her of her clothes. They collapse into one another-together.

Frantic.
Crashing.
Emotions roaring.

Hands held so tightly it almost burns. She kisses faint scars that stand out in finer, stark white and knows Abby would fully accept taking more if it meant saving Lydia from her own.

She doesn’t trust her voice. It will clench and ravel in her throat, she can feel the muscles rebel as she lays next to her love, the person who has most of her heart and passes her finger over pink lips that have said and showed how much she loves her.

Slowly she withdraws her hand and moves so she’s laying on her back. Then with intense care and grace her fingers move like dancers in a ballet.

You will mend. This will not break you. It will not break us.

Chapter Text

She’s setting up Rules of the Game to be projected on the wall to play with subtitles and on mute as Renoir paintings are surrounding it. A display of absurd talent in a single family and Abby wonders if Jean Renoir had a predisposition for creativity genetically, if he thought and saw not as a painter but a director as his father's impressionist pieces are hung on the walls.

“Brought you lunch,” Mel says as she comes to stand next to her. The witch had taken a good three minutes to simply observe Abby in her black power suit with silver lapels. Abby is contemplative and focused on her work but she steps closer to the smaller woman and kisses her cheek, though she doesn't move away, instead her hands find her waist, resting on her hip as her hand travels back and forth over her body without needing to look anywhere but in dark, brown eyes, like muscle memory.

“Why a film with paintings?” Mel asks curiously as she bends closer into Abby.

“Jean Renoir, brilliant director, beautifully empathetic gay man, son of the painter made a film a reviewer described as the feeling of dancing atop a volcano before it’s about to explode. And it was far ahead of its time displaying xenophobia and the toxicity and overt sensitivity of masculinity,” Abby says easily and with a degree of love and appreciation in her smooth voice.

Mel wishes she'd talk about work more...or talk more period. Abby has been rather quiet for the last couple days since her tense disagreement with Lydia and call to her sister.

“Why do you say he was empathetic?” She asks curiously and to keep her talking as Abby takes her hand and guides her to her office.

“He recused himself from the set when they filmed a hunting scene involving killing rabbits.” She says flatly and leans against her desk, arms crossed over her frame and Mel thinks she looks powerful, and she can’t help but briefly fantasize about having sex in her office…

“Melanie…focus...” Abby softly demands with a smirk.

“I am.”

“What did I last say?” The brunette asks with a head tilt and the older woman doesn’t bother with a cover or even a playback of what she last remembered. She simply smiles and shrugs.

“You’re lucky I’m rather fond of you.” She pushes off the desk and moves her hands to the sides of her neck as she descends and connects their lips, fitting together like she was made for her, and her lower lip is taken and bit. Mel doesn't care anyone can hear them, she moans and brings her an arm around Abby's waist, the other traipses from her stomach to the silvery material of her lapel and forces her closer. The kiss is about to become deeper, they can feel like a crescendo, like drums in a Florence and the Machine song but someone knocks at the door.

Mel looks up and glares at the ceiling and considers god may not exist or was finding this all highly amusing. She feels lips press against her exposed neck, Abigael-ever the opportunist.

“Make it up to you later,” she whispers with a promise and extracts herself from Mel's being. The witch opens the food and sets the chopsticks on the corner of the container as Abby talks to whoever rudely interrupted with her professional voice and Mel tries not to resent them for doing their job. Sometimes she really hates productivity, and she tosses the bag in the trash with a little more energy than she intended and knows its frustration more than anything but presenting the Thai food in the middle of her desk was a reminder for her to eat.

“See you later,” she says when she feels there's a window to step into the halt in conversation. She kisses Abby's cheek and feels an embrace to her own wrist, a tell Abby wants her to stay but can't before leaving. She senses, as most women do when being watched-hazel eyes following her as she walks away.

“How long have you been together?” The artist asks her, drawing her thoughts back to the long list of logistics to tackle as the woman holds the clipboard against her stomach.

“Bit over 10 years.” The brunette replies as she gauges the placement of the screen in front of her.

“Wow. Really?” She asks, disbelieving and Abby frowns and simply replies with a preoccupied yes because why would she lie, though she gets the sense this woman who she's agreed to promote her work isn't being immature but perhaps a little shocked.

“You just…she walks in the room and the rest of the world is dead to you.”

Abby raises an eyebrow.

“Saying it wrong…I’m an artist…I don’t do with the talking. So okay…you’re not a beige person and I’m not at all surprised neither is she and you’re both bright and like…luminescent in how you look at each other is what I'm trying to say.”

“Thank you,” she said with a frown, not accustomed to such commentary and it had frankly taken her a while to accept the artsy types were very open with their honesty as though they all knew life was too short to carry on with facades. “Shall we,” she said as she pointed to the projector as a 'get back to work' gesture.

“Yup,” the slightly younger woman refocused and though was still in awe and hopeful she'd have something similar eventually.

When she got home, she called Waverly. “I have a plan,” she said cutting to the purpose and necessary discussion.

“Hello to you too,” the younger Jameson replied.

“Yes yes, can you come over tonight?” She said with urgency and heard her sister take a deep breath. It had all been a lot the last month. Lydia wanting more independence, Abby being even more protective than usual and getting back into her usual routine of seeing patients.

“What time?”

“In about two hours?” She's not precise and that only means she's thinking of a million things and tense.

“Shall I bring wine? I take it Mel is joining now that she's freed up,” she said easily and didn't hide how she's missed the older woman as she spearheaded a department and really settled into her position.

“Please do and yes.” Waverly hears pots and dishes being moved around, her sister making another big production, complex dinner. “Lydia can join if she'd like,” she adds and Waverly can tell how her sister misses her. Its only been a week but there's been little talking or even texting between the two and its makes them both sullen and brooding.

“I think she's having dinner at a friend's,” Waverly supplies gently. Its the truth but she doesn't want her sister to think her daughter is avoiding her, far from it, she's just tentatively falling in like with someone. She can feel her daughter's hesitancy to love, though she's been supported and loved she's a bit like her aunt regardless-she doesn't rush, she doesn't run towards the risk of loving and not having it come back in return.

“Mm. Just as well,” she hears a drawer being opened, silverware clinking and clacking together. “I have to discuss something of rather dire importance.”

The blonde practically rolls her eyes as she says, “the dramatics” and somehow her older sister can tell because her tone becomes even more serious and lowered.

“I have a mad desire to take us and move us all to a remote country.” There's silence. Abby has completely stopped preparing for dinner and likely has a hand firmly pressed to the counter. Her fears aren't unwarranted. Waverly merely hasn't had the time to process what her older sister has come to.

“You don't think it was a random attack.” She says as her chest tightens, voice trembling.

“No, I don't.” She replies factually and is glad Waverly isn't being passive about it any longer, course she had every right to as she recovered.

“You have your theories?” She questions and she feels a lurching, an unholy truth about to manifest and shatter their little corner of the universe they've built and maintained for their family.

“...I need...to perform a mind meld with you to be certain,” Abby finally replies and waits. She's never asked this of her sister, but she requires all the facts rather than assume her next steps.

“This had better be an amazing dinner,” is the younger Jameson's reply.

“Smells fantastic,” Mel says seconds after walking into their house. There's rosemary and thyme, chicken, roasted potatoes, glazed carrots, pan seared scallops...meaning...

“Waverly's coming over?” Its her favorite after all, with crumbs of maple bacon which the older woman can also smell now that she's standing in the kitchen.

“Yes,” Abby says distracted, and Mel takes in how her thumb is moving in circles over her index finger as intense hazel eyes watch the pans. She takes a long drink of her ice water, the tendons in her hand standing out and veins popping. Mel can tell she's already dehydrated as she finishes the glass.

“Overdue for a social visit.”

“Not entirely social...” Abby admits.

“Oh. There's another reason?” The professor comes up behind the taller woman, wraps her arms around her middle and draws her into her to leave her hands available to still focus on the food.

“Mind meld.” She says flatly. She's tired and just wants proof even if its slightly selfish and she's acutely aware Mel pulls away from her slightly, but it viscerally feels like a mountain.

“You haven’t used your powers in years…” she starts. She doesn’t want to make it seem like she wants Abby to bury part of herself, her demon, darker side, but she remembered whenever she did she seemed drained and hardened as if giving in or tapping into her demonic lineage meant loving less. “…there’s no other way?”

“It's the quickest and safest way to get the information. Unless you’d like me to start torturing random demons and the like for any clues.” She let the option hang in the air and she felt Mel’s sigh behind her.

“You are much smarter than this Abby.” Mel said with clear disappointment slipping in but she kept her arms around her midsection.

“I’m tired of being smart or steps ahead Mel. I need concrete answers instead of ninety-nine percent certainty.” She replied and grasped the older woman’s wrist and twisted around to face her.

“I know, but if you stopped running intellectual laps around everyone else, you’d be denying yourself,” she countered as she tucked brown hair behind her ear that had fallen loose with the turn.

“Rubbish,” she says with a smirk, clearly expressing her denial about denying.

“Speaking of safety…” the witch steers their conversation back to its original, serious points, “I just want you safe.” She says as she rests her palms against the taller woman’s collar bones. 

“I’m doing this for Lydia.” Abby counters factually.

“I know babe. I know, but someone needs to look out for you too.” Her fingers weave into the hair on the back of her neck and massages the tension she expects and finds.

And she’s not surprised when Abby places her hands on her waist, fingers feeling like they’re burning through her clothes, into her skin, as though her love and appreciation of her care and concern makes Abby radiate. The heat is almost overwhelming, but the taller woman brings her hands lower to palm her backside and then smoothly lifts her onto the counter from the back of her thighs. Her arms come up to wrap around pale shoulders for balance and support, but mostly for closeness.  Abby won’t ever drop her, she never has and though she’s composed of lean muscles she’s deceivingly strong, another unexpected trait on the extensive list. Mel feels gently placed on the counter and gives into the kiss, claiming soft lips. “Don’t burn the food,” she warns against the corner of her mouth. She hears Abby gasp with an endearing intake of air that sounds like overly dramatic play acting but is adorably sincere as she completely forgot the elaborate food she’s cooking.  

“Don’t distract me,” Abby says more to the stove as she turns some of the dials down and Mel shakes her head though the brunette can’t see it. Fingers hook through belt loops, and she brings the half demon slowly back into her. She kisses the back of her neck, thankful her hair is already up and breathes her in-the smell of home.

She’s about to slip her hand under her form fitting black shirt but hears the door open.

“I hope Chardonnay pairs well with what we’re having.” Waverly says casually but there’s a smirk as though she enjoys being a bother to her older sister. Mel’s used to it with Maggie and her even stronger little sister energy, but she kisses the side of Abby’s neck and hops off the counter.

“Impeccable timing,” Abby grumbles and takes the bottle but embraces her sister in a short hug. The women walk into the kitchen and Hecate moves fluidly through her legs causing Waverly to bend and pick her up. The cat lolls her head in Mel’s direction and looks at her like saying ‘this is how I should be treated when you come home’. The glaring stopped about eight years ago but the dark feline acts like she’s tolerating her because Abby asked her to be nicer.

“Food or mind meld first?” Waverly asks, blunt as ever.

“Food. It requires a good deal of energy,” Abby stated as she handed the wine to Mel and asked her to open it. By her estimation it would be another twenty minutes before they eat and given Abby’s hard set rule of letting wine breathe its perfectly timed.

“Fine. I’m doing this for Lydia.” Waverly said redundantly, nerves influencing her and Mel is profoundly aware Abby said the phrase verbatim less than an hour ago.

“I know.” Abby replied as she brought glasses down from the cabinet. Mel would have helped but Abby had once teased her she was too short, instead she watched the two volley their concerns back to one another.

“We need to know she’ll be safe….oh god. What if she’s taken and we don’t know where…” her voice rising.

“No. No. Waves-I always know where she is.” The brunette replied easily as she spread her arms across the marble, palms pressing in, looking controlled and certain.

“How?” Waverly says through her hyperventilating and lets Hecate slip down as the fear of all the possibilities bombard her.

“There’s a tracker in the ring I gave her.” 

Mel almost drops the wine opener and barely catches the continued conversation.

"I wish it never happened, all of it," Waverly says with such longing for her daughter to not be damaged, as if she's failed, as if she will never be enough. Its unsaid and Mel for a second wishes she could use her time power to alter their present but she's still processing. 

"But it did happen, like physics. Everything will have its equal and opposing reaction," Abby replied clinically because they're both emotional and invested and Lydia is their world, but Waverly needs the assurances. "She would much prefer to be deaf than be without her mother." 

Waverly comes into the kitchen and embraced her sister, arms straining and Abby kisses her head. When they pull back the blonde subtlety wipes away a tear and grabs a cloth napkin.

The older witch doesn't want to ruin the moment in any way but she needs to know, seeking the truth she already feels settling in her bones.

“The engraved one? That says I love you to the moon and back?” She feels blue eyes on her, gauging her response but a thought occurs without her stopping it. How well played and understated it was to give her something she’d lever take off with its beautiful sentimentality. And she wonders if an engagement ring would also come with a tracker or magical spell implanted in it somehow…infused in its symbolic metal.

The younger Jameson is looking between them, the tension having increased by five folds and she opens her mouth to likely comment on Abby’s overstepping but the soul purpose of why they’re all there walks in with a pizza box. All eyes are on her, Abby in shock she’s here, Mel surprised, and Waverly is simply pleased her daughter wanted to spend time with them and had enough manners to not show up empty handed.

What? The youngest Jameson says with one hand a frown but places the box on the counter. I don’t always want your fancy stuff she finished and is blissfully unaware, like a typical teenager she’s cut the tension.

“Brat,” Abby fake grumbles under her breath and signs with her hands that move in a somehow whimsical, flighty way and Mel takes in the quick shift in Abby’s demeanor, the clench in her shoulders evening out.

She swears the only time the brunette indulges, and eats carbs is when Lydia is over. Pizza with a movie night, breakfast with French toast made from croissants and she didn’t know that was a thing but now it’s tradition whenever Lydia comes over for brunch and the youngest looks so credulous as the girl next door type and innocent in her overalls and t-shirt, seeming so young and approachable, but Mel knows this family and has patiently learned of their upbringing-how they’re all put people at ease when they first meet them. She considers each woman as she looks from Lydia to Waverly to Abby- how they’re pieces of a unit and individuals.

They each had their preferred weapon. Butterfly knife. Mobility. Fire. All deadly, all hidden, all unsuspecting and all fueled by animosity and ricocheting as it couldn’t be contained.

And she watches the other end of the spectrum of emotions as Waverly signs hello my love.

Abby stops her movements of expertly placing the options on each plate to stand straighter and signs I missed you...

Yeah, missed you too. The blonde replies and grabs herself a plate to pile it with multiple slices. She puts one on her aunt’s plate like a peace offering next to her small portion of chicken. The larger helping goes to Mel, scallops for Waverly and they all go to sit at the glass dining room table.

If anyone looked in the large window, they’d see a nearly picture-perfect image of a non-traditional family.  Before they eat Abby remains standing with her glass of wine in her hand. She lifts it in the gesture of a toast and rests it on the placemat so her hands can move freely. She does this rarely, but Mel loves it, and Waverly sits back contently in her chair knowing her sister was about to impart something important.

We should aspire to be as introspective as Dickinson, appreciate nature as Thoreau, be fearless as Didion, as humanistic as Ephron and love as fiercely as Edna St. Vincent Millay.

The word love was said as she looked at Mel and her voice dropped as though it were a holy word.

They each raised their glasses and sipped. Lydia tried to steal her aunt’s wine and her hand was literally flicked away.

“Ah ah,” she said aloud, her niece would get the point.

Soooo pretentious she signed and caught Mel smirking.

Considering you know all those poets and writers whilst most of your peers don’t I’d say you’re as pretentious, my Darling she said verbally and signed.

If Lydia hadn’t just bit into her pizza and her hands weren’t already in use Mel thinks she’d reply whatever but the eye roll intended what it was supposed to do.

How’s school the oldest witch asked with a smile she didn’t realize had formed as she thought the eye roll was somehow genetically ingrained.

Conversation went nicely. Waverly said she enjoyed worked, the black dots that would float across her vision hadn’t been back for over a week and she felt much better, Abby mentioned the gallery, Mel talked about her students that had some great ideas and an hour later Abby cleared their plates and joined them in the living room as Waverly stood expectantly and ready.

What’s happening? Lydia asked and Mel filled in for the adult Jameson’s who looked extreme and intense in a way intense didn’t even come close to describing.

Mind meld. Mel replied and felt her heart quicken because this would reveal a lot or everything and there wasn’t any coming back from it.

Why? The teen asked with another frown.

See who attacked you. Mel gave a thin smile; thankful Lydia was serving as a slight distraction.

Course. Aunt Abby is never going to rest… she sighed and then cracked her knuckles and the charmed one reached over and held her hand as if to say I know and we can’t change her and we shouldn’t.

They watched as Abby raised her hands and pressed her fingertips gently against Waverly’s temples. The blonde gave the briefest nod and then their heads snapped back.

Screeching tires, bags dropped, the smell of rubber and smoke. And red. A stream of blood covering Waverly’s forehead down to her eye.

Abby helps her up and holds her waist, taking her weight and they look around. They don’t want to be there longer than they have to but she pauses her pivot and looks at her sister.

“I would have stopped it.” 

“Yes. But there’s only so much we can do against….” Her eyes scan the crowd, remembering, feeling a presence and eyes that meet hers, boring, locking. Abby follows her gaze and shudders, her breath expels with an unnatural rattling.

“Waves,” she whispers and hates how her voice shakes as she takes her hand. “We’re leaving.” She wills herself to sound inviolable and strong.

Her hands descend and she hears Waverly’s breathing then her own. Their chests are heaving, close to panting.

“I should have let you end her,” Abby finally says, finding her voice but purposefully doesn’t sign what she’s said. What Lydia doesn’t know won’t kill her. “This could have all been avoided,” her hands are in fists as she thinks…in all likelihood…or maybe we’re doomed to this absurd cycle of her wanting power that its become a mobius strip…

“What happened?” Mel signs and says at the same time Lydia signs quickly Mum! What did you see?

Our mother. She signs first then says in a featureless, vacant voice and is forced to swallow against the constriction in her throat even though she knew.

Waverly connects their mirroring blue eyes and gestures to Lydia though it feels alien and tedious, a word she never meant to need or use.

Your grandmother.

Chapter Text

Everything is a blur. Mel offers to put a protection spell on Waverly’s house, but the blonde says one is already in place, her voice is strained, shoulders square and looking ready for battle. She only slightly soften when Lydia picks up Hecate as she watches her whisper, “goodbye you old heathen.” She’s not worried of judgements of how her voice may sound and it’s reassuring Hecate looks back at her like she’s saying ‘who the hell are you calling old.’ They’re an odd pair, the cat loves her, has watched her grow up but she’s little an older sister in cat form.

Abby wants to leave with them and ensure they make it home safely- it all feels so eminent and impending. Can you… she starts signing to her niece but brings her hands in front of her chest and forms her hands into fists. She wants to break something. She wants to hear breaking and glass shattering-something to channel her rage into.

I knew it! I fucking knew it. Our god damned mother.

Maybe Lydia can tell she’s spinning because she gently reaches up and hold’s her aunt’s hands to bring them down and she releases her clenched fingers to sign I’ll text you when we get home. She hates how haunted her aunt looks, how she’s gone rigid and is tightly wound and how her mother looks the same. Part of her doesn’t want to ask about her grandmother, she’s never been very curious since they’ve all tiptoed around the topic as long as she can remember, but she feels she needs to when they get home. 

Love you she signs to her niece who replies with her reassuring consistency to the moon and back. They embrace, everyone eventually hugging everyone else. Mel whispers into Waverly’s ear she and Maggie can come over and reinforce the barrier spell in the morning if she wants and is glad to see the mother not fight it.

They leave and the tension lingers, foggy and moody. Mel looks to Abby and takes in how she’s practically pulsating with energy.

“I fucking knew it,” she whispers harshly, in a way that clearly said I didn’t want to be right. She wanted to be wrong, wanted another option, would have been thrilled if she were mistaken.

Mel is at a loss for words. She wants to put Francesca Jameson in the Tomb of Chaos, wants to be certain she can’t influence her grown children anymore who barely survived her, wants to protect them from her greedy, deplorable selfishness. And wants Lydia to avoid anything to do with her.

“Can we put her in the Tomb of Chaos or something similar?” She finally asks.

“No guarantee she won’t escape.” Abby counters, sounding militant as she goes to the sink to clean up. “Anything is on the table,” she adds as she turns the water on. What Abby means is her mother will do anything she wants to get what she wants. "All is fair in the lack of love and war to her."

Mel stands beside her and takes out a drying cloth and lets the sound of water running somehow soothe them, even if its to a small degree.

Abby washes the dishes and her hands shake less and less as she passes the plates over to be dried but Mel can see the muscles ripple in her jaw she keeps clenching.

“Want to finish the wine?” The witch asks because it’s been years since Abby has used alcohol as a coping mechanism and she trusts her not to lean on that vice.

If Abby were to check in with herself she would have realized she was at the level of ‘Emotional Overload’ but she was choosing to let everything fade to a blackout.

“We should never waste good wine,” the brunette replies naturally, her snobbish comment coming through like a reassurance in the consistent trait.

Mel held their glasses up and had Abby pour an equal amount in each but didn’t pass one over.

“Wait,” she said gently and leaned in, kissing her, trying to take her in, soak up her misery, her sorrow.

But she felt the glasses being removed from her hands and carefully placed on the counter to press their bodies together fully, Mel’s hands immediately went to her waist and Abby’s forearms rested near her neck as her hands round into her hair. The half demon kissed her like she was trying to devour her, trying to crawl in, burrow, belong to her, love, escape…

Tan hands focused on the buttons of Abby’s shirt and was about to undo the line of them but pushed her finger under a pale chin that was tucked into her chest and gently directed up to force her eyes to open. Cause god they were shut tight, and Mel knew Abby was imploding even as she lightly held on, it was like she was huddled in a wooden box.

Even as she’s slightly falling apart, she takes a deep breath and shares, as she’d learned not to hold everything close to the chest.

“Thank you-s are in order...” Abby starts after she creates a small foot of distance between them and hands the wine to Mel. She needs a few seconds.

“For?” Mel takes a sip of her wine and watches Abby do the same knowing the taller woman won’t ‘reach the point of sloshed’ as she’d promised years ago and held to it.

“Not trying to be my moral compass.”

“Mm. Not my job. What’re the others?” Mel says and asks easily.

“You don’t claim me…though you own my heartbeats.”

The charmed one needs to set her glass down. Abby with her unforced elegance was never someone she expected or was prepared to love. She isn’t one for grand gestures but exists in quiet moments like this. Like how she rests her hand on her knee in bed as they read, in making her favorite tea when a migraine is about to hit, in the way she’ll bring her lunch on campus from a fancy restaurant and all her coworkers swoon from Abby’s whole rough around the edges and secretly considerate aura. Smart people know kindness is attractive and the bad, tough vibe is unsustainable in a relationship and Mel knows in many ways Abby is still a nerve ending who goes to great lengths to seem composed. It shows in the smallest gestures-how she flinched when another professor had said ‘oh she’s lovely’ and if anyone blinked, they would have missed it, but Mel remembers Macy mentioning Francesca said without any emotion a heinous request: kill my lovely daughter.

Mel knows she’ll do everything to protect Abby, to stop her from acquiring more emotional scars, avoid mayhem, her soul shattering, her mind from eviscerating-all internal acts and quiet calamity Abby can do alone if left to her solitary world. But she will not let her go down that path, she will take care of her well-being and love her regardless of the toxicity her family, she chooses to love her despite it and she kisses her with the hope she can convey it before she whispers “I love you” because she didn’t, couldn’t leave anything left unsaid.

When she wakes Abby is gone. Quickly she checks the house and notices her clothes are still there, luggage is unused, but she calls her anyway.

“Where are you?” She says with worry and without any accusatory tone because she has a feeling Abby is with or on her way to see her sister and niece.

“Mel,” her voice sounds grave and unfeeling. “I need you to come get Lydia. Waverly’s at work.”

“What happened?” Mel’s anxiety increases.

“There’s a body here, by the house. The protection spell is at least working,” she said critically and then there’s ruffling. Mel imagines Abby put her phone in her pocket to sign to Lydia instructions.

“Why does it sound like you’re in a beehive?” The witch asks as she closes the front door, already on her way.

“It’s flies. Clearly no one knew there was a body here, living in the bloody country.” Abby says more to herself and finally with some emotion in her voice. 

“Ok, I’ll be there in twenty.” She sounds distracted and focused. Though she can’t see her she can bet her life Abby is ringing her hands together, pinching knuckles, moving her lone silver ring in a clockwise motion after she sets the body on fire.

When she finally makes it to Waverly’s house Lydia is standing in the driveway looking small and youthful and so confused and angry. She gets out and immediately is hit with the faint scent of burning flesh. Quickly she hugs Lydia and signs Get in the car please, we’ll talk after… the implication is there-after she talks with her aunt. And Mel feels slightly selfish for focusing on Abby but its more than fine, Lydia is glad Mel’s there and if she wasn’t she imagines her aunt would be a completely different person.

A pile of something is wrapped in rolling flares and amber waves. Abby stares at it but is acutely aware Mel has come to stand next to her. She can tell Abby would prefer to be doing anything than this. She’d love to be in a bookstore-her mental playground, finding the next novel to fall in love with. Fictional characters are easier than real and unrequited love is beautifully one sided and doesn’t leave room for risks.

Their lives are all about risks lately and sparing damage. And its so apparent when Abby says into the consuming fire she created, as if it too can listen “I wish I could be shallow and only see the surface level but I will always look at a fire and wonder if I would burn if I was forced on the stake or if I’m more powerful than the flames.”

Mel’s mind goes blank because what the hell do you say to that? She says what her gut tells her to.

“I won’t let you burn.”

And if a look could leave scorch marks…

Abby knows in her body and mind Mel is in her corner. She loves this earnest woman who has seen more to her than anyone else, has still decided to stay and build a life with her. Their passions haven’t dissipated in years, a fact that envious friends and acquaintances have commented on but what they don’t seem to understand is how much they learn from one another. That she can look at Mel like she holds her complicated heart and it seems severe, like she’s ready for a brutal fight, but Mel is part of her armor.

Its rare but Abby makes the first move and slides her hand into Mel’s. “Take Lydia back to ours and…”

“And what?” The witch asks gently though the cliffhanger is treacherous and too open ended.

“I’ll check in with Waverly to see about our next move against our mother,” she says slowly, like she’s not the one making a majority of the decisions, like she wants her sister to be more involved yet somehow knows her younger sister doesn’t want or need to know all the details, the how isn’t what matters as long as Lydia is safe once their mother is dealt with.

Abby’s frown lines are showing and Mel so badly wants to stop time or turn it back but she raises on her tiptoes and kisses the brunette’s forehead. “Ok. I can help you…” she says redundantly, needing to offer.

“You do,” Abby says softly and glances at the sky with its hidden stars laying in wait for night. “The number of stars in the skies doesn’t come close to how many times I’ve thought about that woman,” she pauses, and she seems so incredibly exhausted when she closes her eyes and doesn’t open them as she continues, “and how many times I’ve tried not to.”

There isn’t anything to say and more than anything Abby’s statement seemed rhetorical and simply needed to be voiced. She hates the woman. God she tries not to really hate anyone but she’s standing in the fucking country, holding the hand of someone she cherishes and feels fucking helpless. She vows Francesca will not touch her family. With another squeeze to her hand she says, “I’ll see you back home” and almost releases her hand until she pulls the brunette closer to her, hand cradled against her chest and squeezes three times. I love you should never go unsaid.

Abby watches Mel retreat and drive off with Lydia whose hands are moving quickly and she catches Mel sign slow down as they leave. The aunt figures it might be the most extremely tense twenty minutes they spend together without a cushioning presence of the older Jameson’s. Lydia is full of questions and demands, rightly so, but Mel doesn’t have all the answers. She’ll give them when she gets back to the house she considers as she lifts her hand and forces the flames higher and intense. The body is nearly gone.

When she gets home Mel’s car isn’t in the driveway or the street. It’s nothing to greatly worry about. They may have picked up dinner or even done something frivolous like going for an ice cream but Abby walks into the kitchen for a much-needed drink and sees a thin figure sitting in her living room. The couch looks more like a thrown as the woman sits regally.

“Hello daughter,” her voice is smooth but sounds like there’s a hissing snake underneath.

“Where are they?” Abby demands and half yells as she conjures a fireball. Though she hadn’t done it in years its immediate and second nature.

“Now now, don’t want to burn down your pretty house.” Francesca says without any sense of dread.

“Where. Are. They?” Abby asks again, far more coldly. She doesn’t care about houses, they’re replaceable. Her people are not.

“You’ve made such a nice, little life for yourself.” She leans back on the couch, completely unbothered by her daughter’s tone. “Art gallery curator, Lydia and Waverly are in your life. Even a partner,” she says sardonically, critically, as though these achievements and what she deems important to her are mundane at best. “You’re fooling yourself with that one. She’ll leave you. Waverly too once she realizes you’ve let her daughter die and she stops loving you out of guilt and obligation.” She flicks a speck of nothing off her stylish designer pants for the sake of drama.

“Enough!” Abby says with such hostility it spreads through her entire body.

“Right. Enough chit chat and catching up,” the English woman says with a smirk, “let’s go.” She stands, raises her arm and teleports them to an abandoned warehouse.

Abby distantly registers it’s starting to thunder, and lightning should come next, as though her mother brings storms. The entire sky has darkened but the lightning never strikes, and she realizes as Mel looks at her but is immobile, hands behind her back, as Lydia is slumped and unconscious, her torso bound to a pillar, the thundering is in her chest.

Billowing thoughts rise like hot air balloons while Francesca threatens Mel and Lydia with hands pointed at each of them-arms wide and open ready to send Mel to the bottom of an ocean or Lydia to the highest peak of a mountain. She can do it with the flick of her wrist, and she won’t care as long as she gets what she desires from one of their deaths after taking all she can.

“Kill a charmed one for her power or my granddaughter for her beauty.” The older woman says casually like its another day, the mindless killing, that she’s stalked them for years. She’s aware Mel is a charmed one, though Abby doubts she really knows about them in detail, hell-she only referred to Mel as her partner, not by name because she only ever cares about power and how to maintain it.

The devil knows Francesca Jameson isn’t picky.

But Abby can tell Francesca doesn’t know Lydia has powers if she only commented on her appearance. None of them really know what her abilities are, that’s the beauty of being young, she has time to figure it out if they survive.

Mel looks at her likes she’s saying we aren’t going to end like this. She will not become singular because Abby is an endless list of emotions and things to her: love above all else, but worthwhile difficulties and books and dreams and tears and regrets and hopes and poetry and compromises and futures and aches and integrity and the ‘ands’ are infinite, but they all feel frail as Francesca raises her hands like they contain invisible ammunition.

Their eyes lock and she wishes they hadn’t. “Your sister should have killed my lovely daughter when I offered her an ultimatum on a silver platter. What was her name? Marcy? Mary?” She moves her hand in a dismissive circle. “Doesn’t matter.”

Mel wants to vomit from Francesca’s callous words and the message-her fixation on looks and how Abby was like a doll she grew tired of playing with, so she put her in a toy chest. It’s a wonder how Abby is loving as she stands there like stone, hearing and listening to her mother, unflinching like she’s heard far worse. And she thinks of Macy-brilliant, beautiful, strong Macy who would be disgusted by all of it.

And she looks at her, sees her swallow and her eyes that have a film of water, tears refusing to give Francesca the joy and satisfaction she caused them, ironically giving fuel to the fire. But Abby chooses to ignore the woman and whispers, “I have tried to be better in spite of her and I have loved you in the process.”

Then she fully focuses on Francesca and Mel can see it hurts her to even look at the evil woman. “Her name was Macy.” She says solidly and with a degree of reverence as she plants her feet and Mel swears, she sees Abby’s hazel eyes go darker but the half demon is forced to refocus when Lydia starts to stir and wake.

Francesca’s arms descend and come to rest by her side as she observes Abby’s entire demeanor change and lessen in rigidity. The oldest daughter takes a step towards her niece and Lydia cries out in an unusual use of her voice as the ropes around her tighten. Mel and Abby look back at the older woman who has clearly stolen more magical skills. The half demon’s movements halt though she glares at the woman who begrudgingly raised her but she looks back at her niece and signs quickly with as few words as possible: We’re going to get out. I promise. I love you.

Love you too. Lydia signs back and Abby frowns, the reply not being enough, not their usual, but she doesn’t believe it. She looks to Mel whose mouth is gagged and covered and wills her to somehow confirm her reaching theory.

I love you. She signs slower, with purpose as though stressing each gesture. She needs to make sure

Love you too! The girl replies emphatically and her eyes flit to Francesca’s then back to Abby’s.

Its not to the moon and back.

Abby turns to the woman who she refuses to call mother, hands ablaze, fire dancing between her fingers and Mel watches the ten seconds of silence between them. It’s not heroic. There’s no martyrdom and no begging from either party. Only 10 seconds is what it takes for all her grace to fall- her semblance of humanity trying to leave her body.

10

No wrath.

9

No love.

8

No cares.

7

No mercy.

6

No past.

5

No burdens.

4

No hate.

3

No thoughts.

2

No emotions.

1

Nothing.

Yet she says with such command, “Where the hell is Lydia?”

Chapter Text

“Misanthropic romantic,” she mumbles contently against her neck after a kiss.

“Take that back.” Abby says with a smirk as she leans into Mel.

“Oh. Such a travesty I’m calling it like I see it?” The witch replies with absolute certainty Abby loathes many parts of humanity but still chooses to love her. It shows as she turns her head and looks down at her lips. They’ve been together for five years and it still feels like they met a month ago. Verbal teasing is part of their whole dynamic, a facet of their love language.

“You’re lucky I just like snarky brunettes.” Abby states with her own smirk.

“And you’re lucky I like nerdy women composed of contradictions,” the charmed one countered before she connected their lips, invaded her space and Abby with her still intact walls lets an emotional drawbridge descending to welcome her.

“Who’re you calling a nerd?” The English woman acts faux offended but doesn’t deny it.

“You literally listen to classic books on audio, I’ve caught you glaring at your tablet to see you playing chess, you take great enjoyment in pointing out Maggie’s typos when she texts you…” she starts what could be a long list and stands between the taller woman’s legs.

“Okay professor-we get it-you’re good at professing,” she cuts her off and nips her neck.

“I’m good at other things too…”

Her eyes are shut so fiercely her temples hurt and she takes a few seconds to mentally escape. She’d give anything to not be in the present, not uncertain and fucking useless.

She forces her eyes open and abandons the the very appealing desire of getting lost in memories as she struggles against the ropes around her wrists. Mel couldn’t do anything but watch Francesca who looked like a feral wolf, slightly crouched and Abby-a lioness, of course, muscles rolling-ready even though she’s hardwired to self-sacrifice. She’ll suffer all the levels of hell if it means saving the two people trapped and held out of her reach.

“Where the hell is Lydia?” She hears Abby ask.

“That’s strictly a need-to-know basis.” Francesca replies without a damn care in the world and her audacity and psychopathic delivery makes Mel’s mind split. How this malevolent, vindictive woman helped create Abby and Waverly is outside any understanding and she fights harder because god does she want to beat the woman into a coma so she can sleep through her days in night terrors.

The older woman takes a step towards her and makes the imposter Lydia vanish, clearly whoever they were served their purpose, but Mel recoils and pushes back against a beam and almost cries out audibly if it weren’t for the material over her mouth. She starts to get up, strong legs pushing her off the ground. She won’t die cowering and she’ll look the spiteful woman at eye level through this. As she rises, she feels something sharp scrap her hand and feels a cut opening.

“Where is she?” Abby asks again, voice low, threatening, and livid. She’s already imagined her mother on the floor, convulsing in a heap, concaved, and forced into a fetal position as a wished outcome as she's wrapped in flaring, magical fire.

“Such a broken record,” Franchesca drawls nonchalantly, like she’s amused Abby cares and loves as much as she does but she can’t relate because people have only been tools to her. “How cute you have your own language together. That she comes over for movies and have this illusion of normalcy.” It’s said with disgust as though pizza night and reading books with niece have been pointless and dull when she expected Abby to be exceptional regardless of how often she’d vocally beaten her down.

Mel’s mind practically explodes with anger. Abby lives for those moments and loves the stillness she and Lydia have together. Her niece is the only one who calms her instantly and Mel has never been jealous of it because its so damn beautiful to see.

“Do not say anything about them!” The witch proclaims after she removes the material.

As the Jamesons were busy with their sparring she painstakingly serrated the rope with whatever metal piece was available behind her.

Now she had two large, pointed icicles aimed at Francesca. “Just stop!” From her periphery she can see Abby’s fireball grow larger as if Mel being in the fight empowered her. The flames are the only thing that moves as the witch freezes them. She wishes Lydia could hear if she screamed her name but hates how futile it would be and that’s assuming she’s nearby.

She takes the few steps closer to Abby to stand next to her and almost has a heart attack when a sphere of energy forms breaking her concentration and Abby’s fireball goes wide, barely singing Francesca’s hair.

The woman brushes it the ashes off her shoulder like the act was a slight nuisance and releases a small huff as she looks at the three women.

“Here’s the thing: this doesn’t end well for you.” The petite woman says, cutting to the chase.

“Who the hell are you?” Franchesca asks with a frown and seems more bothered by the interruption than threatened, audacity knowing no bounds.

“Her sister,” she says pointing to Mel. “Keep up.” Maggie says with attitude that hasn’t quelled over the years.

“And why should I care at all what you have to say?” She replies haughtily, dismissively as she raises her hands and bends them, making them appear more like claws than fingers, hands that have never loved whole heartedly. 

The youngest Vera shrugs and replies, “I can see into the future” like it’s not a big deal. But her voice changes to hold power and poise a second later. “This is how it plays,” she pauses and presses her feet into the ground in a fighting stance Jordan has taught her. “You die. The good side wins-their lives will be better once you’re gone. And they will barely think of you.”

“Or its all a ruse." She narrows her cold eyes. "And you’re stalling,” Francesca replies easily.

“I’m not,” Maggie says with a tilt to her head and turns her hand up to look at her watch. “But a surprise is on its way.”

They all look between one another, Maggie’s knowing eyes, Francesca’s narrowed ones, Abby’s fierce gaze and Mel’s darkening browns.

The building starts to shake, like bones breaking, a creaking of joints and a beam crashing into the ground. Cement cracks and forms veins, the windows rattle, glass falls and as the dust settles, Mel’s ears stop ringing and Abby looks around with such confusion until they show relief.

Lydia is standing near Maggie, hand moving like they’re throwing bullets but forming words.

“Surprise,” Maggie says softly with a smile.

Still trying to work out my powers. She shrugs and quickly continues Its why I unfortunately missed the heinous bitch.

Language Abby signs fast and doesn’t see the eye roll from her teenage niece as she brings her into her body and crushes her against her, the embrace almost brings pain but they both accept it as the smaller girl nearly fractures her aunt’s ribs with her return. Its real-the pain-which means they're together. Alive. And its so fitting for them-how their love breaks bones and hurts.

Witch. She signs after she pulls away and smirks, the charade of being tough a learned trait from her aunt, but the older woman sees through it.

Go with Maggie. She demands and looks at Maggie who nods like she understands some of the signing and gives a nods to her sister, their own non-verbal communication as they see Francesca rise from the floor after she was knocked down from the intense impact.

Abby waits and watches. Her mother fluidly waves her hand through the air to dissipate the dust and her eyes flash red when she looks at her daughter.

The half demon has calculated it in advance. It shocks her Francesca hasn’t attacked them until recently. She’s had years to do it. And she’ll just keep coming, like a plague, a one-woman army with a fixated goal. Abby can’t let it continue.

So she waits. And watches. Maggie and Lydia leave, but her niece glances back at her with a layered look of pride and remorse-feeling what she’s about to do and inevitably must. The glowing ball of energy from an orb Maggie throws pulls Francesca’s focus and Abby takes the chance.

Only the faint sound of whirling. Of metal moving like wings-cantering until being stopped and impaled. No witty comeback, no clever retort.

Franchesca looks down at her chest to discover silver, sharp stars half embedded. The pain hasn’t hit yet, so she opens her mouth to vault a plethora of cruelty and hatred at her daughter, but red liquid comes out, dripples, and puddles at her feet. The worst, gentle cascading waterfall to be seen.

Mel takes it in like she’s watching a film. Its not that she can’t believe it, she certainly can because Francesca crafted her death as much as Abby did but the woman takes a step towards them and her knees give out, pounding into the unforgiving floor. Her hands rise and seem like talons, her last action holding the intention of infliction.

Abby takes a step towards her, Mel doesn’t know with what purpose, but she slides next to her and holds her hand, halting her. She needs her to stop, and she desperately wants her to know she isn’t alone in the crucial destruction of a life, this particular life of someone who was supposed to love her but had done the exact opposite time and again. It is not all on Abby to do and she is not an island unto herself with the burdens from this moment surrounding her like boulders.

She gives three squeezes to the woman who she loves so deeply that she’s willing to form a dense block of ice in her dominant hand and she relinquishes her hold to Abby and thanks any higher power who may be listening a thank you for not allowing Francesca Jameson to rain vitriolic words onto them.

The incredibly strong block of ice is pushed into the silver star that’s most imbedded in the English woman’s chest, a slamming finality. Her eyes become lackluster, her life fades and Abby never looks away.

Chapter Text

She looked at the three women before her with all their differences and overlapping similarities and beautiful uniqueness. They were talking and signing, reading one another’s hands, gestures, facial expressions, and Abby for the first time in weeks felt emotions brew and come to the surface. Maybe it was because there were all together for the first time in the few weeks that felt like months, maybe because they inspired her to care and love but it was a lot, an overwhelming rush and she cracked her knuckles in some attempt to uncoil and ready her hands for what she was about to say. She saw the two hearing women turn to her at the sharp sound and Lydia’s eyes followed next, their conversations halted as Abby took one step closer to them, but still the furthest away from the intimate group.

You’re my queendom. She signed to Mel and chose not to use her voice, not having conviction it’ll sound strong and sure when she wants to.

You’re my empire. She shifted and signed to Waverly. My pillar. She thinks.

You’re my crown. She focused on Lydia and moved her fingers with strength because she was stating irrefutable facts, though they were deeply rooted with the fickle influence emotions held.

The box of tissues floated through the air to hover in front of Waverly who looked at her daughter that gave a tilt to her head as if saying take some, your eyes are leaking. The mother took the tissue and gave her attentive child a small smile. It wasn’t often Abby was so open and forthcoming with how she felt. In many ways she’s been more subdued and withdrawn.

Even when it had only been the two of them and she had asked her older sister, “it’s over?”

Abby nods and it was final. “Good riddance,” the blonde says with a mixture of relief and bitterness.

They hadn’t even said hello, she had gone to Waverly’s house while Lydia was on a date with her girlfriend and as soon as she walked through the door the blonde has asked, needing it to be done. They wouldn’t mourn Francesca, it wasn’t warranted, and she hadn’t earned such respect but there was still a strange loss and absence from their world, a reduction in their family tree. Though Waverly would have gladly helped chop off a limb, she could see how Abby being the one to take a metaphorical axe altered her. She pulls her taller sister towards her, and she stands rigid with arms at her side, unexpecting the embrace and slowly returns it, she can practically feel Waverly will her strength into her, to not fall back into darkness, and more importantly not allow their mother to take more from her.

“Will you stay and talk?” She asks her sister who clearly wants to leave and retreat into isolation that would only add to her sense of separateness. The brunette considers it, if she’s ready, if she’s strong enough to talk about a woman who was more a demon than a mother.

“Only if I get to play music.” She counters as if she’s compromising. “I need a slight distraction,” she mumbles, losing some of her eloquent accent as she emotionally prepares.

“Course.” Waverly replies with a squeeze to her hand then drops her to sit in her chair as Abby takes her go to spot-the couch because Lydia often takes the spot next to her but the brunette works at her phone and pulls up a playlist.

The blonde reads it over after her sister sets it on the table. “Why would you name it sad songs about fall?” She asks amused, though its autumn and she caught Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton, Fleurie, Cat Power, Sleeping at Last, The National and Taylor Swift is compiled on the list. She’s always been a fast reader, practically an only child forced into finding ways to occupy herself.

“Taylor Swift said it on the NPR Tiny Desk session,” Abby says with a shrug and without any hesitancy that she enjoys her songs, at the least appreciates them. 

“Be more of a nerd-I dare you,” Waverly challenges with a smile and is glad they can tease one another and alleviate some of the heaviness that’s settled over them since…

“Mel calls me her big brain,” she says with a smirk, but ever the therapist, Waverly pushes as little sisters do.

“And you like being hers?” She asks, though knows the answer. Its asked more out of curiosity what her broody, still waters run deep sibling will say. Abby’s frown deepens as she wonders how much of herself is really hers, how much Mel is mostly her reason for continuing when Francesca could have killed her. How well she knows herself or is merely a reaction to how she’s been treated. If she would be more like Waverly and gentler, more approachable, less apt to expect the worst in those she comes across. But she remembers one of the first emotions she ever consciously registered was fear. She must have been four and her mother put her in a painting while her coven was over. She didn’t want to rouse suspicion that Abby’s fingernails were chipped, broken, and repairing from the wooden crate.

Waverly reaches across the space and holds her hand that she’s been ringing together, fingers turning white as she pinches the tips, hiding her nails as if the chips and cracks are back.

“Yes, I’m hers…she’s my lighthouse.” She whispers because sometimes truths are delicate, fine things.

“She stops you from being lost at sea?” The blonde grips her hand again, reassurance in being present.

“You know I hate armchair psychology, Waves,” Abby says with annoyance and a pull back of her hand, an obvious misdirection when she doesn’t want to be so raw and exposed.

“You’d prefer to sit and listen to your sad songs, stay in your head and ruminate on everything horrible Francesca did to you so you can feel validation in what happened-what needed to be done so we would all be safe?” The younger Jameson asks with patience and specific words that don’t hold blame because Abby rarely talks about her childhood. She can count on one hand the times she has.

“Waverly don’t.” The former demon overlord warns. And though it isn’t hostile there’s an edge, but the blonde hears the plea in it more than anything.

“We’re only talking…” the mother tries gently. Part of her wonders if this is how she’ll talk to Lydia when her daughter is hurt because they’re very similar, some of the best and worst traits are in both figures who are incredibly important to her.

“-You know bloody well what you’re doing. You’re pushing,” she says in anger and lets out an annoyed huff as she rings her hands together, knuckles turning white and pink to pale and white again as she internally fights her thoughts.

“Because I love you. And you should talk about it. Lydia said you’ve barely replied to her texts,” Waverly adds and it’s a low blow, overtly manipulative and they both know it based on Abby’s narrowing eyes that look hurt and like she’s never enough, like she’s constantly falling short.

“I’m not going to tell her whilst helping Jordan on his quest to save witches…he came across one trapped in a painting and when released her the first thing she said was don’t put me back-just kill me and I thought I’ve said those words to our mother. Nearly exact.” She lets out a long sigh as if it pained her to give the information.

Waverly tries to break it down. How Abby holds back with Lydia, how she only gave Jordan credit in saving someone, and how she pleaded with their mother to end her existence if it meant going in the crate again.

“I’m so sorry Abby,” She says as she moves closer to her sister who allows her hand to be taken again. “And I’m so glad you’re alive.” She tries to sway her towards a different perspective.

She watches her sibling swallow, throat rippling, seeming like there’s a vice around it.

“Your apology isn’t the one I want,” she admits softly. “But thank you.” She says more solidly.

They sit in silence and let the many meanings of their statements sink in. Waverly tilts her head towards the music, listens intently and considers the lyrics.

I am easy to find
There's a million little battles that I'm never gonna win anyway
I'm still waiting for you every night with ticker tape, ticker tape

“Beautiful song,” she notes softly, mostly to herself. “Certainly a fall song, perfect for an evening” she smiles at her sister. “But you haven’t been easy to find lately…”

“Been going on walks-clear my head…” Abby supplies with closed eyes, head cast down and Waverly sees the dark circles under her eyes are prominent from that angle.

“Very Kantian of you,” the younger Jameson observes with a smile, knowing Abby will understand the reference as they both enjoy philosophy books as pleasure reading.

“Well…Sapere Aude…” Abby sums up as if it explains everything she’s been feeling and trying to process.

“I imagine you have a slew of reasons…” the blonde says in a leading way.

“Occams razor and all that,” the oldest said flippantly and it feels like a sufficient answer, but Waverly looks at her with a pulling expression to elucidate.

“But some things can’t be simplified Abby…” Waverly tries with such a gentle voice as they tread into war torn territory of discussing their upbringing.

“I know that,” she states with a sharp breath, immediately regretful she’s being short with her sister. “I know she didn’t care about me or love me,” she admits quietly.

“She only loved herself,” Waverly asserts, and Abby’s surprised by her reply. Her sister was never put in a painting or confined in a crate, but she knows she’s experienced the darkness and control of their mother in other ways.

She braces for what her sister is about to express and willingly share because she feels it in her tired bones-Waverly is about to reveal memories she’s tried to lock away, reticent in her pausing as they both knew sharing might lead to relating but also came with more emotional luggage. 

“The tea parties she’d have with me…I couldn’t leave them. She’d do a mobility spell and it was more like a play, it was expected I would know the script…and if I guessed wrong, she’d force my mouth closed…if I ever suggested you join us or even mentioned you.” Her voice is robotic.

God in hell her chest hurts and she looks at her younger sister, her slow, deliberate breaths and how she’s barely moving like she’s back there. There’s no thought-no hesitancy-she gets up from the couch, takes her sister’s scarred hand, a reminder-further proof she’s a bad person and how she wishes it never happened, but she loves her sister, has always longed to adore her and be the protective, big sibling, a cliché of a role she’d gladly be cast in.

They stand and Abby moves over on the couch to make room for Waverly who she pulls into her side, wraps an arm around her shoulder and they burrow into one another, supporting and encasing.

“We’re better off without her,” Waverly finishes because it was enough emotional giving for one day. Abby kisses the top of her head, an act she’s done to Lydia so often, but it feels right to do so with the other matriarch of the family.

Mel smiled and made a mental note to discuss this in private. Waverly nodded and Lydia set the floating tissues back on the table then signed slowly and with thought You’re My Map. You’re how I get home.

Every woman stood in awe how the sixteen-year-old can be so self-aware and kind. Also, incredibly observant as she peered at all of them then signed what? Aunt Abby isn’t the only one who gets to be randomly poetic. The last word given in a flighty, slightly mocking gesture.  

Abby only smiled and gladly took the playful jab as she thinks her niece is rather dynamic. She had come over post classes, days after the kidnapping and sprang into the house-literally, making a few chess pieces fall over. Luckily, they didn’t shatter as they hit the rug and the teen is thankful for it because god forbid her aunt have classic, wooden figures like a majority of people. She knows her aunt hates natural wood and has been meaning to ask why but she’s too excited and had been really focused lately.

BEHOLD! She signed and theatrically gestured, making her aunt smirk at her antics and she paused for dramatic effect, with a crooked smile then made a clock float. She opened it in a contained explosion-all its gears and pieces holding still in the air then she moved her hands together and everything went back. The aunt heard the faint ticking seconds later as she watched the secondhand move.

That’s an antique Darling. Abby signed and followed with an eyebrow raise. But very good. Very impressive. She said with a smile. Clearly her niece had been practicing, possibly to the point of obsession.

Thank you. Metal handcuffs…. She let out a frustrated sigh, having been livid to the point of tears from not being able to get them off sooner to help her aunts Abby and Mel, it’s what they are to her-family she couldn’t get to.  

You don’t know how hard it is to imagine the inner parts breaking when your hands are behind your back. She said with a slightly smug smile and an edge of arrogance now that they’re all safe and she feels more confident with her power as her switchblade floats in the air, flicks open from her mind and she spun it in fast circles. 

I’ll take your word for it little Houdini. Stop showing off the brunette signed playfully with a genuine smile and closed the space between them to ruffle her hair. Lydia pushed her long strands out of her face to reveal a smile and joy at what might be a new nickname then grabs her preferred weapon and slides it into her back pocket, its usual resting spot.

So you control metal?  Mel asked, making her presence be part of the conversation and not just an observer. The youngest Jameson knew her other, unofficial aunt doesn’t like to encroach on her time with Abby, but Lydia is glad to see pride in Mel’s eyes.

I think its how I stopped the truck with mum.  

Of course, it all makes sense in a slightly painful, this is reality and it can’t be changed fact. They’ve accepted it, rolled with what life has dealt them as there’s really nothing else to do, but some part of Abby ponders if Lydia’s life would be easier if she were less magically attuned as she goes on her walks.

Mel respects Abby’s need for space and her method of handling her thoughts but the professor questions if Abby is allowing herself to grieve. Even if it’s a memory or a dream.

When Abby comes home close to midnight, exhausted and slowly sinks onto the edge of the bed to take off her shoes she flexes her feet and Mel holds her tongue at suggesting the half witch simply buy sneakers but she can only imagine Abby would look at her like she’d just committed a heinous faux pas. Walking miles in heels to decompress is physically taking its toll but she’s not about to buy her comfortable shoes when they’ll be a pointless purchase. There are more important things she needs to address, and she tries as she slides her hand under the insomniac’s shirt and rubs her lower back, attempts to work out the tension that has turned her softness into hard muscles.

She wants to choose a safe starting point…

“I saw what you did earlier. Queendom huh?” She says with a smile and knows it affects her voice, making it sound lighter though the room is heavy with Abby’s unrest.

“Kings are overrated,” Abby notes after a few seconds pause, enjoying Mel’s hands on her and how they don’t ask anything of her but instead are only trying to make her feel better. “Queens have all the power,” she adds, nearly an afterthought but her life has been one chess move after the other, a lot of defenses and attacks.

Mel’s confident hands press into her back harder. She’s come to kneel behind her, sitting up, knees by Abby’s hips, and she slowly removes the dark shirt the brunette seems too tired to remove herself. She rests her hands on stiff shoulders before she applies pressure to the base of her neck with her thumbs to start a massage. A minute passes and she wishes patience was her strong suit, but she asks, “can we talk about it?”

Its so quiet she can hear Abby open and close her mouth multiple times as she’s starts but holds back. And its acutely clear Abby is contemplating and debating how to even approach such a debilitating topic no matter how open ended, democratic Mel has presented it. She feels the older woman press her lips to her temple as if she can pacify the battle. Abby turns her head into her, pulls back to connect their lips and is more than willing to be led into needed embraces, but Mel pulls away and swallows as if trying to suppress her own desire.

 “It’s obscene to have had hope.” She states slowly and with such a somber tone the witch has to will herself to not resent a dead woman more than she already does.

“Abby…” Mel whispers like it hurts her, how this woman in her arms has never been an optimist. She wonders, but refuses to voice it-when did Abby lose her innocence-when it was snuffed out and taken?

“It took me years…for it to click there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with me internally, that…no matter what I did…and…how she molded me it wouldn’t be enough. It makes me an idiot,” she stressed the last word bitterly-“to ever think she would apologize in my lifetime.” She says as her voice sounds brittle through her difficulty breathing-a subtle suffocation.

Mel brushes her thumb up and down the tense muscle in Abby’s neck. Even she needs a few seconds to compose her voice though she knows she’ll say the first thought that viscerally comes to mind.

“No babe, it makes you human.”

Abby turns her head and looks at Mel, really looks at her and wonders how she constantly manages to pull her to shore to stop her from drowning, like a reverse siren.

Bewitching. Abby thinks and doesn’t realize she’s said it aloud until Mel squeezes her hand and says, “I’ll take it,” and she’s rewarded with the barest of thin smiles, but an expression Abby has gone without for days so she doesn’t stop herself from twisting around to kiss the corner of her mouth and bring Abby into her so she’s sitting in her lap. A rare position but one she loves as she cradles the back of a slender neck and she feels Abby weave her fingers into her hair at the base of her head. Mel moves her other hand down to the already exposed lower back but feels something very solid under the fabric of her pants pocket. She’s about to check but Abby reaches behind her and catches her wrist while moving into her so her hand is further out of reach. 

“Wait. I don’t want you to get cut,” she whispers near her ear with a degree of urgency then fluidly gets up and stands. Mel’s mind flat lines a little as Abby smoothly removes herself and is before her in her lingerie bra and carefully takes out the throwing star from the back pocket to set it on the side table, followed by another one. Mel looks like she wants to ask an assortment or questions, but Abby beats her to vocalizing them.

 “I’ve had them on me since the mind meld.” She sighs. “Now its just habit.” Mel feels herself nod then becomes aware of it and frowns.

“You’re safe now. You don’t have to carry them anymore babe,” she says softly and looks into hazel eyes that carry an abundance of hidden truths and authenticities.

But still Abby looks conflicted as if voicing them made it more real.

“Will you come back to bed?” Mel asks without any underlining meaning but isn’t surprised when Abby smirks at her in a way that suggests she’d contently use sex as a means to stop talking.

“No.” Mel replies solidly with a raised eyebrow and Abby deflates, looking practically chastised, but Abby is incredibly easy to read and has been for over a decade.

“You can lay on me but we’re having more of this conversation,” the smaller woman states and hooks her finger through the beltloop to maneuver the taut woman closer. They settle into bed, Abby’s lips by Mel’s collar bone, hand at her hip, Mel’s hand on hers and they breathe together until Abby feels more certain.

“I went with the throwing stars because they’re a mortal weapon… and unexpected, as she would have assumed I’d use my fire power. But humans are so efficient at killing aren’t they?”

The witch turns and kisses the pale forehead beneath her, somehow glad Abby is intelligent, strategic at times, and her intelligence has been part of the reason why she’s still here. “They can be,” she replies softly. “I think there’s more to it, though your other reasons aren’t moot.”

Abby bites her lower lip. It felt too soon to talk about it all, but she also senses it was now or never. “She didn’t deserve to see the witch side of me,” her voice comes out labored. “I didn’t want her to believe“ she pauses, nearly wheezing, “my power came from her. We’re strangers and she didn’t have a right to know me. But she also never wanted to know me.” Abby practically stops breathing from the truth of the statement, how the heaviness is crushing, and Mel spreads her hand against the woman’s lower back, holding her there as if proclaiming you’re important and you matter to me. Even as she tried to reduce you and make you smaller. She feels Abby breathe again. “I think it made it easier to kill her.”

“Its very much her loss. You’re a good person Abby,” Mel states honestly but she hears an annoyed huff from the woman who is stoic and yet fragile so she places her index finger under her pale chin and lifts her gaze so she can look at her. “You are a good person Abigael.”

The brunette swallows and does her damnedest to hold back tears but they’re forming and its like a lake rippling if a rock skipped across the surface.

She gently pushes Abby away from her so they can sit up and focus on her one hundred and ten percent as she holds her hand, her other coming to press against her neck, her thumb moving in circles on her jaw she keeps clenching, trying in vain to not allow tears to be taken by gravity.

“You’re good. She wasn’t.” She says with an unwavering conviction but will not go as far to voice the woman was unadulterated evil. “And god I am so glad she couldn’t speak after…” she can’t bring herself to say after you struck her, “but I don’t think a farewell…heartfelt goodbye was going to happen between you two. But you deserved better and better than her.” Mel knows the sinister woman would have only pontificated as she enjoyed the sound of her own voice, of controlling, commanding a room.

“I clearly didn’t,” Abby counters, her voice raising and she takes her hand away as if she doesn’t deserve comfort, understanding, the right to grieve, loss and the lack of closure. “Can we stop talking about this? I’ve already had this conversation with Waves.” She tries to pull her hand away, but Mel maintains the hold with gentle strength.

“Please,” Mel pleads, and her tone changes to an undercurrent that speaks volumes of do not cross this line “do not lash out at me simply because Francesca isn’t here. Too Freudian. And humor me here? We’ll likely have different responses,” she adds, though she sees Abby’s exhaustion and hesitancy.

“You’re right…” Mel notices the anger is directed inward as Abby clenches her jaw.

“I’m sorry,” she offers sincerely.

“Accepted,” the charmed one says easily because they don’t need to backtrack on Abby lashing out in small ways when it’s so rare and a very human action from a culmination of a piece of her past coming to an end and still having to reconcile with not letting it take over. “And I wish you had a different childhood, Abby. I wish it so much. But how would your life be if it was altered and better or healthy? Would you have the same personality I love? Would Waverly exist? Would Lydia? An entire domino effect…”

Abby tilts her head and internally admits she’s never come close to that particular thought process. She doubts Waverly has either, because when you’re in it and existing you’re not about to wade into an alternative universe brought on by magical thinking.

“Have I told you recently how I love your mind?” Abby expresses softly.

Mel smiles and it reaches her eyes, “last month actually. But I’ll take a genuine compliment anytime.”

“Noted.” The taller woman gives a serious nod though the witch was aiming for a lighter tone to steer the mood but she appears lost in thought. 

“Hey, come back,” the older woman whispers.

“Okay,” she looks at her, refocused and she knows she’s made promises to Mel-the woman who helped end her mother, can replay the chunk of ice formed and held in Mel’s hand as she collided it with Francesca’s chest. She hadn’t done it alone and she’s beyond grateful the charmed one compromised on her moral code with harming witches and hopes it won’t be thrown at her in anger and resentment in the future, but she shivers at the thought. She glances away from beautiful brown eyes she could describe in absurd detail and looks at the clock. Its close to 1 AM but she doesn’t care.

“Take a shower with me?”  

“If you tell me what this is from,” she counters as she runs her fingertip on the intense frown lines and the crinkle in her eyebrows she still loves because Abby is so expressive in her eyes and forehead, betraying the rest of her placid exterior.

“Promise,” she gets out, barely above a whisper and almost unheard by Mel as she gets off the bed with her hand out for the witch to take.

Mel doesn’t expect to be gracefully pushed against the door frame and kissed like she’s the reason Abby’s still sane and alive. Her heartrate speeds up as pale hands hold her waist, a lean body pressing into her and Abby faintly remembers she’s already half naked and wants balance as she removes Mel’s silk top. Strong hands come up and cradle her head and Mel has given up forming concrete thoughts. Abby leans into her again but with her thigh between her legs and she moans, a deeper sound follows from Abby like an echo, consistent as it always does.

Abby moves further into her space. Its not physically possible to be any closer and Mel can barely get a full breath in but she doesn’t care, apathy be damned, she enjoys the weight against her, how solid Abby is and how good she is at encasing her with warmth.

“Absolution,” she mumbles against her lips with a break in their kiss.

“What?” Mel questions with a frown.

The thought and acknowledgment she needs Mel and fears her resentment makes her hold her closer in what feels like a vain attempt to stop a hypothetical. The smaller woman reciprocates with a gentle hold around Abby’s ribs that allow her to feel the rapid fluttering of her heartbeats despite how calm she seems and she tucks a curl of hair that’s fallen forward behind her ear as Mel thinks enigmatic. She’ll be with Abby the rest of her life and still feels parts of her will continue to be a mystery. So she waits for the complex woman to expand her well-curated thoughts, her layered emotions.

“We’ve never been a black and white, easy relationship,” she kisses her shoulder. Her neck next. “We’re a grey area,” lingers on her lips then against her temple as her hand dips into her silk, loose shorts after she pulled the ribbon slowly, forcing the bow to unravel. “But there are unwavering truths between us…that I won’t leave you,” she states factually as she dips her hand past the waistline of the material, “and I will love you,” she moves lower and finally, slowly into her, “and I don’t want you to hate me.”

Mel groans. For a number a reasons-Abby rarely, directly says I love you, she does so in actions or long winded, maddeningly lyrical ways and because Abby makes love mentally as much as she does physically and she already feels on the edge from the half witch who is being so delicate with her fingers and almost rough with the rest of her body as she holds her up. There’s no other choice since Mel’s legs aren’t of great use and she wraps her arms around small, strong shoulders.

“I’m not gonna hate you.” She tilts her head up in annoyance she’s trying to have a conversation with her right now. 

“You’re going to eventually.” The taller woman challenges then takes her bottom lip between her teeth, holding her in until Mel moves her head back for smooth rebuttal.

“Its not inevitable.” She brings her leg to rest over Abby’s hip as if to prove a point she’s keeping her closer and the movement allows for the younger woman to move deeper. “Oh…my god..” Mel sighs out and one arm falls without her control as a wave builds. “We’ll talk in the shower,” she says quickly as she glides her hand from Abby’s hip to the middle of her back to undo the clasp of her bra.

“Or finish what we started,” Abby offers with a contesting edge while she steps back, carefully removes her hands from Mel and quickly takes her lingerie off. “You killed for me,” she states factually and with remorse she was put in such a dramatic, surreal situation that made her choose to be involved or a witness, but she kisses under her jaw, thanking her and she takes a second to inhale her as her hand presses into the middle of Mel’s chest and moves down. 

“I’d do it again, every time, because it was her,” your evil mother she barely gets out, but holds the thought in and the conversation is put to an end as the base of Abby’s palm moves against her with deliberate, pressing movements and circles that bring her over and into oblivion.

When she opens her eyes, Abby looks far less sullen and a little pleased in what she’s manifested, but there’s a change in her-a peaceful, natural transformation-like fall leaves. She’s more vibrant.

She kisses her, leans forward, arms around the taller woman’s shoulders again and lulls her head back instead of moving away from her. “Shower.”

By morning they’ve slept in, and she knows she feels rested but she grazes her fingers up and down Abby’s long back as she lays on her stomach. The younger woman isn’t ready to leave the bed and looks at her through lashes, seeming contemplative and more secure,but Abby is not a morning person, and she never will be.

“I’ll make you a coffee,” she offers and kisses the back of her shoulder blade and gets a hum as a thank you. Slowly she puts on her robe, her body still feeling satiated then goes to the kitchen. Nearly twenty minutes later Abby comes out in her own dark blue robe and takes a seat to contently watch her. It might be boring and domestic, but she enjoys Mel making tea or coffee and walking around the house comfortably.

“I think Lydia will be okay.” She states knowingly. Maggie has already told her she had a vision of Lydia leading a coven.

“Mhm” Abby hums, not ready for words.

“I think you can always talk to Waverly about Francesca, she’ll always welcome the chance,” she adds, also knowing Abby doesn’t want to be a burden to her sister.

“Mhmm.”

“So smart but a horrible linguist without your coffee,” Mel teases with a smirk as she sets the cup in front of her and catches the half smirk, smile from the nearly monosyllabic woman who holds the cup with interlaced fingers around it, thumbs moving over the rim. Abby lightly smiles at her as if saying give me a minute and it’ll be worth the wait.

They’re in comfortable silence and Mel loves it, considers how they’ve come to this after the threats and death, love, and fears, how they’ve evolved. She drinks her tea and is amused they’ve flipped their morning habits years ago with their drinks and she’s a bit lost in thought about it for a few minutes until Abby gently clears her throat.

“I never wanted to fall in love with you again.”

Mel has always valued Abby’s brutal honest, but this makes her frown, the first thing she chooses to say.

“But you’re my beacon. It’s the closest thing to absolution I’ve ever known.” She states gently. “I will always return to you,” she ends with a promise.

The witch feels they’ve never had a cookie cutter relationship without drama and Abby was right, it certainly hasn’t been easy, but she loves how Abby has declared her vows over the years eloquently-sentence by sentence. 

She smiles as Abby's words fully take hold of her and knows how she's blunt, frank even, not as caring in regards to the flow or syntax of beautiful words as long as she can say what she means. And her smile becomes more pronounced as she considers how different they are then replies.

“Same.”    

The End

Chapter Text

“Do you regret not going to college?” The professor part of Mel has always been curious, and the night has been full of light conversation as she got more relaxed, and Abby settled her head in her lap more.

Yeah…I mean she doesn’t treat me like I’m difficult. Lydia saw her aunts eyes slightly narrow in a challenge as if stressing because you’re not. 

Bloody hell. I got it Aunt Abby. Ooo! Think we’re telepathic? She asked more out of curiosity of more powers manifesting. 

No, Darling. Your mother and I are simply predictable with you.

Okay…so we’ve been on a few dates. And…okay, just going to rip the band aid off because she’s someone I want to keep and you and mum are a lot. Okay? A LOT. So can she come here for dinner and make sure Mel’s here to keep you in check? 

Lydia could practically here the scoff that followed, her imagination being impressive. But her aunt replied Excuse you then crossed her arms under her chest and looked slightly amused.

There may or may not have been some truth to Mel keeping her in line but that was neither here nor there. And more importantly they both knew their circle of friends and family were already aware. 

What time and day works for you and Dagny?

That was easier than expected, not that she didn’t believe her aunt wouldn’t support her. It was more so bringing someone into their little bubble, expanding it to include more wasn’t an easy task for her aunt. She hoped Dagny wouldn’t be overwhelmed by her family, but she imagined holding her hand through dinner as Mel asks the rather normal questions and her aunt did her usual keen observing with the occasional intimidating comment as her mum tries to be warm and hold back on the Jameson narrowing eyes thing they all did well. But she couldn’t think more on it as she jumped off the chair, hugged her aunt then finally signed love you! 

To the moon and back.