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By the time Wanda returns to Westview, the winter weather has come and gone. She moves in with Agatha during one of the rainiest springs she has ever seen, which is just fine for her. It gives her more time inside, away from their neighbors’ prying, judgmental eyes; gives her more time to learn intricate theorems of magic from the only teacher she has ever had, the only magic crafter who has ever cared enough to teach her the craft; gives her more time to curl up lazily in bed and explore another human body with quivering lips, sharp teeth, and aching fingers, drawing the softest sounds from the older witch that she can. It should be surprising to her how easily her life clicks into place here, how easily she finds herself curling up on Agatha’s – their – couch with a hot cup of chamomile tea and a book, how easily she leans down to kiss Agatha’s cheek when she finds the other woman doing the same.
This isn’t to say, of course, that everything is rainbows and unicorns all of the time. There is so much Wanda doesn’t know about the older witch, and more frequently than she would like to admit, she stumbles onto something that triggers an emotional response of some sort from her – whether that’s closing up and refusing to say anything or storming off with gritted teeth or a blast of frenetic violet energy that narrowly misses her every time, not because Wanda dodges, but because Agatha’s aim is significantly better than hers is. If Wanda tried that sort of thing, she would risk hitting Agatha – or need to avoid her by a large enough margin that the older witch would laugh at her.
No. Not laugh. Cackle.
Agatha always apologizes afterwards. Sometimes she explains the issue, but the harder things often get left unsaid. As time passes, there are less and less of the more violent outbursts – often prompted by Wanda trying to press for information that she eventually decides it’s better not to ask for – and more direct communication, more of an acknowledgment that something said or done has brought up horrible past memories. Wanda takes advantage of this, trying to speak when chaos magic crackles untamed about her fingers, when her emotions seem so loud that they threaten to overwhelm her again.
They grow better. They grow together.
And this is good preparation for when winter finally arrives once more.
Wanda wakes the morning of the first snowfall to find the bed empty of its other occupant. She reaches over idly, runs her fingers along the dent in the mattress where Agatha normally sleeps, expecting it to still be warm from her recent presence and finding it chilly instead.
Odd.
On a normal day, Agatha doesn’t wake until much later, clinging sleepily to Wanda whenever the younger witch tries to slip out of bed and dragging her back beneath the covers to her side. More often than she’d like to admit, Wanda allows this; Agatha is so much warmer than she is, and cuddling with a partner who comforts her physically instead of unintentionally cooling her off is a new and beautiful wonder. (She had curled up with Pietro often when it was just the two of them, but that was an entirely different experience than curling up with Agatha is, as it should be.) To find the bed empty this early suggests that something is wrong. Very wrong.
Wanda anticipates a fight as she creeps down the stairs, and that anxious thought only grows stronger as she searches through the house and finds Agatha nowhere inside, the only light that filtering in through the windows and the still steadily falling snow. Frequently, when Agatha doesn’t want to be found, she hides in her basement, no longer full of thick, magically pulsing vines or skulls with thick horns or the trappings of horror movie witchery but still crafted a bit like a dungeon with those same runes carved into its molding, without any added to allow for Wanda to use hers. At first, this had bothered her, but she soon came to understand that Agatha, like Wanda herself, needed a space where she could feel safe in her vulnerabilities. It still gives Wanda the creeps, even now, and she’s grateful that she doesn’t find Agatha there.
Instead, Wanda finally finds Agatha sitting outside, dressed in nothing more than a thin t-shirt and even thinner pants, bare feet pressed into the cold porch, toes curled under, fingers gripping the edge of her metal chair, breath coming out in thick white clouds that quickly dissipate, lips turning a distinct shade of blue. She places a hand on her back, finds that her warm lover is freezing cold, and rubs her hand along her back, rumpling the shirt, still feeling those thick, unexplained scars beneath the fabric. “Inside,” she says, puffs of air coming as she speaks. “Now.”
But Agatha doesn’t move. “I love to see the snow fall,” she murmurs, and the instant she says it, Wanda knows it for a lie.
“Inside,” Wanda repeats, firmer this time. “Now.” She clenches her fingers on Agatha’s shirt, tugs upward. “You are a much better girlfriend than you are a popsicle.”
Agatha glances up. She opens her mouth as though to respond with a witty retort, but then closes it, says nothing, nods once, and pushes herself up from the chair, shivering only once as she walks back inside.
“I almost died once,” Agatha says later, when they’re curled up in bed together, her head resting easy on Wanda’s chest.
Wanda glances down, raises an eyebrow. “Only once?” she jests.
But Agatha doesn’t look up, doesn’t take the bait. “After my mother died, after my sister found me, after my boys….” Her voice trails off into words unspoken. Agatha doesn’t mention her boys often and has never explained anything about them; Agnes mentioned them once or twice, and Wanda always thought it was part of the role until Agatha mentioned them idly once – not idly. Every time she mentions them, it’s laden with a weight that Wanda can’t pierce through and has stopped trying (most of the violent outbursts were a result of them.) “I wanted to die, hon,” she says finally. “You know what that’s like.”
Wanda doesn’t have to say that she does, only nods once.
“It was so cold then,” Agatha murmurs. “Walking through the snow. The water, too. So cold.”
“But you didn’t die,” Wanda says, brushing Agatha’s hair back from her face. “You’re still here.”
Agatha nods. “Someone found me, dear. I didn’t want them to save me, but they did. And for many, many days after.” She sighs, nudges Wanda’s neck with her nose. “Sometimes, when it snows, I want to forget, and I end up out there, just like before.” She glances up, out the window, where the snow continues to fall. “It isn’t you.”
“I’ll just have to be more careful,” Wanda says. She traces a finger beneath Agatha’s chin, guides her head up to meet her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to lose you again.”
But when she leans down to kiss her, Wanda finds that Agatha’s lips are still shot through with cold.