Work Text:
Agatha stood behind her bar, rag running over the counter for the umpteenth time. The man in front of her was telling a story, the dreadfully boring—and frankly offensive—tale of how he found himself handcuffed. The way he spoke about his wife left a bitter taste in her mouth, his marriage to her clearly not being very happy for either party. Maybe death should do this couple part she thought to herself, wondering how the poor girl would fare on her own. Tearing people apart was all Death was good for, anyway.
She found herself glancing to the other end of the bar, where her business partner seemed to flounder under the requests of so many patrons. She had tried, twice, to escape this abhorrent man, but both times he had called out for her attention. The second time, when she attempted to walk away, he had followed her and taken up a new seat next to the patron she was serving to continue his story. She found herself once again trapped as he beat his gums on the worn-out subject.
“So anyway, I want to get this blue breezer, but my girl,” he laughed to himself while Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose to calm the growing headache this man had turned out to be. Oblivious, he continued, “she says, ha, she says that’ll make me too easy to bump off!”
Who did this man think he was? Sure, he was currently in an illegal establishment drinking illegal liquor, but if anyone were to be killed, it would certainly be Agatha. No, this man would merely be a fall guy to some bigger operation, if anything at all.
At her wit's end, she turned away. He called after her again, making, despite his now shaky coordination, to chase after her. “Tell it to Sweeney,” she snapped, which seemed to stun the man out of the chase. Taking a deep breath in, Agatha made her way over to assist the gathering customers.
After a few moments, she noticed many of the people sitting at the bar had turned away from its counter. She followed their eyes, taking in a flapper whose face she couldn’t forget. Rio Vidal. The woman seemed to glow under the dim lamps, the sparkles on her black—or was it green? purple? the color shifted like an oil spill—dress catching the light in a mesmerizing way. Rio met Agatha’s eyes, something simmering behind the bitter chocolate pools making her stomach flip. Dread, that’s what the feeling was. There was no other possible feeling to associate with Death incarnate. With a deliberate slowness, the flapper made her way to the bar.
One brave man approached her, saying something Agatha could barely catch but assumed to be along the lines of, “Hey dollface, you look real swell. You could come home to mine if you’d like.” Rio fielded the man's attempts, pushing past him with a disgusted scowl and took an open seat at the bar. She sat in an emptier area, but, like moths to a flame, the bachelors flocked to the stools around her.
Her expression, when Agatha made her rounds to that part of the bar, seemed almost bored. How many people found themselves bored at a speakeasy, let alone at hers? She liked to think she kept things interesting, but Rio’s disinterest left a bitter taste in her mouth. It took everything in Agatha to refrain from running away from the woman, and yet it took nearly as much effort to not run to her. There was a distance between the two, of time and power and mortality.
Rio is Death. Agatha could die. Nicky…
When she exhausted her list of distractions, Agatha begrudgingly made her way to Rio. “Buzz off, boys,” she exclaimed, glaring daggers into them as she shooed them away. She ignored, to the best of her ability, their peeved grumblings. Rio appraised her now, her eyes roving over the bartender with a mix of admiration, longing, and—something else Agatha dared not name. Agatha’s eyes fixed onto her, her head tilting to the side as she asked, “What’ll it be, Jane?”
“Rio,” the woman corrected at once, as if her name was one Agatha could ever scrub from her mind.
No, no matter what she did, Rio haunted every thought, occupied every corner, whispered sweet nothings into the darkness. When Agatha didn’t answer, Rio fidgeted with her fingers, eyes flickering away. It was amusing to see Death so afraid, to see her bend the knee before the command was even spoken. A quiet, tender part of Agatha wanted to scoop her up, forget about work entirely, and just be with her in any way she could manage. She had been attempting to stamp that bit of her soul out for years now, hundreds of them, to no avail. Agatha’s eyebrows furrowed together, fighting her own mind to make a decision. Rio, ever patient, allowed her to deliberate.
“I know your name,” she decided. Nothing more. There was a silent, implied what do you want , but Agatha found her throat too tight to voice it.
The woman seemed to mull this over, her tongue pressing to the side of her mouth and her eyes narrowing. It wasn’t the response Rio wanted—Agatha made withholding a habit—but it was something. Agatha thought to herself that Rio ought to appreciate the fact that she was entertaining this conversation at all. There was no written text stating that Agatha had to talk to Rio, though if there was she was sure to disobey it, but nonetheless she was doing so. It wasn’t forgiveness, Agatha would forevermore punish Rio by denying her the thing she craved so desperately, but it was time. Time he hadn’t been granted.
Clearing her throat, Rio asked, “Can I get something to drink, my love?”
My love.
My love.
The words reverberated around Agatha’s skull. Rio said it as if nothing happened. As if Nicky—
My love .
As if she had the right to call her that. As if it didn’t spark a swarm of butterflies, unbidden, to awaken in Agatha’s stomach.
My love .
Agatha cursed herself for being so affected by the two words. She had every right to hate Rio, to turn her away and shout after her into the night. Maybe, just maybe, Rio had some small, miniscule right to hate her right back, to persecute her for the crime of running away. No matter what Rio should be permitted to feel, Agatha should feel much the same with thrice the intensity. She should burn for eternity with the anguish only a mother could know.
My love.
Despite the swirl of emotions Rio surfaced, there was some comfort in her presence, though Agatha would vehemently deny the fact. She was a refreshing break from the bimbos, who delighted in showing off to any dame who gave them the slightest opportunity. Agatha prepped the drink quickly, hoping she could find an excuse to linger with the woman. She told herself it was because Rio shouldn’t be here alone—shouldn’t Agatha be by her side? No, that’s a foolish thought—walking with the mortals—as if she hasn’t taken their mothers and sisters and children—posing as a beautiful young woman—she was always beautiful, but for so long Agatha had been the only one able to see it. What privilege do they have?—swarmed by every drunk idiot around—they would surely flock back to her side once Agatha departed.
In truth, the electric buzz between them made her heart beat faster and her head a degree lighter than it had been in a long time. And she loved it.
They were silent for a moment, lingering in the charge they created. Neither seemed to know how to break the spell, how to restart. Agatha wasn’t sure if she wanted to restart, to meet Rio for the second time, or to talk about him . (She would never mention his name. She doesn’t have it in her.) A nagging part of her mind wanted to reaffirm what Rio had called her, to tell the woman she was still the living—dead? deathly?—embodiment of her love.
Even if anyone was able to pry the bottle cap off of her heart, she wouldn’t have enough time to pour her love out. Work, as the name implies, isn’t very permissive of lingering . So when her coworker fixed her with a stare that said I can’t do this alone, she begrudgingly bid farewell to Rio. A hint of regret passed across the bartender’s eyes before a mask of sorts slid back into place. Her emotions seamlessly disguised from everyone, Rio included, yet her eyes mirrored the dismay Rio seemed to feel in their separation.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
The night drug on, despite the buzzing merriment that permeated every corner of the speakeasy. People clumped together, the everyday things that would set them apart holding no importance here. They were free to say whatever, drink as much as they could pay for, and laugh themselves silly.
The easiness of it all was what had gotten Agatha into the business in the first place. Growing up with Evenora Harkness had been anything but easy.
Evenora Harkness wanted Agatha to make herself smaller, simpler, to fit into the mold she created.
Evenora Harkness wanted Agatha to be weak and docile and the opposite of everything she was.
Evenora Harkness wanted Agatha to be rid of the very darkness she nurtured.
And Agatha had killed her for it.
Killed her so she could be free. Killed so that she could be in love. Killed her so she could be loved. Killed her so she could be herself. Killed her and met Rio. So much had happened since Evenora’s death, but she had met some of her goals. Agatha was still a woman, and it was only the 1920’s, but she was free .
Agatha snuck a glance at Rio. There was a distant look in her eyes as the vultures circled her. She supposed it wasn’t unusual for vultures to circle the dead, but for them to take the form of men and chase Death? Well, that was certainly a new sight. As if she had sensed her gaze, Rio’s eyes met Agatha’s for a flash of a second. Agatha looked away but could not escape the fact that she had been caught.
When she chanced another look towards her, Rio was still observing her. Her mouth quirked up into a smile just for Agatha as she mouthed “ Te veo. ” Te veo, as in “I see you.” Te veo as in “I know you.” And Agatha knew it was true. She saw past the cowardice, past the fronts and the personas. She was the only one who bothered to look, but Agatha knew she would be the only one to see no matter what.
“Uhh Earth to bartender,” a guy chuckled in front of her, snapping his fingers. Seething rage bubbled up in Agatha’s throat, a surge of fury threatening to break forth and destroy the man. He raised his hands and surrendered upon seeing her reaction. He hadn’t truly done anything to warrant it in the first place, the snapping was annoying but not worthy of such unbridled anger, but his acquiescence of power was something she craved. Something she suddenly starved for more intensely than usual.
Smart boy , she thought, still bitter about the distraction. “Drink?” she grunted, receiving a quick nod in response. She slammed one down in front of him. He reached for it, but she tugged it back. The scowl on her face rewrote itself into a cruel smile. “What do we say, Jack?”
“Thank you?” The way he said it made her angry. If he was thankful, shouldn’t he be more sure of it? When she didn’t say anything, he got the hint and repeated it. “Thank you, miss.”
“Better,” she nodded, sliding the bottle towards him. She turned away, her eyes automatically drawn to Rio, but her view was obscured by her coworker, sidestepping into her line of vision. He gave her a look which made her feel thoroughly chastised and forced her to refocus on the customers.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
The Road was one of the few speakeasies that had never been raided before. To the patrons, it was because of how tucked away it was. There was a hush surrounding the establishment, one that had served its peace well.
Agatha was certain Rio knew better. She had to, seeing as she managed to find her beneath the thick blubber of spells she cast. There was an undercurrent of magic swirling through the bar, a quiet thrum. The shadows pulsed without the flicker of lights, the patrons complained less about the exorbitant prices, and most left drained of all energy.
Agatha had discovered, through endless hours of obsessive reading, secrets of humanity. She learned that while witches held potent, raw power in their very veins, humans contained a fraction of that very same energy. It sent electrical currents through their heart, keeping it ever-beating in a predictable buh-bumping fashion.
The Darkhold, she quickly uncovered, worked like an abyss. It mirrored her magic, learning to take uncontrollably as she did. She had learned restraint in her life, but how could an inanimate object learn to stop? Like a black hole, it drew the life force out of every patron. It was the secret to The Road’s utter success. They were oblivious, floating free on a cocktail of giggle juice and emptiness, the sort of combination given to a patient just before death. A merciful void of anything bad . Someone like Rio, or any witch worth her salt for that matter, should be unaffected, but the average person would be emptied nearly to the point of death. Agatha had to fight very hard to keep them alive, just enough that they could walk themselves home and the blame for any injury couldn’t be placed on her. It wouldn’t serve The Road’s reputation to lose every customer that entered.
On top of that, Agatha worked daily to maintain the protection spells she cast. She twisted the perception of a select group of regulars, weaseling into their minds to find out any information at all. She maintained it all, drawing on the well of power she amassed from the crowds who flocked to The Road for a drink and instead found themselves sucked into a much larger operation. She was the spider, cocooning each pesky insect carefully into her web.
It all worked so easily, or at least so seamlessly, that when the first man dropped to the floor, another crouching beside him and reporting in a panicked voice that he had no pulse, Agatha blamed Rio. Her ex was the only variable differentiating that day from any other, the only subject capable of tampering with the cultivated menagerie.
Piercing, unforgivably icy eyes glared daggers into the woman, who seemed to subtly flinch under her gaze, before she fixed her attention to the dead man. The patrons, who seemed to have awoken from the cradled state of mind they had been occupying, stumbled in different directions. It was as if they didn’t know if it would be better for them to run, abandoning the warm buzz of The Road in favor of the cold safety of their own homes, or to move closer to the fallen compatriot.
Agatha confirmed the lack of pulse, eyes calling the attention of her business partner’s and head shaking slightly to confirm the loss. His jaw clenched as he made his way from behind the counter, calling for the attention of the other patrons.
“Everyone out. We’ll handle this, he’ll be fine.” It was a lie, the man was past the point of saving, but it would ease their minds. The last thing they needed was police attention on top of this. Sedately, the patrons filed out of the bar, picking up coats from the rack and long-discarded belongings littered around tables.
Subconsciously, Agatha’s eyes flicked to Rio again. Rio’s mouth opened, a small inward breath ghosting her lips as if she was preparing to speak, but Agatha narrowed her eyes. She took the hint, not moving to follow the others out but rather fading into a peripheral shadow. Agatha couldn’t ask her to leave, not when there was a soul to be reaped, but she didn’t need her coworker knowing who—what—Rio was.
The space felt infinitely empty now that the people had left, pocketing their warmth and stealing it away as they went. Agatha felt the loss like a drop off a cliff, the wheeze of her powers beginning to fail. She hadn’t gotten her fill for the day. Fuck.
“I have to make a call,” her partner said, startling her slightly. She nodded and watched as he stalked off to the backroom, ensuring he closed the door before she turned back to Rio.
She rose to her full height, taking a few steps towards the bar before she turned back to the shadowy figure. “He’ll be back soon, don’t take too long,” she said, her voice a near whisper. She knew Rio would understand what she was saying, she could have the body, the soul, whatever else she wanted, but she couldn’t stay any longer. She’d made herself a thorn in Agatha’s side, and the witch was tired of the ache the other woman provided.
Agatha excused herself out the back door, slipping out into the alley behind the bar. Fishing around in her pocket, she retrieved a cigarette and lit it. She let the smoke wash over her, dulling her senses, namely the pang of [...] Rio rang through her heart and the weakening of her powers.
She leaned lightly against the brick wall, attempting to think of any distraction, anything to pull her thoughts from their spiral towards him , but failing miserably. She closed her eyes, letting her head tip back as she remembered the way his nose matched Rio’s. How his laugh was infectious, his joy brightening even her most stressed days. She heard the whispered pleas for her to use her magic, the exhale of every breath used to spread dandelion seeds, the hum of the song always caught in his throat. She could see the heavy, dark bags under his eyes, the pain of living evident. She saw, too, his still, faintly warm body from the morning of his death.
Agatha slid down the wall, the cigarette dropping beside her. The ground was damp, a fact which grounded her slightly but could do little to combat the tears welling up in her eyes. She missed him so much, so fucking much, with every single fiber of her being. With every beat of her heart. With every morning waking up to an empty bed, a lifeless home, a world without him.
After a few moments, stolen time , she thought to herself, she rose to her feet stiffly. The bitter chill of the outside had set deep within her bones, compiling with the rush of emotions she had let pour out of her. She stepped into the bar easily, flushing slightly at the temperature difference, and noting the body’s unaltered position on the floor. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the booth Rio lounged in.
As casually as she could manage, she made her way over to it. She sank down into the plush surface opposite Rio, observing the slow flick of her deep brown eyes as they met Agatha’s.
“Agatha,” she began, her voice soft and perhaps a little weak. If she could have brought herself to do so, Agatha might have responded with Rio’s name, but she wouldn’t voice that unless she needed to. Rio continued nonetheless, saying, “You are stronger.” Agatha nodded in response, unsure where Rio was going with that. When she spoke again, her words sounded choked. “The Darkhold, my love. You’re using it.”
“Obviously,” Agatha snarked, unhelpfully, complete with an eye roll. As much as concern for Rio was tightening her chest, she was almost unable to help the sarcastic reply. She felt so damn good in that moment, almost as if the presence of Rio—and her repeated use of my love —was the only thing tethering her to her current position. Weren't there so many better things she could be doing, so many better uses for her power?
Rio reached her hand across the table hesitantly, grasping one of Agatha’s hands within her own. Agatha’s eyes flicked down to them before narrowing and peering into Rio’s eyes. She noted, absently, that a bead of sweat clung to Rio’s forehead. When was the last time she had seen her sweat?
“I feel it, Agatha,” Rio pressed on. When Agatha’s head tilted slightly to the side, she took a breath and attempted to explain. “You’re draining me, Agatha.”
Agatha breathed out a laugh, her eyes rolling again. “That’s not possible, it’d kill me. And I think I would know if you were…” Agatha looked at Rio now, truly observing her. From the sweat on her brow to the paleness of her skin, something about Rio’s condition was surely off. “You seem more human than I’ve ever seen you,” she confessed under her breath.
Rio blinked, her lids remaining closed for a moment longer than they should have. A part of Agatha thought she might never see the familiar brown again. “I miss you.” Unspoken words warbled in the space between them, where their breath mingled. Confessions Agatha felt in her heart without having to hear them. I miss you with every azalea that blooms, every lap of the tide, every falling leaf, every goddamned snowflake. I miss you when the moon phase changes, and I miss you when I see anything purple. Tentatively, she pressed on, “But I can not stay. Not when you’re like this.”
“Like what?” Agatha snapped, voice harder than she had intended. When has anyone ever taken abandonment well, anyway?
Rio gave her a sad smile, not pitying, she knew better than to pity Agatha, but something Agatha couldn’t quite name. “You’re hurting me, but we will meet again, Agatha,” she replied, matter of fact as always, and stood from the booth. She seemed unsteady, an idea Agatha internalized. Rio wavered because she had to see Agatha, because she was talking to her, surely not because of the Darkhold’s abysmal pulse.
Agatha watched as she walked to the door, mind at war with itself. Part of her wanted to stop Rio, to call her back, and another part was glad to be rid of the intrusion. With her hand on the handle, she turned back one last time.
“Te veo.”
Rio was gone again, leaving Agatha alone in the suddenly stuffy speakeasy. A cocktail of emotions swirled through her brain, love, loss, loathing. She left her, again. Like she always did. Like she had when Nicky…