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Chapter Text

Shadows don't Rustle the Roses

Chapter 1 - Tiny Pairs of Paws

A cold front hits northern Massachusetts right before Halloween. In a matter of days most trees lose their leaves, shed them until the streets are filled with brown decay. 

Agatha watches it from her conservatory, a cup of chamomile tea in her hand. She's always liked how the land transforms at this time of year, how the foliage covers up and subdues everything underneath. It's comforting, like the end of a funeral, when all tears are cried and one takes a first fresh breath, cold air flooding one's lungs. The end as well as the start of something.

Dusk is finally settling in, the sky grey, with only a sliver of yellow over the horizon. It's looking like a stormy night, or at least it sounds like that. Not that she minds. She likes it when the wind howls outside, when it makes the shingles on her roof chime. Living as a recluse comes with perks. Nobody bothers you. Nobody asks to borrow flour from you. But then any neighbors that might drive by the house won't see that someone is living inside of it anyway. Agatha has made sure of that. She doesn’t like to be disturbed. She has work to do, important work. Work that cannot wait and that might finally, after all these decades get her what she wants.

She pauses for a final glance out the conservatory windows before locking up, but an unexpected movement in her rosebushes draws her attention. They are stirring, but not with the wind, but more as if something has gotten in between them. She immediately thinks of Senor Scratchy and opens the sliding doors. While he usually doesn't venture outside, he has a history of escaping into the garden to chew on her flowers. Grunting, she makes her way toward the fence, cold air slipping through the worn threads of her Madonna sweatshirt, while the damp grass clings to her jeans, soaking them through.

“Scratchy, get out of there!”, she orders before she kneels down, carefully parting the twigs with her hands. In the dying light, it's harder to spot him than she had anticipated, especially given his white fur. She carefully bends the twigs up and down, thorns pricking her skin, but she can’t make out the cause of the rustling. She almost wonders if whatever had been caught between the thorns is gone already, when her thumb brushes against something soft and she notices two yellow eyes staring back at her.

“Holy Mother,” she shrieks and falls back onto her buttocks (yes, even the great Agatha Harkness isn't immune to jumpscares ).

Frowning, she scrambles back onto her knees and parts the twigs once again. This time she sees a pink tongue, tiny ears, and rosy paws as well. It's barely bigger than her hand, but it's a pitch black kitten. It doesn't look like it's older than a few weeks. One of its legs hangs in the twigs, perched up on a rose thorn.

“Oh no,” she mutters and tries to pull it free. The sound the kitten makes at it is gut wrenching: A pained meow that tears through the night. But it doesn’t fight her. It eases into the palm of her right hand while the left tries to free it from the thorns. It doesn't try to run when its tiny leg is freed, it doesn't fight her. It's probably exhausted, Agatha thinks and looks at her watch. She could drive down into town to see a vet, but then it's almost six, the chances they are still open are slim, and she's not paying for after-hour care.

“Shit,” she mumbles and turns the small kitten over in her hands. He looks at her with big eyes, tiny white teeth peeking out of his mouth as if it was a little vampire. “How the heck did you get so far out here?”, she asks him, not expecting an answer. He just meows again. Surrounding the house are nothing but fields and forests. The nearest house is half a mile down the road. What kind of kitten wanders this far only to end up in a rose bush?

She can't just leave him here, can she? She bends down again to see if there are other kittens anywhere in the bushes, or perhaps the mother. But there is no one else to be seen. Just shadows between the brush. 

When she carries him inside, Scratchy hops towards her, sniffing and lifting himself up on his hind legs.

“This is just because I can't trust you to stay inside, mister”, she grumbles and pulls a grey towel out of her cupboard. The kitten lets out a soft squeak as she wraps him carefully in the towel and sets him down on the kitchen island. She examines his leg for injury, but the puncture wound seems to have vanished. Perhaps the thorns didn't get in that deep after all. 

Outside, thick rain drops begin to cover her windows. She can hear the wind howling under the roof. When she turns back to him, the kitten squeaks again. 

“What do I do with you now?”, she sighs as he shakes and begins to lick his fur. He looks alright - neither too thin or malnourished. It can’t have been too long since his mother nursed him. The only thing that worries her is that he might have lice or ticks that could transfer to Scratchy, even if he's just here for the night. 

She decides to call the shelter over in Calvinsville, hoping they can come and pick him up.

“I'm sorry mam, I don't have anyone here that could process him tonight. The vet is back tomorrow morning, can you keep him with you until then?”, a teenage boy on the other end of the line asks her when someone finally picks up.

Fucking useless pricks.

She lets out a frustrated groan and ends the call, refusing to waste a single breath on a reply. Looks like this leaves her with a temporary house guest.

“Seems like we're putting up with each other for the night, aren't we?”, she sighs and sets him into one of her big bowls from underneath her sink along with the towel so he won't escape her while she warms up some leftover lasagne.

She eats with the television on, some useless political debate. The bowl sits on the counter, the kitten looking at her, trying to climb out of it. When he finally manages it, Agatha observes how he sniffs on a bottle of olive oil before he waddles over to her, rubbing himself on her arm, mewing again. If she was a softer woman, she would call him cute, adorable even. But she is just a grumpy old witch that isn’t supposed to be loving any living things anyway. He seems to disagree though, rubbing his face on her sweatshirt.

“Little attention seeker, are we?”, she rasps and lets her hand glide through his fur, feeling how he arches his back up towards her hand. She huffs at it when he keeps coming back, demanding more and more cuddles.

He almost drives her nuts when she tries to get ready for bed. There is no way she will let him sleep in her bedroom, not even Senor Scratchy gets to do that, so she puts the bowl into the little study that is stuffed with legal papers that don't belong to her. He shrieks and howls and cries at it when she closes the door and won't be calmed down. 

Fine. 

She moves his bowl into the bathroom while she showers and he watches her quietly, following her every movement. She tries to put him into the office again afterwards, but as soon as she closes the door he begins to complain again, fusses, and jumps out of the bowl, scratching on the door.

“Oh for fuck's sake!”, she curses when she can still hear him even with her own door closed.

She could cast a spell. Block out the noise or incapacitate him for the night. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. A flick of her fingers, a whispered word under breath - and poof, silence. No more whining through the walls. No more guilt about ignoring him. Just peace. Total, luxurious, guilt-free quiet. 

She lets out a long sigh and gets back up to take the bowl into her bedroom.

“You stay in that! You're not sleeping in my bed”, she raises a finger at him and he meows once before he begrudgingly turns around twice and makes himself comfortable, no longer facing her.

***

He stays in his bed all throughout the night but has his little head propped up on the rim of the bowl, curiously looking at her when she wakes up. It almost looks as if he is smiling, but Agatha simply puts it off as something she only sees because of her morning haze.

The vet at the shelter in Calvinsville looks at him a little confused as well though, examining him while he hisses and keeps trying to crawl back to Agatha.

“She's feisty, this one,” he chuckles, and lifts the kitten off the table.

“She?”, Agatha frowns.

“Yes, she's a girl. I'd say she is about six weeks old? She looks younger, she’s almost”, he airquotes with one hand, “too cute”, the vet curls his nose, examining the crying bundle of black floof.

“And?”, Agatha annoyedly moves her hand in a circular motion.

“I don't know… something is odd about her, I can't really say what…”, he shrugs.

Whatever that is supposed to mean.

“Okay but can I leave her with you?”, Agatha asks, drumming her finger on the table. This has been taking enough of her time. For a moment she feels as if the question makes the kitten turn its head towards her. But then it’s obviously for the noise and not because it actually understands Agatha.

“We’re pretty full at the moment to be honest, lots of the farmers are bringing us the stray babies they find in their barns at the moment, the mothers all bring them into the warmth with the weather getting colder,” he smacks her lips.

“Well what do I do with her then? I can’t keep her!”

“I can call some of our foster moms, but I think with Halloween around the bend they’ll have their hands full with family stuff… do you think you could take her home at least for the next few days?”

Absolutely not. She is busy, very busy researching spells at this time of year, she doesn’t have time to take care of a stray kitten. No matter how cute it is.

“If you can’t and I don’t have space for her, we will probably have to put her down by the end of the day.”

And that is how Agatha ends up at her local PetSmart with a long grocery list that includes kitten milk, a flea and tick bath, kitty litter, and three squeaky toys she already knows she will hate. She thinks about buying her a proper bed, but the kitten only sniffs everything Agatha puts in front of her curiously, yet remains in her towel-padded bowl.

She juggles all of it inside, Mars bar in her mouth, so she doesn’t have to walk out to her car twice. The sky is grey again and a puddle next to her door indicates it must have rained while she has been gone. She stores most of her new purchases in her kitchen, the bowl with the kitten sitting on her counter top again. When she is done, she lets warm water into her bathtub, carefully mixing it with the flea-bath. 

She personally perceives it as rather fragrant, smelling mostly of soap, but her little house guest screams bloody murder when Agatha carefully lowers her into water. She snarls and cries in agony, trying to escape her watery prison and Agatha has a hard time holding her down and getting enough foam into her fur. She grits her teeth as a wave of soapy water sloshes over the edge of the bathtub, soaking the front of her sweater. The kitten thrashes wildly, sending suds flying onto the tiles. “For heaven’s sake,” she mutters to herself, tightening her grip around the kitten’s body. The little terror lets out another piercing yowl, clawing at thin air as if staging a feline rebellion.

“Oh c’mon it’s not that bad you little drama queen - it’s just a bath!”, she tries to argue with it, but it’s useless. The kitten doesn’t calm down until Agatha lifts her out of the tub and wraps her into a clean towel. All of her hair is flush with her body, reducing her to no more than half her size. It makes Agatha snort with genuine amusement. The towel in hand, she sits down against the door and begins to scrub her dry, carefully rubbing her fur in circles. The kitten looks at her with big yellow eyes until she begins to stretch her neck and, for the first time since Agatha has found her, begins to purr. 

At the sound of it Agatha’s muscles relax. Her shoulders drop gently and she barely notices how she exhales one long held breath. A faint warmth spreads through her chest, despite the damp mess all around them. Agatha glances down at the scruffy creature in her lap, surprised at how suddenly the chaos is giving way to something softer. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she murmurs, half amused, as the kitten nuzzles into her palm with sleepy contentment. Slowly, her fluffyness returns, soft hair framing her yellow eyes.

“See? Half as bad,” she chuckles and the kitten mews quietly. Alone in the quiet of the bathroom, she traces the soft bridge of the kitten’s nose with the tip of her pinky. The hairs there are shorter, yet still soft - just as the rest of her fur. Her eyes flutter gently, pupils fixed on Agatha as her eyelids seemingly get heavy. It squeezes half a smile out of Agatha.

Still wrapped in the towel, she carries her back into the kitchen, where Scratchy is already munching on his lunch, barely paying any attention to them. She puts her back into the big bowl, watching as she struggles to keep her eyes open, fighting the exhaustion from her ordeal. Agatha flaps the towel over her to keep her warm and begins mixing the kitten milk for her. It's probably a waste, given that she seems so tired, but for all Agatha knows, she hasn't eaten in a day at least.

She leaves it out in a small bowl in her bedroom in case the kitten gets hungry overnight. Again, there is no chance it will stay in the study or downstairs. When Agatha goes upstairs to use the bathroom, the kitten jumps onto the floor, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs wailing and nervously pacing back and forth as if Agatha might never return. She buries her face in her palms and grunts before she picks the needy menace up and carries it upstairs.

Only this time there is no keeping it out of her bed. Agatha gets up twice to put her back in her bowl, but the kitten won't have it. She crawls out every time and waddles over to Agatha's side of the bed, weeping and complaining until Agatha groans into her pillow and finally lifts her onto the mattress.

“And what now, huh?” she asks, watching her as she slowly spins around before she snuggles into Agatha's side, forehead pressed into Agatha's waist.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”, she groans and the kitten lets out a quiet meow as if to tell her that it is going to sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - And They Say Broken Glass Means Luck

She sleeps well during the first half of the night, very well indeed. 

In fact, she hasn’t slept this well since she’d last slept in the same bed as - well never mind . Not important. Especially not because the second half of her night is anything but restful.

It starts about fifteen minutes past three. 

When she is torn from her sleep, she doesn’t feel the kitten’s soft fur against her waist anymore. Instead, a flurry of quick taps dances across her dresser like miniature drums, ending in a muffled thud on the carpet as a blur of motion disappears into the room’s shadowed corner. Annoyed, she quickly drifts back into a dreamless sleep, drowsily losing consciousness until suddenly she feels the little demon jump on her butt cheeks, right before it sprints up over her back just to race off the bed over her night stand, sending a glass of water to the floor.

“Fucking-”, she curses and reaches for the light switch, but as soon as she is sitting upright, the lamp blaring brightly, there is no sight of the kitten.

She raises her blanket, looks for it underneath there, but wherever it is, it is hiding well. So she gets comfortable again - buries her face underneath her pillows and switches the light off again. Sleepily, she again drifts back into slumber, her mind wandering to a vast, vast library where towering shelves brim with books, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Something high up seems to be tugging at her, one of the books oozing temptation. It almost feels real … until she really feels something rushing over her legs again, tiny pairs of paws paired with a high pitched, happy squeak. 

This time she is much faster switching on the light and sees a shadow rushing to the other side of the bedroom. Getting out of bed, she slowly walks over to her wardrobe, scans the floor and every corner of the room. But only when her eyes dart to her laundry basket does she see the pair of yellowish eyes that look back at her.

“If you can't be quiet, you're staying outside!” she reaches for the kitten with both hands. It screeches when it realizes it is being carried towards the door. Agatha dumps her on the floor, without her bowl, and closes the door with a loud bang. Immediately, the kitten begins to whine again, scratching on the wood. Agatha buries her face underneath her pillow and pretends she is deaf.

It works for about five minutes. Under her breath, she mutters the insults other witches would throw at her over this: The witchkiller going soft over a goddamn kitten - the terrifying Agatha Harkness unable to cast a spell to keep a fucking cat quiet. Oh how they would laugh if they could see her now.

“Why are you like this?” she scolds the tiny animal that obediently sits on all four paws when she opens the door again, as if it has never done anything wrong at all.

It crawls back onto the bed before Agatha, but this time it climbs onto her stomach when she is settled, next to where Agatha's hand rests over her navel. It nudges them with its nose, almost digging itself underneath, asking to be pet. Something blooms in Agatha’s heart again, sudden and softer than before. Scratchy likes his cuddles, but he never demands them, rarely shows her that he wants to be held. And he never comes to her, begging to be loved.

So she does it. In the dim hush of her bedroom, where the world feels far away and no one is judging, Agatha reaches out with slow, deliberate hands and gently strokes the kitten’s head, tracing the soft curve between its ears. She moves down its back with one finger, feeling the warmth of its tiny body beneath her touch, then scratches lightly under its chin, where the fur is even softer. The kitten leans into her hand, eyes fluttering shut, and lets out a quiet, contented purr that seems to fill the room with a kind of peace she hadn’t known she needed. Its breathing slows, and its little paws curl inward as it settles on top of her, a small, living bundle of comfort.

And if Agatha squints just a little, in the amber glow of the bedside lamp, she could swear she is smiling, right before she drifts off to sleep, nestled against Agatha’s tummy like she has always belonged there.

The attachment issues only become worse. 

Wherever Agatha goes, so does the kitten. It follows her every step she makes and hisses every time Agatha dares to go somewhere it cannot follow. Still too little to climb the stairs, Agatha needs to carry it every time she changes floors. It makes her form a habit of wearing her old silk robe around the house - her kitten perfectly fits in the side pockets, looking out with every step Agatha takes with its paws clutching the hem of the pocket

The real problems arise when Agatha needs to leave the house. As soon as she looks like she is getting herself ready to go out, the kitten objects. She crawls all over Agatha’s feet, makes her almost trip over or escapes through the front door so Agatha has to put it back in again.

“I'll be back in two hours, I promise,” Agatha tries to soothe her on Saturday evening, five days after the kitten has moved in. She howls and looks at her with big eyes, but after the third attempt, Agatha finally manages to leave.

Her search is going nowhere. And as long as she keeps running on the fumes of the last witch she has siphoned, there is little chance her luck will improve. But it's more than that. She doesn't like to admit it to herself, but once in a while she craves the warmth of another body against hers. Someone to hold on to for a while. Someone that doesn’t know the weight of centuries of grief.

It never takes her long to find someone like that. A young witch in her prime that has a natural inclination towards women like Agatha: older, mysterious, charming. There must be something about her that they all come flying into her web after just one or two drinks. The only challenge in this day and age are the cameras that pop up like weeds. She can cast illusions to obscure herself, sure, but she needs to know that there is a camera first. So the safest bet is going to places that do not have any. And in this area of Essex county, there are only a few to choose from.

In either case, Agatha easily finds what she is looking for: A petite blonde, with freckles on her cheeks, brimming with sparkling magic. It’s almost too easy when she comes home with her, no questions asked. Her name is Beatrice and she is a divination witch. She shares far more than that about herself, but those are the only two things Agatha remembers when she presses her against the inside of her front door, hands underneath her skimpy dress before the lock even clicks shut. 

She's already thinking about taking her upstairs when she hears hectic, screeching cries from the hallway behind her. Turning her head, Agatha sees the kitten pacing back and forth just a few feet away from them. She hisses, teeth bare and angry as if she is just contemplating when and how to attack. She arches her back, all of her tiny, fluffy hairs perched up.

“Oh my God you have a baby cat?” Beatrice swoons, immediately pushing Agatha aside and walking towards it. But the kitten doesn't let her come close. She snarls and makes a run for the living room before Beatrice can even bow down.

“Don't mind her,” Agatha grumbles at the lost opportunity to get her over the finish line a little more quickly. 

“But he's so cute!”

“It's a…. oh never mind,” Agatha sighs and takes off her jacket, remembering that there is still a bottle of red wine on her counter next to her fridge.

While Beatrice goes looking for the kitten in the living room, Agatha pours them two glasses of wine and sets them on the kitchen island. Grumbling, she opens her fridge and checks for any kind of leftover snacks she might offer her date, but just as she is bowing down to go through the bottom drawer, a sharp clanking echoes through her kitchen.

Startled, Agatha clutches her chest and whips around. On the counter, one paw raised, staring at her with big, green eyes sits the kitten. But even more noticeably, only one glass still remains on the counter next to it. Seemingly in slow motion, it raises its paw once again, aiming for the stem.

“Don’t you dare!” she threatens and reaches the glass before the little demon can send it to the floor. It slowly sets down its paw, never breaking eye-contact with Agatha. 

“What is it with you?” Agatha asks as if it will understand.

But it only meows once before it leisurely jumps down onto the floor, making Agatha wonder how it had gotten up onto the counter in the first place, and simply waddles off without granting Agatha another look.

Huffing, she reaches for the roll of kitchen towels and wipes up the mess, careful not to cut herself on the shards.

When she is done, she finds Beatrice in the living room, going through the large collection of vinyls. She has put one of them on, some nauseating smooth Jazz that sounds like it was produced to play during the raunchy end of a romance movie. Agatha hands her the remaining glass of red and makes do with water herself.

“You have a great taste in music!” the young witch comments after taking a sip.

“Thank you.” Agatha sits down on the couch and thinks about the decaying body of the owner that is still stashed in the basement freezer. She really needs to get on that, now that she thinks of it.

“Come here,” Agatha pads the sofa cushion next to her and the witch sits down with a wide smile, placing one hand on Agatha's leg.

“I usually don't do this on a first date,” she pouts.

“Of course not,” Agatha fakes a warm smirk, “I feel very lucky.” 

She feels the fingers on her leg squeeze it and leans in. Beatrice tastes sweet, too sweet. Not like sugar, but like artificial syrup. Agatha makes it work. Even if it ends up being mediocre at best, it’s better than nothing at all. And Agatha can no longer run on nothing at all . If you think about it, this is mercy. She’s sending her off on a high note. Most witches she’s killed never had the pleasure of fucking Agatha Harkness before they died.

So she places one of her hands on Beatrice's waist, caresses the fabric of her top, and slips a finger under to make contact with her skin. It earns her a moan as Beatrice opens her mouth and scoots closer, finally climbing into Agatha’s lap. Inwardly, Agatha rolls her eyes at it. The eagerness is familiar. She doesn’t like it. Thank fuck this one is blonde. 

She feels Beatrice’s arms wrapping around her neck as she grinds down on Agatha’s thigh, sighing with a high pitch she’s probably copying from a porn movie. For a moment, something tickles Agatha’s naked toes - probably a fly she gets rid of by wiggling them. But the next thing she hears is a blood-curdling scream when the witch suddenly lets go of her and jumps up in horror, face contorted. She lifts her leg and then Agatha sees it: four tiny, angry bite marks that quickly begin to ooze blood.

“WHAT ONE EARTH?”, she screeches.

Next to her, in the shadow her sofa casts onto the rug, Agatha makes out a pair of shining, green eyes that she swears look yellow just a second later. The kitten blinks and then it runs off so quickly Agatha can’t even make out where to. How territorial do week-old kittens get? Even familiars are not this allergic to visitors. She looks over to where Scratchy is sleeping on a small blanket - case in point. 

“Was that the cat?” Beatrice sobs, lifting her leg as her blood begins to run down her skin in thick streaks.

“I think so,” Agatha frowns, still confused, but reaching for a pack of tissues she offers to her.

“Why did he bite me?” she cries, thick, crocodile tears streaming over her face.

“Maybe you stepped on her tail?” Agatha wonders - both in earnest and to calm her down, but it does the opposite.

“I never stepped on a tail! I was in your lap! Don’t blame me if your cat is feral!” she snorts and tries to staunch the bleed with the tissue.

Agatha isn’t sure where it’s coming from, but all of a sudden it is her turn to be territorial. 

“She’s not feral! She’s a baby, stop blaming her!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Beatrice stares and crumples the tissue, “I think I should leave…”, she looks around and reaches for her bag.

“Oh c’mon I can get you a band aid!” Agatha tries and follows her, but the witch is already halfway to the door. Okay, well if the comfort part is no longer happening, perhaps there is a way to cut to the chase and make her angry enough to attack her, “are you really going to be such a crybaby over a little bite? What kind of witch are you even?” Agatha snides condescendingly.

To her surprise, Beatrice just looks at her in disappointment.

“That is very mean of you to say,” she bleats, “I don’t have to listen to this. Find someone else to be an asshole to!”

Agatha blinks as the door opens and falls shut again. She stands still, momentarily stunned by sheer disbelief. In all her years, she cannot recall encountering anyone quite this pathetic who also managed to display such an unexpected level of self-reflection. It’s borderline absurd, manipulation has always been her most dependable weapon, the one skill that never falters. Sooner or later they all fall for her (one way or the other). 

Still baffled, she locks the door with the wave of her hand and turns to clean up her living room but stops when she sees who is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing her curiously.

“And what do I do with you?” she wonders out loud, pinching her eyes closed.

The kitten meows quietly before it gets up and waddles towards the stairs, expectantly looking at Agatha as if it is ready for them to head to bed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Intermission - The Fall of the Ottoman Empire

Lately… everything's been dulled down a little. 

Like there is fluff in her ears and a layer of fog around her thoughts. 

As if someone has wrapped her up in paper towels and stuffed her into a cardboard box that is being rolled around on the floor. She has tried to remember how she got here. What witch, spell, monster, or poison has made her like this. But her thoughts go nowhere. They end like loose strings that have been cut short and fray at the ends. Threads coming undone instead of together.  

Sleepily, she lets her body waddle over the fields. Hours pass, maybe days. It rains before the sun peaks through the clouds. Her legs hurt. In the distance, she can long see a lonely house. Light shines through the windows. Exhausted, she decides to take a nap by its fence.

In the gaps between sleep and consciousness, she notices that other senses are stronger: She knows she is finally home. Because everything smells like home. Everything smells like Agatha.

Something else is strange. The angle at which she experiences her days is new. She's suddenly small enough to fit into Agatha's lap. And she loves being in Agatha's lap. On her back, fitting perfectly into the crack of her naked thighs, she looks at the pink pads on her hands- no… paws. Aww her paws are adorable! She feels a sudden urge to try them out. Rolling over so she can sit, she begins to tab them on Agatha's soft skin in a slow, rhythmic kneading motion.

“Whuyud r y duuung,” strange sounds produced by the most melodic, deep voice in the universe flow into Rio's ears. She looks up and answers before she continues to pad her paws on Agatha's thighs: “I'm massaging your thighs, dummy! Your skin feels different like this!”

She hears Agatha chuckle and feels how one of her slender fingers begins to draw circles on her head. Urgh that's just so good. It's always so good when Agatha does it. She almost drools and stretches her head into the direction of the finger.

What comes then is even better: Agatha begins to scratch her under her chin, toying with her shorter hair there. A moan rips from Rio’s throat. She should have told her to start doing this ages ago, simply petting the curve that connects her head to her throat. This is the best thing that will ever happen to her. Nothing will come after this. She purrs in perfect tranquility.

It probably sounds wrong, but something inside of her knows that she is exactly where she needs to be. Is it weird that Agatha never seems to understand her? Probably. Or that she fits perfectly into the pockets of Agatha’s silky nightgown? The one Rio had stolen for her from the palace of the last Chinese emperor? Yeah, maybe a little unusual. But then who cares? She certainly doesn't. Not when she gets to fall asleep next to Agatha again, cuddled into her side. Not when she knows Agatha has not been this tender with her since after the fall of the Ottoman Empire.

The Ottoman Empire. Huh. Has that been a long time ago? Or perhaps just a teeny tiny time ago? It feels long. And what was it about? Men usually. Any things that go wrong have usually to do with men. That’s why Agatha doesn't like them very much. They mess it all up. Usually over nothing of great value at all. And leave the women to clean up after them.

Rio raises her head.

With big, anxious eyes, she realizes that Agatha is no longer in her chair. The spot where she always sits, warm, familiar, safe, is empty. Rio freezes, her ears twitching, heart thudding like a trapped bird in her chest. A sudden, boiling panic surges through her veins, sharp and unforgiving.

She’s gone. Gone for good this time. Never to return.

Rio’s mind spirals, clawing at the thought like it’s something she can shred apart. She should have kept a better watch! She should’ve curled tighter around Agatha’s feet, stayed alert, not let herself get distracted chasing shadows or wandering thoughts. This always happens when she lets her guard down.

This is all her fault.

She suddenly hears her steps down the hallway and chases after them. She cries and yells her name and Agatha replies something, but as per usual Rio has trouble understanding it. She will disappear again, will she not? Leave Rio behind in this vast house to fend for herself! All alone without her wife! 

Rio sobs and wails, begs Agatha to come back, frantically scratches on the door in hopes her claws are strong enough to tear it down. But the wood won’t give. She can barely see the scrapes her little claws leave behind. She labors for hours, sniffs under the door to make sure Agatha is still in there and has not magically transported herself somewhere else.

“Agatha please, please don't leave me. I swear I'll do anything you want, anything! Just please don't leave me alone!” she weeps, hoping Agatha can even hear her behind the humongous gate to the tiled room that holds the big, scary soap lake.

Finally, the pleas seem to help: The door opens. Agatha sighs and picks her up, turns her on her back and cradles her in her arms and rubs her belly with two of her fingers.

“M seeeeri. Ai wsnt uwuree je wuuuuntit te cm wes miii ti js de toillllllit,” she says and Rio doesn’t understand. But at least she is safe. Agatha is safe. She hasn’t left. They are still together, and that is all that matters. The careful ministrations soothe her restless mind for the moment. Agatha always manages to make up for every time she walks off without taking Rio ( the nerve of it though! ). And she is never mad. There is always a smile on her lips.

Now, Rio just has to learn how to tweak her reactions to certain situations. It is slowly getting a little bothersome that random spurts of energy wake her up at night and make her jump all through the room. On the flip side - it's the first time in maybe ever that Agatha doesn't shout at her for touching her butt. 

The biting may be a bit excessive. But Agatha's fingers are just so so nibble-able . And she doesn't seem to mind it when Rio chews on them. It makes her smile. And her witch rarely smiles like this, warmly and content.

But then for some wild reason biting other people to actually defend Agatha seems to be unacceptable ( unhinged, right? she’s just protecting her! ). Agatha scolds her for it when Rio bites the man in white that pokes her and seems to want to rip her ears off. But if this is how he is when he is dealing with Death herself, what will he do to Agatha?

And that woman that suddenly intruded on their house one evening? 

Rio didn't appreciate it very much, the way she had looked at Agatha… Or that Agatha had poured them the red liquid that usually gives her that high and funny voice and that sleepy look in her eyes just before she asks Rio to come to bed with her. And she sure as hell hadn't liked it when the woman had kissed Agatha.

Kissed her.

Right in front of Rio's eyes.

How dare she?

There had simply been no other way to defend their home from this heinous attack. 

Because for some uncanny reason Rio's paws object to producing any kind of magic these days. So teeth it is. And they work: The woman probably tells everyone she meets what a furious, gruesome beast lives with Agatha Harkness and will protect her at all costs. 

There are no more attacks on the house. 

They get their peace back. 

It's just her and Agatha.

Her and Agatha and Senor Scatchy… and that old drawing of the boy on the shelf in the basement. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Rampant Jolts of Joy

A week passes and then another. Thick fog embraces the hills of northern Massachusetts as the end of fall begins to choke the land into submission. Rain begins to pour one afternoon and never quite stops for longer than a few hours. The ground turns muddy, wide puddles forming streams between each other until the earth is saturated and begins to smell both fresh and foul. One morning it snows, but none of it sticks. 

In her basement, Agatha spends most of her days going through the old tomes her coven has left her. She has never been taught to speak the old tongues, but now that she has time, she finally tries to decipher them. She looks up forgotten letters and hieroglyphs, trying to make sense of the riddles and poems meaning to guide curious witches down windy roads.

Next to her, the kitten either sleeps in its bowl ( she has bought her a proper cat basket, but she cares little for it ), or toys with a ball of green yarn that is twice its size. Smirking, Agatha picks it up and listens to the furious squeaky objections before she gently throws it into one of the basement corners and watches the kitten chase after it.

If anyone asked, she would rather die than admit that this is the softest her heart has felt in a long while. She would not tell them that the co-sleeping is growing on her, hearing her kitten snoring quietly whenever she wakes up throughout the night, feeling its soft fur against her cheek or arm, depending on where it likes to sleep. Each night she lets it pick its preferred spot on the mattress and makes due with the space she is allocated. If there is too much of a gap between them, the kitten always scoots closer until it is nestled flush against her.

That doesn't mean it occasionally (regularly) still manages to drive her to the brink of insanity. Her house guest is ridiculously spiteful and even after all this time cannot be convinced that once in a while Agatha would indeed like to use the bathroom without company. Agatha gets used to the howling. What sends her spinning is when it suddenly stops one day. She expects it to start again, but it never does. Still in her underwear, she rushes out of the bathroom without even flushing. 

“Kitten?”

She checks the little hallway in front for the bathroom and the kitchen, but it is nowhere to be seen. Frantic, Agatha runs though all the rooms on the ground level, peeking into each and every one, lifting covers and making ridiculous summoning sounds. It's a little screech followed by an excited meow is what finally lures her into the living room. And there, on the top of her curtains sits her little, grinning demon, claws deep in the aching fabric. She shoves the feeling of relief aside when she sees the tears it has already garnished the silk with.

“Oh for fuck's sake, what are you doing up there?” she walks over just to realize she needs to get on the tips of her toes to even reach it.

“Come down, I don't want you to fall,” her fingers brush against the kitten's soft fur, but it manages to evade her grasp, climbing even further up with an excited squeal.

Agatha pinches her eyes shut and massages the bridge of her nose. How can something so small be such a bother?

She pushes a chair from her dining room against the wall and tries again. This time she is able to grab onto the kitten's body. It meadows with utter happiness in its voice and digs its drawls into Agatha’s woolen jumper.

“If you do this again, I will leave you up there to rot,” she chuckles and ruffles the fur that grows between its ears.

Not all days are this enjoyable though.

The vet calls again asking if Agatha has kept the kitten. When she tells him that it is still with her, he admits that he has not been able to find it a proper foster home so far. Instead he asks her to come in with it for its first round of vaccinations. 

She is met with so much unease (the kitten tries to scratch her eyes out) when she tries packing her in a box, constantly promising it is just for the drive, that she simply puts the bowl in the foot well of the passenger seat. She still looks at Agatha like it is her last day on earth: eyes big, paws on the rim of her bowl, and the corner of her mouth turned downward.

“It’s just the vet, we’ll be home for dinner?” Agatha tries talking to it again - only to remind herself a moment later that she is going kuku for cocopuffs if she actually believes the kitten will understand even a word.

Halfway to town, big raindrops begin coating her windshield. She looks hideous carrying it in in her bowl, holding a hand over its little head to keep it safe from the rain.

“She might prefer it because it smells like you,” the vet just shrugs when he lifts the kitten out of its bowl, “I wouldn’t worry.”

Agatha nods as he examines the shrieking ball of fluff, all hairs standing in attention as it hisses, scratches, and tries to bite him through the gloves.

“Still feisty I see,” he laughs before releasing it into the bowl. The kitten immediately crawls back into Agatha’s direction, elongating its neck to be pet. 

“So I actually have good news,” sitting down, he starts to prepare the syringes, “we actually had a space open at the shelter. And she looks like she is doing really well, I mean she hasn’t grown a lot which I find a bit strange, but she might be a rud,” he slaps his hands down on his legs, “in any case, we can take her now! You no longer have to look after her!”

“Oh…” Agatha stares at him in surprise.

A tiny meow comes from below her, the kitten snuggling its head into the palm of Agatha’s hand, safe now from the mistreatment of the well-meaning vet.

“I mean-”; Agatha looks down at it. 

It would probably be better to leave the kitten here. Had that not always been her plan: drop it off, make sure it was safe, and move on to continue her search for the goddamn book. At the shelter, someone could adopt it more permanently, someone with the time and stability to give it everything it needed. There would be other kittens to play with, warm blankets, and a vet just down the hall if it needed any medical attention. It made sense. It was downright logical. Responsible really.

And yet, the thought of walking away feels heavier than it should. Below her hand, the kitten begins to purr, eyes closed, breathing slower again. With every moment, it becomes harder to tell herself she is acting in the best interest of her tiny demon. Leaving would be easier. But easier doesn’t feel right anymore. She thinks of all the screaming whenever she puts her down or closes a door. Would it scream like that if she just left her here and walked off? There is no hell that would torture her more than listening to its tiny shrieks and sobs, knowing she could no longer soothe them.

“Oh no… it’s fine, I’m happy to keep her for a little while longer,” she nods, reaching for the kitten with her other hand to lift it to her chest.

“Are you sure, I mean you-”

“Jesus Fuck! Can we move on from here? I said I’m keeping her!” 

It comes out a little louder and forceful than she had intended. The young man looks at her with big eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Uhm… sure…,” he seems to be off his game for a moment, “okay then I guess we proceed with the vaccinations? Are you happy to pay for-”

Agatha twirls her hand once, a soft sheen of purple magic surrounding the vet’s head before he breathes it in through his nose.

“Oh wait, I meant  we’re just gonna charge one of the richer owners some more, so it’s all covered.”

“Neat!” Agatha exclaims, handing him the kitten.

It goes about as well as one might expect. By the end of the ordeal, the kitten has bitten clean through the tip of a glove finger, Agatha’s pullover sports a dramatic tear down her arm, and the poor vet is nursing a fresh scratch across his face. As for the kitten? She shrieks with such ferocity that a tech assistant rushes in, suggesting they briefly subdue her - an idea that fails spectacularly. The kitten continues to hiss, scream, and thrash with the fury of a creature ten times her size, until, at long last, the final vaccination is jabbed in and the room falls into a stunned, ragged silence.

“Yeah maybe it’s good we don’t put her in with the other ones,” the vet murmurs when he lifts her back into the bowl again. Agatha leaves as far as she can.

The kitten won’t even look at her during the drive. It has turned around, facing away from Agatha, pressing its face against the side of the bowl. It barely moves when Agatha stops the car to get more kitten milk from the pet store and for the first time does not protest when Agatha briefly leaves it alone with the ventilation running. She feels so bad about the agony she has put her through she asks the clerk for kitten suitable treats and ends up taking two boxes of tuna and liver tubes as well as five satchels of kitten crunchies back to the car.

As she approaches, she sees it rushing back into its original position after it has seemingly turned around, waiting for her to return. She maintains the pissy charade until Agatha pulls into her driveway. What it has not factored in, is that Agatha can simply lift the bowl off the floor and turn it around.

“Guess now you wish I had left you there, huh?”

It looks away, still offended.

Agatha reaches into the back seat and gets a hold of one of the tube boxes. She sees the kitten’s nose wiggle from the moment she rips it open to get one of the treats out. It smells sweet and tangy, but as soon as the creamy, brown liquid oozes out of the package, there is no stopping the greedy-guts from gobbling it all up.

“Peace? You little sorehead?”

Agatha hears herself giggle as the kitten licks all over her fingers in an attempt to lap up every tiny drop of puree. It tickles and she feels it in her shoulders and on top of her cheeks: tiny, itchy, rampant jolts of joy. The kitten’s small paws aim for Agatha’s hand, holding it in place so it can demolish the treat. 

And to think she could have left it at the shelter. Unimaginable now. She scolds herself for even thinking of it. She might be a murderess, a witch killer , a damned succubus. But she isn’t a monster. That’s what people get wrong. She isn’t bad . She just does what she needs to survive. And she knows sooner or later another witch will have to help her with that (graciously, maybe a little involuntarily), but the kitten will not have to grow up in a shelter. Once it is big enough she can try looking for a good place for it. Perhaps she can charm one of the old ladies in town to look after it… or she could simply keep- Agatha scratches her forehead, maybe there is no need to get all in over her head with this.

In her lap, the kitten is still carefully licking her fingers, though the fervor has lessened a little. She brushes her own hair behind her ear with her clean hand before she deposits the almost empty tube in the bowl so the kitten can have its way with it while she carries it inside.

It is already dim outside, the evening sun hiding behind thick, grey clouds. She gets a small fire going in the living room after rubbing the kitten’s face and paws clean with a kitchen towel, remembering that it’s perfectly capable of cleaning itself. When the fireplace cackles, she orders herself a pizza and makes Scratchy his dinner before she gets one of her books from the basement, briefly cleaning some dust off the frame with Nicky’s drawing in it.

In her living room, the kitten has seated itself in Agatha’s arm chair. She carefully lifts it up and puts it into her lap before she opens the book on her knees.

“Do you think this one’s the one that’s gonna tell us where to find the dang pamphlet?” she asks the kitten, this time knowing full well she won’t be understood (well, at least she is starting to own up to it).

The kitten looks at her, one paw on the cover of the book, and for a moment Agatha wonders if it is a pang of sorrow she sees flashing through its eyes.

She shakes her head and disregards it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Halloween

When the days finally grow cold enough for Agatha to trade her rain jacket for a proper winter coat, she retreats even more to the confines of the house than usual. She still keeps convincing herself it has nothing to do with the tiny kitten that is attached to her as if Agatha was holding her on a little leash. And she tells herself it isn’t her lifelong disdain for All Hallow’s Eve , when envy creeps in as other witches gather in joyful celebration while she watches from afar, either.

Solitude is a welcome sister to her. Only when she forces herself on Agatha does she feel her icy fingers around her bones.

It is of no use. She makes the best of it. 

When the light of the thirty-first day of October softly starts peeking through her curtains, she remains in bed longer than she should. The kitten has wrapped herself around her arm, paws and tiny claws in her pajama top. Agatha tickles it under its jaw and watches it stretch its neck into her hand. A small smile appears on her face as one eye opens and she cheekily turns around to shuffle against Agatha's body. Agatha raises her arm to give it more space and its pink, rough tongue darts out, carefully licking her skin.

Agatha giggles and realizes that she can’t remember the last time she has giggled. Below her, her little demon purrs, pretending to be the motor of a big and powerful machine thirty times its size.

Over coffee, the Kitten repeatedly attacks her fingers, gnawing on them until Agatha conjures up a tiny, purple-glowing dot that she sends flying across the room with a twirl of her fingers. It is the most entertaining thing to watch the kitten chase after it, catching it in its little paws before it escapes its grasp again. 

The zoomies continue even when the little dot vanishes. They only end when the kitten lands face first in a bowl of milk, spilling it all over Agatha's kitchen floor.

"See? That’s what you get for acting like that," she scolds, rinsing it off in the sink as it hisses in protest - sharp, frequent bursts of indignation erupting from its mouth. 

She makes sure to wrap it up in a tight purrito afterwards, only its little head peeking out. It drifts in and out of sleep as Agatha sways it back and forth before she gets her laundry done. By the early afternoon they are on the floor of the living room again, playing with a white, leftover pillow case Agatha keeps throwing onto the kitten to play some pet version of hide and seek. 

When the kitten crawls inside of it and starts prancing around as if it's a dress, Agatha gets a pair of scissors and cuts out spaces for its eyes and nose.

“My little ghost kitten”, she snickers. If this is the cards Halloween has dealt her this year, she will play with them.

Thank the divine mother nobody sees her like this. Well Scratchy does. He judgingly eyes her from the couch, as if to say ‘really? this is how you chose to spend your time these days? ’

It hasn't escaped her that he doesn't seem to care for the kitten very much. He ignores it when he can, or simply scadaddles when it comes closer. He can't be afraid of it, it isn't even half his size. Plus, he doesn't run off as if he is scared, he just seems… leery. And maybe a little suspicious. 

She eats leftover mozzarella sticks for lunch, the kind that never tastes quite right when reheated, but she doesn’t mind (food is food). Afterward, she gently places the kitten in its bowl, cradling it in her arms as she carries it downstairs, careful not to stumble. The basement greets her with a chill, sharper than usual, as if the cold has settled in with intention. With a quiet flick of her wrist, she conjures a small fire, its purple flame curling softly in the hearth. She sets the kitten down beside it, careful to tuck a folded towel nearby for warmth. The little creature blinks up at her, and for a moment, she lingers, watching the firelight dance across its fur.

When she sits down in her chair, she reaches for the small, black bag on the table next to her. She has recently come across an old, Nepalese puzzle box that has the same runes engraved as some of the ancient texts she has been reading -

(what Agatha does not want you (or the kitten) to know is that she stole it from an old witch, only that she does not consider it stealing, since the witch was already dead. How was she dead you ask? Well…)

- however she has still not figured out what they might mean.

(She could have asked the witch of course but she had only thought of that after she had killed her.)

It matters little now that she is staring at the wooden contraption that has several wheels and knobs on its outside, all of them somehow connected. Whenever she twists one, another one springs back or turns on its own. She tries to enchant it, tries to order it to open on its own, but it refuses to move. An hour passes with her twisting and turning it in her hands, but she doesn't get anywhere with it.

A headache announces itself behind her eyes and she massages the bridge of her nose. Refocusing her eyes, she looks over to the bowl that now sits empty next to the cackling fire.

“Kitten?” She asks, and looks around the room when she sees something wiggle on her bookshelf: A small black shadow in front of that old drawing of Nicky's face.

“What are you doing up there?”

She slowly rises from her armchair, hearing her own spine crack as she groans in fleeting pain. 

The kitten doesn't turn around. It just sits and looks at the picture, its tiny tail slowly wagging over the wooden shelf.

“That’s Nicky”, Agatha quietly explains.

The kitten meows softly.

“No you can't meet him.”

She knows it's stupid. She knows the kitten hasn't asked if it can meet her dead son it knows nothing about. He looks all too two dimensional on the old parchment, the only proof that he has ever existed at all - hundreds of years ago.

The kitten meows again.

“Yes, he would have liked you very much as well,” Agatha still answers.

No meow follows. Instead, the kitten turns its head and looks at Agatha with its big eyes that seem greener and larger than usual. They are glassy too and suddenly Agatha wonders if cats have the ability to cry. She offers both of her hands for the kitten to climb on. It reaches out to the drawing with one of its tiny paws and gently runs it down the side of Nicky's face. Only then does she turn around and climb into Agatha's hands rolling herself into a ball in Agatha's lap when Agatha sits back down.

Agatha watches the kitten for a long while, its tiny body curled up with eyes gently shut. Each slow exhale sends a faint ripple through the wisps of fur on its tail, resting just beneath its nose. It remains like this all afternoon: still, quiet, withdrawn even. At one point, Agatha offers it one of the creamy treats it usually devours with wild enthusiasm. But today, it only sniffs at it, gives her fingers a soft, affectionate lick, and settles back down without a fuss. She doesn’t press. Instead, she sits nearby, the wheels turning in her head.

By early evening, it has Agatha so worried she leaves a message at the veterinarian's office, panicking that her kitten might be sick. But it doesn't feel overly warm. Its breathing is normal (at least as far as she can judge) and it isn't unresponsive.

Pacing in front of her living room window she wonders if some fresh air would do it any good. 

There is that one thing that always seems to cheer up Agatha, albeit it usually conjures up annoying memories… but then if it helps the kitten feel better she is willing to give it a try. 

She huffs when she gets an old Fleetwood Mac hoodie out of her cupboard and puts it on backwards (again, thankfully no one else will see this) before she puts the squeaking kitten in the hood that is now over her chest.

“We’re gonna go for a ride”, she announces and opens the door to her garage. Switching on the light, her glance immediately falls onto the old, twisted piece of wood, leaning against the far wall. It's the last hexenbesen Rio had made her over a year ago. Witches aren't supposed to store them. It's not always safe, especially if the maker isn't present. But then when has Agatha ever cared for all of these rules anyway? For a fleeting moment she lets her left hand ghost over the beautiful baby breath and ferns that are still as fresh as if they had just been plucked yesterday. The flowers are as soft as Rio's skin. She hears her chuckle and just to be sure she hasn't found her here, in Little Bumfuck, Massachusetts, Agatha turns around.

Of course the garage is empty.

With a sigh, she pulls on the cord that raises the gate, the broom in her left hand as she gets onto it with both legs on one side.

“You ready?” She looks down at the kitten who already looks more lively and excited than it has the entire afternoon.

Chuckling, she waves her hand, purple magic filling the air, gently lifting her off the ground. In the hood, the kitten gets up, putting its front paws on the seam of the fabric, looking down to where they are hovering over Agatha's garden.

“Ready to go up higher?”

The kitten meows vibrantly and Agatha makes the hexenbesen climb over the roof of the house and into the clear, dark sky. Stars twinkle above them as she steers them over the forest, the trees below them looking like nothing more than tiny toothpicks. 

Agatha follows a broad stream up into the mountains. The water rumbles and glistens below them, twisting and turning at its creator's pleasure. Up ahead, the crescent moon shines bright, illuminating the world with soft reverence. 

Safely tucked away in the back of her mind, carefully protected, she knows she has memories of nights like this. Nights during which Rio chased her through the trees only for them to tumble off their brooms and into the high grass. They would giggle until they were out of breath and all filled back up with love so palpable it had texture.

Agatha feels the gentle thrum of her kitten’s purr against her chest, a quiet rhythm that settles into her skin. She doesn’t look at it at first, half her mind still remembering the smell on Rio’s naked skin. The little body stretches upward, pressing close, rubbing her cheek along the curve of Agatha’s collarbone, not just for warmth, but for closeness, as if trying to melt into the space where Agatha’s heartbeat lives. 

“Are you feeling better then?” She smiles and caresses her with her left hand, the fur in between her fingers soft and smooth. 

The kitten meows as if to affirm.

“Don't make me worry for you like that again, okay?” She looks down and mumbles, placing a single kiss on the top of its head, right between its wiggling ears. It feels like she is getting tiny kisses when the kitten nuzzles against her jawline, its whiskers almost long enough to get to her lips. It makes her giggle for a second time that day.

Huddled together like that, Agatha looks at the moon and breathes in the fresh air until it fills every branch of her lung. Like this, she seems light, just a leaf, swaying in the breeze. She feels how her heart rate slows and the wheels in her head stop to turn. The kitten shifts slightly at her chest, a soft warmth against the night’s chill, and Agatha lets herself believe, for a fleeting moment, that maybe this quiet is enough. Not too bad at least. Good, really.  Maybe as good as it gets.

She lets the minutes pass her by, her legs gently swinging from the broom. Although it has gotten colder, the kitten doesn't complain. She hopes the heat radiating from her body is enough to keep it warm for the remainder of their flight, but she keeps her hand over its tiny body just in case.

“Ready to go home for now?” She whispers and her kitten answers with a squeak.

“Yeah I'm about ready for some hot chocolate as well”, she answers again while she turns them around, slowly heading back across the fields, country roads, and lonely houses. The kitten settles back down into the hood, its tiny chin propped up on the seam so it can watch where they're flying.

It takes her a second to find her way back, but eventually, she sees her chimney gently smoking in the distance, purple flakes from the magic fire in the smoke. She gently sets them down in the garden, the kitten chirping as if to applaud her smooth landing. She feels a pang of melancholy, storing the hexenbesen back in her garage. But then she rationalizes that if Rio was really interested in checking up on her, she would have long shown herself. 

So really it's her loss, not Agatha's.

She carries the kitten back into her kitchen and lets it watch her heating up a cup of milk on the stove before she stirs in vanilla, rock salt, and a whole bar of semi-sweet Belgian chocolate.

“I don't think this is good for you, otherwise I would let you try,” she shrugs, pouring the brown liquid into a mug that says “ All the best for your retirement, Jeff”. Maybe Halloween isn’t as bad after all, she thinks, and wonders if she should give the puzzle box another do-over later.

Outside, it begins to rain again and Agatha congratulates herself that she has brought them home just in time, when she suddenly hears the doorbell ring. 

“That's a bit odd”, she murmurs, looking at the old grandfather clock to check the time.

It rings again.

“Alright, alright”, she curses, and heads to the door.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 - Redi ad me

She is still barefoot when she stumbles through her hallway, bumping her toe against a corner on her way to the door. She hears the kitten scream for her from the kitchen, high-pitched protests against her sudden disappearance. She considers going back for her, but then the bell rings again just before she can reach for the handle.

“Sorry for the late call, I got your message but couldn't reach you on your phone, so I thought I might drop by on my way home.” 

It's a bit strange not to see the vet in his scrubs, but instead wearing all black clothing with white bones painted on.

“Oh, I didn't think I was gonna hear from you until Monday to be honest,” Agatha raises a brow, “she's doing better now actually.”

“Can I still give her a quick check? Now that I am here?“

Agatha steps aside and lets him in with a grand gesture. He is kind enough to wipe his shoes on the mat, curiously looking around as Agatha takes him to the kitchen where the kitten is still in its bowl, paws on the rim so it can barely look out, and only quiets down when it sees Agatha approaching. However as soon as the vet appears behind her, it hisses and scrambles back as if to make a run for it.

“She's still so small…” the vet mumbles more to himself than to Agatha, “does she eat okay?”

"Loads. Loves treats and milk.”

“She should be going for more solid foods at this point really…” he reaches for the bowl and carefully lifts the kitten out to look at it, “she hasn't grown even a bit, has she? Can I weigh her?”

Looking for a kitchen scale takes her a good minute, given that the kitchen isn't hers and that she generally doesn't weigh a lot of things, but she does get it for him.

“She weighs no more than when you first showed her to me… this is so strange, even for a runt. I mean she could have a genetic disorder that keeps her small, but then we would be seeing other symptoms…”

In his hands the kitten hisses. Her small claws are out, her fangs aiming for his fingers.

“What do you mean?” Agatha raises a brow.

“It’s as if she isn’t growing at all… normal cats grow, become adults… this one… it’s just not normal…”

“Is she sick?” Agatha opens her hands and lets the tiny, meowing creature waddle to her. She immediately rubs her face in Agatha’s palms, her noises growing smaller.

“She doesn’t appear sick,” he shrugs, “and she seems feisty,” he quips.

“That she is,” Agatha smiles and pets her kitten’s back, feeling her purr against the sensitive skin on her fingers. 

“Alright, I don’t want to disturb your Halloween any longer,” he nods, “tell Jeff I said hi!”

“Jeff?” Agatha frowns before an icy-cold shudder runs through her spine.

He points to the mug, “you’re Jeff’s wife aren't you?”

Fucking retirement mug.

Agatha really doesn’t want to kill him. He seems nice enough, young and mostly friendly. And he’s been so helpful with the kitten. Plus, there is a gold band on his finger. If he doesn’t come home tonight, someone will miss him and look for him. And she can’t have police going through a house that isn’t hers. And she really can’t have them find the body in the freezer.

“Oh no… I’m Jeff’s niece,” Agatha lies, “just house-sitting while he’s in…” glancing toward the poster on the opposite wall, she slowly nods as if to make herself believe it, “Hawaii.”

“Oh! Never knew he was into travelling like that! We’ve been wondering how Jeff’s doing, haven’t seen him around in ages!”

“He’s great!” she replies with a bright smile, still gently stroking the kitten curled into her hand.

“Funny, I could’ve sworn one of the girls at the shelter said you were married to Jeff,” he chuckles, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Agatha lets out a theatrical laugh, a little too loud, a little too rehearsed, “oh no, definitely not married.” She hopes the performance lands - just enough to send him on his way before the questions dig any deeper. But before he can react, a sharp pain goes through her hand.

“Ouch!” she gasps and looks down. Two of her kitten’s sharp front teeth have dug themselves into the uppermost layer of her skin, drawing tiny drops of blood. For just a moment, Agatha believes she sees a green shimmer flash through its eyes again. When she blinks it is gone, only yellow remaining.

“Looks like she is getting ready for me to scadaddle,” the vet jokes and Agatha looks up, “are you okay?” he points at Agatha’s hand.

“Yeah, I’m good…” looking back down, the kitten has pulled its teeth out, carefully licking her wound as if to apologize.

(Effin great, now she has to look for the first aid kit as well.)

“I’ll let myself out, tell Jeff we’re excited to hear from him once he is back!”

“I will,” Agatha nods, waiting until she hears the door fall shut and his car starts back up outside.

What on earth was that? Rubbing her own fingers against each other, she looks back down at the kitten. Something doesn’t sit right. She can see the tiny muscles in its throat contract as if it is swallowing. Its eyes are yellow. No green flashes. Turning her hand around, Agatha notices that the little bite marks are gone. No blood remains on her hand. In fact, she no longer feels the pain either… nor can she identify the exact place the kitten had bitten her.

“You are not growing,” she murmurs, not sure if to the kitten or herself, “you haven’t grown at all.”

The kitten’s tongue darts out, licking its nose.

“And you’ve never bitten me…” Agatha looks at her hand again, “and last time I checked, kitten saliva does not heal bleeding wounds.”

She sees the tiny paws flex, nervously tapping on the counter.

“And neither can kittens change their eye color at will…”

The kitten is off the counter before Agatha can see in which direction it escapes. So all of a sudden, it’s not too high for her anymore, is it now?

“Kitten!” Agatha shouts, bolting into the living room. A flicker of movement catches her eye, a shadow slipping behind the ottoman. She lunges toward it, but the kitten is already gone, a blur of fur darting back into the hallway, tail flicking like a taunt.

She scrambles after it, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug as the kitten bounds ahead, nimble and silent. It disappears around the corner, and Agatha skids into the hallway, catching just a glimpse of its hind legs vanishing down the stairs.

“Oh no you don’t,” she mutters, breathless, and takes the steps two at a time. Never has the kitten taken any of the stairs in the house - not once!

The basement door creaks open, and she plunges into the dimness below. With a twirl of her hand, purple magic illuminates all of the light bulbs and candles in her little basement library. But it is empty - the kitten nowhere to be seen.

It takes a good minute of her carefully looking around until she hears the soft thump of tiny paws and follows the sound, circling the desk and armchair. The kitten darts behind the old grandfather clock, then squeezes through a gap between two crates.

Agatha crouches low, peering into the narrow space. “Come on, Kitten,” she says, voice softer now, coaxing. “I know you’re in there.”

There’s a pause. Quiet fills the air.

Agatha sighs and closes her eyes. She should have known earlier. Should have questioned all of this a little sooner. Thank god no one can see her.

“Rio I know it’s you,” she lets her shoulders fall,  “I can stand here all day and wait for you to come out… so why don’t you save us some time, huh?”

There is a reluctant shuffle, a tiny squeak and then the kitten emerges, eyes wide, tail low. It pads forward slowly, as if surrendering to fate. Her eyes have never looked this big and green. She is sulking… and probably a little bit defensive.

“Oh for fuck’s sake… you used the animorphal spell, didn't you?”

The kitten meows and lets her head hang. Agatha massages her temples. 

“Why?”

(Alright, truth be told, Agatha isn’t stupid, Agatha knows why - the why isn’t really the question.)

“Alright, c’mon, turn back into your human form, I've had it with you,” she orders, but the kitten only meows again, eyes still pointed to the floor, paws playing with a short, stray thread on the carpet. Agatha raises an eyebrow.

This isn't supposed to be hard. Transformation spells are ridiculously easy, every half-serious witch in their right mind knows how to transform into an animal, let alone a cat. Nobody learns these spells, it’s a copy and paste out of a basic spell book. The undoing of the spell is bound to the witch's will, there are no words that need to be spoken to turn back unless… Agatha grins widely, teeth like those of a shark.

“Tell me,” she squats down and puts her right index finger under the kitten’s chin, “how does Death herself mess up an easy transformation spell?”

The kitten meows woefully. Of course she can’t answer. She looks like she’s at least gotten around to remembering and recognizing herself, which is not a given. Agatha still vividly remembers poor Salamite Mathilda Goodheart transforming herself into an owl and entirely forgetting herself until her mother had released the spell. The poor thing had known nothing but the intense longing to go home… which is why she had nested in her mother’s attic. Come to think of it that at least explains the kitten’s insane separation anxiety.

She carefully rubs her face against Agatha’s palm, and for a moment, Agatha remembers both the delicate fondness she’s developed for the kitten and the tiny specks of love she still holds for Rio - small thorns pressed into her heart, forever adnate with her truest sense of self.

“C’mon,” she lets the kitten crawl onto her hands and carries her over to the reading stand, magically lifting one of the thicker spell books from the shelf until it settles onto the wooden surface, opening itself to the chapter on spell reversals.

“It’s not your name,” Agatha muses, looking for the right chapter, “I’ve already said that and you still have two pairs of paws,” the kitten meows, “case in point.”

There are hundreds of pages on very specific spell reversals. Anything and everything from weather magic to long term illusions and the transformation of inanimate objects into humans. Agatha huffs, of course there is no chapter on animal transformations (because yes, they are that easy).

“You can understand me now, right? Assuming you didn't when you walked into my garden.”

The kitten nods.

“Alright,” Agatha sighs and makes the next book float out of her shelf.

It goes like this for the remainder of the night. Agatha watches as the kitten's eyes go glassy and she slips in and out of short periods of sleep. It's past midnight when she questions it for the first time. Why would Death, even in the form of a kitten, need sleep? That's not how transformative spells work.

“Rio,” she nudges her awake, “did you complete the spell? Did you say each and every word until the last syllable?”

The kitten looks at her with big eyes. She wags her tail, shakes her head, and meows. Great. What is that supposed to mean? Maybe she can't remember. Which likely means she didn't complete the spell. Which means Agatha is looking at the wrong texts entirely. She only has a small book on incomplete, botched spells. It's on the very top of the bookshelf because Agatha usually doesn't royally fuck up her spells.

The kitten eyes the pages curiously while Agatha scans them until she gets to a chapter of spells botched by… emotional turmoil.

“Sounds like you,” she makes a snide remark and huffs, the kitten flashing its tiny teeth.

“Yeah, yeah,” she signs and tries to decipher the old Latin texts.

They call for a circle of lavender salt and three beeswax candles to be placed around the subject. Agatha clears the back of her basement to make space for it. The kitten watches as she works, spreading the salt in a sorta-even and round circle before she lights three candles that smell enough like bee’s wax for this to work.

When she is done, she sets the kitten down in the middle and orders her to stay there.

“Now don’t move, I have to read the second part first!”

Mulling over the words, Agatha feels a low grumble in her chest as the sentence begin to make sense in her head.. Of course this is what it’s calling for, how could it be any different.

“A fucking hair of them who hold you most dear,” she raises her eyebrows and the kitten meows, “well no clue where we would find someone that holds Death very dear, huh?” Agatha slams the book shut in her hand and crosses her arms, angrily staring at the kitten. Tonight is not the night she wants to dwell on how much the mother of her son still means to her - and it’s specifically not the night she feels like testing it out in front of Rio.

The kitten slowly waddles out of the circle and over to where Agatha is standing. It rubs herself against her ankles, going back and forth, purring like the motor of an old Mercedes Benz. Agatha closes her eyes. She has a fucking headache. It’s late. All she wants is to go to bed and sleep. Perhaps there is a timer on the spell… perhaps she just needs to give it one more night and Rio transforms back on her own. After all, her sense of self has come back on its own has it not? Agatha’s glance falls onto the small glass frame that holds Nicky’s picture. Or had it? The kitten follows her glance until it sees where it is. Agatha watches as it slowly, pitifully lowers its gaze onto the floor.

“Alright,” she whispers and curls a single hair around her index finger, ripping it from her scalp. One last time, she picks the little demon up and ties the hair around its left paw, securing it with a knot. It meows and gently licks her hand with its tiny pink tongue. Agatha suppresses the urge to give its head scratch. Instead, she sets it back down into the circle before she begins to speak.

“Quod vetus est, novum fit. What is old is new.
Quod abiit, redit. What has gone comes back.
Quod flexum est, integrum fit. What has been bent turns whole.
Quod desidero, redi. What I miss, return.”

Slumping her shoulder, Agatha looks back at the kitten and adds: “Redi ad me. Return to me.”

It is almost gentle, the way the candles emit lilac fog that soars and quickly engulfs the kitten in its coat of magic. The haze curls around its tiny frame, shimmering faintly in the dim light. It rises, slow and deliberate, until it fills the room to the ceiling, thick as velvet and humming with unseen energy. The air grows heavy, saturated with the scent of burnt salt, ashes, and rotting lavender. Agatha presses her eyes closed at the sting, the fog biting at the corners like nettles. Her breath catches. Somewhere beneath the veil, the kitten mews once, then falls silent. But the silence is not empty, it pulses. The candles flicker, their flames bending inward. A low hum begins to build in the walls, and Agatha, still blind behind her lids, feels the room shift. Something is arriving.

When she opens her eyes, the kitten is no more.

Instead, Rio stands, stark naked in the middle of the fading circle, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Fuck you for saying you have no wife!”