Chapter Text
Soft light and softer voices rouse Becka from her slumber, her heavy eyelids struggling to open as she comes to. How long she slept is a mystery; she’s been drifting in and out since Garth first laid her here the night before last. She last saw him when he tried to bring her breakfast, so it’s probably still morning. Other than his attempts to coax her into eating, he’s been careful not to disturb her. Avoiding her, or respecting her space. Maybe both. Becka doesn’t know, or care. She doesn’t care about anything.
A gnawing pain in her stomach makes her wince, the sensation somewhere between hunger and nausea. She woke up yesterday still feeling off from whatever Aunt Estée had shot in her leg to calm her down. Her stomach was growling, but the mere thought of eating was unbearable, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. Really, she’s barely eaten at all since she found out what her father was. She’s wasting away into death. Hopefully, it won’t take long.
The voices drift into her consciousness again, their words too faint to follow. She can make out Garth’s voice, and another man’s that sounds familiar. Maybe he’s meeting with some other Commanders. He didn’t mention anything to her about it, but it’s not like he’s required to. She’s just his wife.
Becka winces at the mere word. Despite her best efforts, there was no escaping her fate, not in Gilead. All she could hope for in the end was a husband who was kind and caring, who made her feel safe in her own home. At least she got that much, in the end. She should be grateful. God would want her to be grateful. She still wants to jump off a cliff.
She barely remembers the wedding, she has Estée to thank for that. She would rather not remember, to be honest, but being robbed of control of her mind and body was not worth it. She’d never felt so betrayed by an Aunt, let alone Estée. But it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The whole system betrayed her in the days leading up to the wedding. Even Agnes betrayed her.
Agnes was trying to help her, she knows that. Agnes would never have turned her over to the Eyes willingly. But she lied to her, told her she’d run away with her. Just like she’d said at the ball, only Becka had really believed her this time. And when they arrived downstairs, and she realized that she was walking into an ambush, that Agnes didn’t actually want to leave with her, it broke her heart. Not that there was much left to break, after all that had transpired that day.
But somehow, it happened. Somehow it broke even more, the remaining shards ground down into dust by Gilead’s warped sense of justice. Becka thought she knew what justice was, thought she had exacted it by her own hand. But not by His hand, and that makes all the difference. Apparently God’s law only applies when the men in charge say it does. She should have known. And now her mother is dead, because of her.
Becka turns her head, buries it deeper in her mom’s pillow. The smell of her hair lingers in the pillowcase, and Becka’s eyes well up at the comforting yet torturous scent. Who knows how long she has until it fades? She’s not moving from this place.
Just as she thinks this, there’s footsteps on the stairs. She heaves a sigh, rolling her eyes at Garth’s horrendous timing. She knows he means well, but she doesn’t want to talk to him. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. So she keeps her eyes closed, keeps her nose buried in the pillow, even when the door opens and the footsteps enter the room.
“Hi, Becka.”
Becka’s eyes snap open at Agnes’s voice, finding her best friend standing there awkwardly holding a plate. Her mouth slips open, her tongue lying limp against her cheek. She hasn’t seen Agnes since before the wedding. Since she kissed Agnes. Since Agnes kissed her back.
“Hi,” she says, her voice gravelly and thick with phlegm. She clears her throat self-consciously, and suddenly it occurs to her how horrible she must look, and smell. She swapped out the dress for a more comfortable nightgown sometime yesterday, but hasn’t done anything resembling hygiene since the wedding. Her hair is a greasy mess, and she probably has snot all over her face.
The corner of Agnes’s mouth turns up in a tiny, affectionate smirk that only deepens Becka’s blush. She places the plate on the nightstand and goes to close the door, and Becka gives her face a quick wipe with her nightgown while her back is turned. When Agnes turns to face her again, Becka once again finds herself lost for words. There’s nothing she can say, not in her defense. Regardless of the drugs just starting to kick in, or the panic and despair they were meant to combat, none if it absolves her of her actions on her wedding day. She sullied Agnes, stained her with her own demons. There’s no way to undo that.
She knows she didn’t force Agnes to do anything, but honestly, that makes it worse in a way. Becka may be a gender traitor bound for Hell, but she didn’t have to bring Agnes down with her. She sinned, and she caused her sister to stumble. She doesn’t regret it — it’s the one shred of joy that still exists in her life — but she is ashamed of it. She can barely look Agnes in the eye, but she forces herself to. She owes her that much.
Swallowing hard, she forces her lips to move. “What are you doing here?”
Agnes twitches her mouth in a grimace. “Garth called my dad. He’s worried about you.” Glancing over her shoulder, she adds, “They’re talking about taking you to a doctor, for real this time. Or someone else you can talk to about what happened.”
Becka shakes her head, eyes sliding shut. “I can’t tell them what really happened.”
Walking in on her mother stabbing her father to death would be traumatic enough to warrant some kind of support, she supposes, but what’s the point of talking about a lie? And that lie is the new reality she had to accept, the new reality her mother paid for with her life. Her dear, sweet mother…
“No,” Agnes replies sadly. “I guess you can’t.”
Hot tears begin rolling over the bridge of Becka’s nose and down her cheek, and almost immediately she feels Agnes’s weight settle on the bed, and her hand on her shoulder. “Beck, it’s okay.”
“Nothing about this is okay,” mutters Becka. She swipes a hand across her face and looks up just in time to see Agnes put on a brave face, and a tight smile.
“But you will be.”
“How?” demands Becka. “I killed my parents. Only one of them deserved it.” A cramp seizes her throat, forcing her to swallow. Powering through, she rasps, “How am I supposed to live with what I did to her?”
Eyes sad as ever, Agnes murmurs, “I don’t know.”
Ducking her head, Becka sniffles into the pillow. “I don’t want to.”
There’s a moment of heavy silence. Finally, Agnes says, “Well, I’d miss you.” Becka looks up to find her lips quirking impishly. “I guess that makes me selfish.”
Snorting to herself, Becka rolls her eyes. “I forgive you,” she mutters.
“By His grace,” remarks Agnes, her tone flat but eyes alight. “You’re so kind.”
With that, she throws the covers back and starts clambering over Becka. Becka’s eyes widen in surprise, and then in panic as Agnes wriggles in behind her, molding herself to her body. Her heart races, sweat springing from her palms as its beat thunders in her ears. It’s not like she’s unused to being pressed up against Agnes, but it’s been ages since they truly cuddled. They haven’t had a sleepover since they were young Plums, before their parents told them it was unbefitting of the young women they were becoming. Back then, Becka thought nothing of the warmth she felt in Agnes’s presence, or her embrace. Now, she understands how dangerous it is. How sinful it is.
Knowing it’s the Devil at work in her does nothing to purge those feelings from her body. When Agnes’s hand slides down her arm and cups the back of her hand, Becka feels like she’s spinning in circles all over again. Their eyes locked as they moved in unison, her thumb brushing lightly over the delicate skin of Agnes’s arm, an overwhelming urge screaming in her chest to get closer, in any way possible…
A wave of shame sends Becka’s stomach plummeting, just like it did that day in Agnes’s room. She’s so pathetic, and gross. Why can’t she just accept some comfort from a friend without being weird about it? How does that make her better than all those men who lust after women? Does she need to gouge her eyes out, or rip her skin off, to stop herself from sinning? Not even against God — that ship has sailed — but against them. Is she doomed to become her father?
The blood drains from her head, leaving it cold and dizzy. She thinks maybe she stops breathing.
“I can’t believe they assigned you this house,” Agnes mutters into her shoulder, apparently oblivious to her struggle. “It’s crazy, sending you back here after everything. It’s hard enough for me to come back.”
Becka blinks hard, willing herself to focus. Of course, the office downstairs. Agnes was violated in this very house. And here Becka had thought she’d stopped coming over because she didn’t want to spend time with her. She gave Agnes shit for it. Her stomach twists inside her, and she thinks she might have thrown up were there anything to come up.
“I didn’t think about that,” she whispers.
“You didn’t know,” answers Agnes, apparently reading her mind. “It’s okay. And I’m sure it’s much worse for you.”
Becka shrugs, brushing it off before she can think about it. “I’ve only gotten up to go to the bathroom.” And then she thinks about it. “Of course, that is where it happened.”
Fingertips brush absently over the back of Becka’s wrist. “Where what happened?”
“The shears. In the bathtub.” The fingers stop, and Becka winces. “It’s okay, you can say it. I know I’m crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” Agnes assures her, now gripping her forearm gently.
“Don’t lie to me,” Becka says flatly.
“You went crazy,” clarifies Agnes. “And it was understandable. It doesn’t mean you are crazy.”
Becka shakes her head. “Everyone knows it. Garth knows it. He’s been locking me in here at night.”
“Locking you in?!” Agnes shifts, her weight suddenly on her elbow as she stares down at Becka. Becka turns her head, finding the shocked expression she expected, and plays it off with a grin.
“Yeah,” she says, “I think he’s afraid of me.”
Agnes blinks, gives her head a shake. “Pray, I’m sure he’s just trying to keep you safe.”
“I like my version better,” Becka says bluntly.
A small, conspiratorial smile creeps onto Agnes’s lips. “Okay then, he’s afraid of you.”
There she goes again, telling Becka what she wants to hear. Sometimes Becka enjoys Agnes giving in to her, and other times it just feels like she’s being appeased. This time it’s both. And now she can’t help wondering, for the hundredth time, if that kiss might have been more of the same. Telling her what she wants to hear. Doing whatever is necessary to placate her. To make her cooperate. Like Estée’s shot to the leg.
Becka’s stomach turns and she follows suit, settling on her side again. Agnes hesitates a moment, then eases herself back down onto the bed behind her. Agnes is so careful and gentle with her, just like Garth. Becka hopes it’s not for the same reason.
“He’s been sleeping on the couch, I think,” muses Becka. “Or in my bed.” She frowns. “My old bed.”
Agnes takes a moment to respond. “Oh,” she says, her tone one of surprise. “So you two haven’t, um…”
Becka lets out a thoughtful hum. “Not as far as I know. On our wedding night, he took off my shoes, and that’s it. I’m pretty sure you don’t have sex with your feet.”
She’s joking, of course. She may not understand the mechanics of sex, but she knows where babies come out of, and Garth hasn’t touched her anywhere near there.
“Oh,” chuckles Agnes. And that was the intended effect, making Agnes laugh, but she sounds… relieved. Becka’s gut twists again, a confusing cocktail of satisfaction and jealousy fighting for control.
“Don’t worry, he’s all yours,” she mutters. “Maybe you can convince your dad to leave.”
The body behind her stiffens, Agnes’s grip tightening on her wrist. “How can you say something like that?”
Becka pushes out a steadying sigh, gives her head a shake. “Sorry. I know you wouldn’t touch a man that way.”
“That’s not what I meant. You think I’m here for him?”
Pain and pressure bloom in Becka’s throat, fresh tears bursting from her eyes. “No,” she whispers, wiping them away. “Sorry.”
Agnes’s sigh is both affectionate and aggravated. “Come here,” she orders, giving Becka’s arm a gentle tug.
With an embarrassingly large sniffle, Becka rolls over and into Agnes’s embrace. Agnes reels her in, tucking her head beneath her chin like she’s done so many times. The sound of her heartbeat leeches the tension from Becka’s muscles, her body relaxing for the first time in days. It’s much more effective than the drugs.
“I’m here for you, Becka,” Agnes declares, holding tight to her body. “I swear.”
Becka swallows hard. “I know.”
Agnes presses a decisive kiss to her hairline, punctuating the statement with authority. Then she too relaxes, at least in body. Becka feels her shoulders release, though her grip remains steadfast. But she knows Agnes, wholly and deeply, and she can feel her mind continuing to whir.
The next touch is softer, Agnes lifting a hand from Becka’s back to stroke her fingers through her hair. They sigh in unison, both their bodies relaxing further at the comforting contact. Becka’s face is still pressed to Agnes’s collarbone, but she feels her chin move, her head tilting down so she can study her.
“If you knew what I did to protect you…” murmurs Agnes. She pulls back slightly, and Becka looks up to meet her gaze burning with intensity and devotion. “I’d do anything for you too.”
Then Agnes is leaning in, and Becka’s heart jumps. Her head tilts down instinctively, shielding her from the incoming assault. If this is what she thinks it is, it will only hurt more. “Don’t kiss me because you feel sorry for me.”
Agnes swallows, eyes incredulous and locked right on Becka. “I’m not.”
“Aren’t you?” presses Becka.
Those magnetizing eyes roam across Becka’s face, taking in her eyes, her hair, and yes, her lips. Agnes’s fingertips trail reverently over her temple, and Becka’s eyes flutter shut.
“You look beautiful,” whispers Agnes.
Becka snorts. “I look like shit.”
“Beautiful shit.”
Becka can’t help the tiny chuckle rising up within her, her eyes popping open with a grin. Agnes never curses. Agnes never does anything wrong. Except kiss girls now, apparently.
“They lied to me, you know,” says Agnes, that determined devoted look making a comeback. “I didn’t know they were calling the Eyes.”
Becka nods, praying her expression is even half as convincing. “I know.”
“Thinking I’d lost you… that hurt way more than losing Garth.” Her fingers twitch against Becka’s cheek, swipe some wisps of hair behind her ear. Eyes shining, Agnes whispers, “Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?”
Becka’s breath hitches. “Tell me.”
“You’re the person I care most about in the world, Beck,” swears Agnes. She finds Becka’s hand and weaves their fingers together intently. But it’s the quiver in her fingers and sweat in her palms that really sell it when she says, “I feel like you’re a part of me. You’re my person, you know? We belong together.”
It feels like a wedding vow, unfortunately too late. Becka’s eyes burn and blur with what they have, and what can never be.
Swallowing the cramp in her throat, she asks, “Do you love me?”
“Of course!” Agnes immediately replies, aghast at the mere question. But her expression falters just as fast as the complexities hit her, and she quickly clarifies, “I don’t know if it’s the same as you. This is all… new.” She frowns. “I know how I feel when I’m around you, but I never thought about what it meant. That kind of love is for men and women, so it couldn’t be that, right?”
“Right,” mumbles Becka, trying not to let her envy shine through. It would have been nice to be so unaware of and untortured by the whole thing. Maybe if she’d liked boys, like Agnes, she would have been able to lie to herself. Instead, she drove herself mad praying to God to pluck this thorn from her side. It was a particularly cruel burden for Him to bestow on her, one that doomed her to eternal misery. She spent so many nights crying herself to sleep, longing for Agnes and hating herself for it.
A thumb flits over the back of Becka’s fingers, calling her eyes back up to Agnes. The certainty is back in her expression, along with a quiet, curious smile. “But I want to figure it out.”
Becka’s lips twitch upward in return, but a resigned sigh pushes through them and she tosses a hand. “Is there a point?”
Agnes squints, somehow puzzled. “What do you mean?”
It’s a silly question, from Agnes of all people. Things are different now. A premarital dalliance will destroy your life in Gilead, if you’re lucky enough to live. But adultery sends you straight to the wall, and to Hell. Or so they say. Becka’s not sure what she believes anymore, but she’s never known Agnes to question such things. Not until the whole kissing girls thing, anyway.
“I’m married now,” Becka reminds her, eyebrow arched pointedly. “To the person you’re in love with.”
A sly smile crawls onto Agnes’s lips. “Well, maybe Garth is too.”
All the resistance leaves Becka’s body in one breath. It is too disarming, too charming, and she can’t help herself. She leans in, and Agnes meets her more than halfway this time, closing the gap with a sigh of relief as Becka grants her silent permission. Her hand slides into Becka’s hair and their lips meet, that buzzing warmth Becka remembers in her chest returning. She wasn’t sure before if that was from the kiss or from the drugs kicking in.
This kiss is longer. Their lips stay pressed together for at least ten seconds, and stray for a mere breath before reconnecting for another. Tentatively, Becka moves her lips the slightest bit, testing the waters. Agnes is game, responding with brushes of her lips and multiple soft pecks. A quiet hum of satisfaction echoes up her throat and into their kiss, filling Becka’s lungs with air, and hope. She can feel it ballooning in her chest, pressing on all sides, like she could simply float away. But for once, she has a reason to stay.
Really, Agnes has always been her reason. Without her, she may have run away years ago. And in this moment, even after everything she’s been through, she’s kind of glad she didn’t.
Finally Agnes pulls back, and the beaming grin on her face just about sends Becka rocketing to the ceiling. Her own lips spread wide to match, and she lifts a hand to thumb the corner of Agnes’s mouth. She’s just thinking about closing the gap again when her stomach growls, demandingly this time.
The loud rumble cuts through the air, startling them both and completely disrupting their moment of sanctuary. Their eyes meet again in surprise, and within seconds they’re devolving into giggles. When a second, quieter rumble occurs, Agnes fully laughs.
“Okay, okay, we heard you!” Becka responds, rolling her eyes at the betrayal. “You don’t need to shout.”
“From what I’ve heard, it does,” remarks Agnes, still smiling but watching her like a hawk.
“I haven’t been feeling good,” mutters Becka, eyes fleeing Agnes’s gaze.
“I can’t imagine why,” says Agnes, completely deadpan. Becka snorts. Agnes reaches out and drags a finger down her jawline, calling her gaze back. Smiling softly, she prompts, “But you’re feeling better now, right?”
The temptation to be contrary is strong, because Becka knows where Agnes is going with this. But she can’t possibly lie about her current state, not after the rapturous moment they just shared. It felt downright holy, even if it was the most unholy of acts. But Becka can’t help but question that, now more than ever. How could that kind of love and connection be wrong? She has never felt purer joy in her life.
“Yeah,” she grumbles reluctantly, rolling her eyes.
Agnes clearly understands her need to be grumpy about it. Far from looking hurt, her lips curl upward with affection. Tipping her head, she prompts, “You think maybe you could eat something?”
Eyes sparkling, Becka hums noncommittally. “I suppose I could be convinced,” she says. She twists a finger playfully in the collar of Agnes’s dress. “Turns out you can be very persuasive.”
Agnes grins and drives home the sentiment with another peck. “Garth made you a sandwich.”
As she starts to climb back over Becka, Becka cracks, “Maybe we should call him Gartha.”
A bark of laughter bursts from Agnes and she loses her balance, nearly crashing down on top of Becka. Panting with mirth as she stabilizes herself, she lets her forehead drop to rest against Becka’s. Becka’s hands move to her waist, offering extra support.
“You okay there?” she teases, smug eyes shining up at Agnes.
Agnes feigns a scowl and plants a hard kiss on her lips. “Stop distracting me.”
Smirking in reply, Becka drops her hands and lets Agnes climb over her. She even shuffles back and sits up against the headboard, like a good mental patient awaiting her rations.
Seemingly pleased when she turns back and finds Becka that way, Agnes lifts one half of the sandwich to her lips. “Open.”
Becka obeys, taking a small bite. The food instantly feels wrong in her mouth, dense and tasteless. She has to chew it a lot before she can even think about trying to swallow. Her stomach squirms in protest when she does, and she has to grip the sheets, eyes slamming shut against a surge of nausea. Thankfully it passes, allowing her a deep breath. Finally her sense of calm returns and her eyes flutter open, with Agnes there to greet them. There’s concern in her eyes, but her smile is nothing but encouraging.
“It’s okay, Beck,” she assures her. “I’ll be here for as long as it takes.” Holding her gaze, she adds, “For as long as you need me. Okay?”
“I always need you,” Becka answers freely, with barely a hint of sheepishness. It’s not like it’s a secret.
A genuine smile tugs at Agnes’s lips. “Yeah,” she says, “me too.”