Chapter Text
It had been 317 days since Agatha Harkness pressed her lips against Rio Vidal, inadvertently siphoning her powers and dying a remarkable death.
The first 100 were spent with insurmountable grief and turbulence, unable to accept that after all these centuries, Agatha, her once true love, had chosen a barely know boy over her.
Her powers weren’t as strong as they were supposed to be. Green light flickered in and out when trying to control her anger. Useless.
Bursts of aggression and hatred would come in and out. Everytime a newly transferred soul would fight back, argue, reprimand, she’d grow more infuriated than usual.
Usually, Rio was patient with them. They’d just lost everything and had to look back and deal with it, it was the least she could do.
But now? Now she couldn't do it.
She’d fight with boring, biteless words that didn't really do anything but make those souls scared. Counterproductive.
Tears would drip and fall, swarming at her feet and on her hands like an endless river. Only for those 100 days. The next 100 she returned to skeleton and emptiness. Nothing was worth the effort anymore.
Even when helping souls cross the path to the afterlife, she stayed skeletal. Children would fear and cry, others would be fascinated and ask, some would be apathetic and go without fight.
Rio grew to hate her bones. They jutted out and grew more and more faded over time. That wasn't her only problem, she hated how it made her feel.
This wasn't her.
She wasn't Rio Vidal, the skeletal Death. She wasn't the Death that made children cower and adults shock. Counterintuitive.
The next 100 days were spent in silence. No words uttered, no thoughts, no consciousness. Days, weeks, months would pass without a single glance up.
The white, wine stained wall in front of her made for enough entertainment. It brought memories of happiness and contentment, everything she wished she had right now.
She didn't have to think to feel good.
(Agatha set the glasses on the table, glancing around to make sure everything was perfect. It was a rare, peaceful evening, and she felt oddly domestic. Nicholas was curled up on the sofa with a comic, his laughter spilling into the room in bursts.
Rio sat across from him, quietly entertained by his expressions, a faint, rare smile touching her lips.
“Wine?” Her love offered, bringing over two glasses. She handed one to Rio, their fingers brushing just enough for a spark to flash between them.
For a moment, the tension they’d always danced around seemed softer, gentler.
Just as she took a sip, Nicholas asked a question, pulling her attention. Agatha turned quickly, misjudging the weight of the glass, and suddenly red wine splashed across the pristine white wall. There was a stunned silence before she covered her mouth, stifling laughter.
“Agatha,” Rio said in mock exasperation, shaking her head. But there was a warmth in her eyes. Much unlike the current Rio, devoid of emotions.)
The next 17 days were spent watching Agatha’s flowered grave. The Maximoff boy would appear sometimes, spouting nonsense. She never listened, never cared.
He wasn't Nicholas.
A flower would die, the cycle of life would continue on top of Agatha’s physical body.
Everytime one withered away, she’d bloom another.
A flower for Agatha, a flower for Nicholas and a flower for all the times their love died and re-bloomed.
It was the 318th day of Agatha Harkness being dead. Rio was staring again; the wall in front of her no longer wine stained. Her mind wandered and brows furrowed at the sudden turn. She didn't do this.
Who did this, she demanded herself to think, who cleansed her life of the only thing that made her happy.
Soon enough, the solitude gets enough for her and she drifts off, not so peacefully, into sleep. Dreams of Nicholas haunt her. Dreams of Agatha breaking into her arms and changing her fate kill her.
Agatha's ghost form appears through the wall, her form semi-transparent, and her heart sinks as she sees Rio. Her ex partner is slumped on the couch, house (if you can call it that) vacant.
Neither of them had inhabited the sacred cottage in years, centuries. But her death has apparently inspired enough courage for them both to go back.
The room was clean but showered in dust, obvious that Rio hadn’t dared to even touch anything that was left.
And it’s abundantly clear she's been crying. A lot.
She looks broken, as broken as an eternal entity with a drive and purpose to kill and take can look.
Agatha gently floats over to her, a wave of guilt washing over her. She had been selfish, pushing Rio away like that, and now look at the consequences of her actions.
Truly, she hadn’t meant her words. She just wanted to hurt Rio as Rio had hurt her all those centuries ago. It was self-destructive and forced.
But, she expected a fight. An ‘Absolutely not’ or ‘I’ll always be with you Agatha.’ But none came.
A solemn ‘Okay’ and it was over.
Rio Vidal had crumbled and been replaced with a shell, Agatha laughed to herself, literally.
An existence where she was solely responsible for breaking Death was an existence she didn't want. So she traded it.
Agatha's heart sinks as she thinks about it. Her last words in their fight, her finale goodbye.
“I don’t want to see your face.”
Practically telling Rio to retire her form, to change entirely because she had betrayed Agatha so badly and she couldn't stand to look at her.
She hadn't meant to hurt Rio. She wanted a bit of malice in her words, not full on psychopathy.
When she thinks back to that argument. Agatha only sees Rio’s hurt, her pain. Her failure.
The slowly drag of her eyes up to Agatha, the small well of tears in her ex-lover’s eyes that were imperceptible to anyone else.
The resigned “Okay.” That was only given once Agatha flinched back and realised what she’d done.
Then she put up walls, refused to let this moment, this depressing, volatile moment, ruin what she wanted all along.
Now, as she gazed down at Rio’s sleeping form, still clad in her death robes, she understands.
Rio hadn’t shed her form because it was her wish. The road was conjured by Billy, but it was brought to life by Agatha, and her prize was Rio to finally listen to her.
The hours pass, and Agatha continues to watch over Rio, her eyes fixed on her ex-partner. Her heart aches every time she sees a tear roll down Rio's bone-y cheek, or hears a soft, choked sob escape her lips in slumber. It's all because of her, because of her own selfishness, that Rio is suffering like this.
This can’t be it.
She can’t be here. Rio hates ghosts, presumably hates her. If she didn't hate her, it’d be a fucking miracle.
How could you not hate your ex-lover after you chased and loved them for half a millennia and then were finally told to never show your face for an eternity–God what had she done?
Her spiral of hatred for herself; for the universe stops suddenly. Her ex-lover jerks awake. Agatha vanishes.
For a moment, Rio sits there, blinking in confusion, then her gaze drifts around the room, as if she's searching for something.
The emptiness of the house feels even more noticeable now than before.
As the days pass, Death finds herself falling into a routine of sorts. She goes through the motions, working, eating, sleeping when she really has to, but the numbness inside gnaws at her constantly.
Technically, Rio doesn't have to sleep, but she appreciates the solitude of falling and waking. And the dreams she shouldn't be able to have are ever so enjoyable as she envisions her old, old, old life with Agatha and Nicky, roaming the forest.
Agatha shows up every now and then, watching, waiting, but never striking, obviously Rio doesn't know this.
Agatha hopes Rio never notices.
Rio’s exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The pain is a constant companion, like a shadow that follows her everywhere she goes, and she can't escape it, no matter how many souls she reaps or how many hours she spends alone staring at a wall.
Being one of the sole Death entities is troubling. It takes time, courage and emotion. Neither of which Rio has.
Instead of getting out of her state, she stays. Only leaving when souls have piled up. The others get angry, impatient.
They don't get it.
Their love hasn't withered away and broken in front of them.
They’d never understand. Death can't love.
Rio isn't supposed to love. She’s inherently broken.
The constant ache nauseates her. She tries to ignore it, push it to the back of her mind, bury it deep.
Tonight, she’ll lie in her bed, for the first time in three centuries and be bombarded by memories of smiles and laughter. It’ll feel like a knife twisting in her black beating heart that died a long time ago.
Rio will tell herself that she can go on without Agatha, but then the thought of mourning her lover for longer than she’s known her will break down her walls until there's no more.
Occasionally, the anger will come back. The same anger which will possess her into cracking worn mirrors and dressers. The memories of fights and arguments will tarnish her soul.
Rio will tell herself that she hates Agatha, that she should be angry and filled with rage at what she had done. And, she’ll try and hold onto it.
But it never lasts.
Nothing ever does.
The house feels suffocating, the air thick and heavy with the weight of her despair. She can sense the darkness seeping into her, taking advantage of her weakened mental state to creep further into her mind.
It's almost seductive, the way it whispers to her, promising relief from the pain and anger, coaxing her to give in to its pull.
Finally after another 54 days have passed; all filled with yearning and anger, tears and hatred. Apathy. Nothingness. The first 26 she spends as all the others, skeletal. But soon after that, she decides she done hating everything about it.
To hell with Agatha’s stupid fucking wish. She’s honoured it enough, 334 days are sure to be enough.
She switches her form, skin reappearing and coating her bones in smooth slick skin that feels more natural than ever. And with that she sits in silence until.
Agatha appears.
The first thing Rio notices is that she’s transparent.
It had been 372 days since Agatha Harkness pressed her lips against Rio Vidal, inadvertently taking everything out of her lover, ruining her in a way she wasn't sure was possible.
Rio swallows hard at the sight. A ghost. Agatha. Agatha was a ghost.
She pushed herself further away from Harkness, but stayed still on the floor hollow face suddenly blooming with emotion. Anger; sorrow, and most prominently, fear.
Her metaphorical heart pounds against her displayed ribs, bounding with every thud. Rio's voice is low and gravely and for a minute with Agatha infront of her, she forgets the form she’s in.
“What are you doing here?”
Agatha takes a step forward, her ghostly form translucent and shimmering in the dim light of the room. Her expression is somber, her eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and concern.
“You came here?” The witch presses on. “We’ve not come her in centuries-”
Agatha doesn't mention that of course, she’d come earlier that year, multiple times in fact, and seen Rio completely desolate.
“Why are you here?” Rio put firmly. As much as she yearned to see Agatha, the fire inside her burns any emotion beside blind rage.
She loves Agatha; truly completely does. But right now? She’s unrecognisable.
Rio doesn't love this Agatha.
“I wanted to see you.”
No.
“I don't want to see you. Leave.” Rio’s bony fingers dig into the wooden floor she’s currently bundled on, back against the plain wall.
“Can you just-” Agatha groans, whipping her grey hair back behind her blue coat. “-listen for once.”
The purple witch pauses at the lack of interruption. Rio looks up smugly.
It's not the silence that pains Agatha, that confuses her. It's the lack of bite in Death’s words. They’re plain and solitary.
It's all wrong.
“...Anyway, as I was saying-” Lady death looks at Agatha intently, no focus in her gaze, staring right through her. Harkness takes little notice at first, yammering on about the afterlife and ghostly adventures or whatever else she’d been doing the entire time Rio had poured her heart into mourning.
“This is so…weird. Stop that.” Agatha reprimanded, just as she’d reprimand a child. Billy Kaplan, never Nicholas.
“Stop…what? Being silent? Listening?” Rio snarked, emotion slowly creeping in. “I don't see the problem.”
“The problem is you! Why are you being so passive? Why aren't you fighting me!?” The other woman yelled, ghostly voice bouncing off the small cottage walls.
“Was it deliberate?” She asked, arms crossed over herself, protecting herself from the impeding words of hurt or love. “Becoming the one being I hate more than anything.” The words spilled out.
“Do you hate me that much that you have to corrupt yourself into that form?” Pain was laced into every syllable.
“No. No- No it wasn't because of that.” Agatha closed her eyes, turning away from Rio. “Never that.”
“But you still hate me. You still don’t want me, because I'm evil, because I ruin.” Rio’s voice was no longer as dark and deep as it was before, now replaced with broken whispers of her mortal form voice.
Agatha opened her mouth to deny it but was shortly cut off. “What do you want, Ghost?” Her words were now venomous, her feelings bipolar and ever changing. Inconsistent.
“I- I need to be mortal again.”
What.
Rio visibly flinched back, not out of fear or hurt but genuine confusion. “Excuse me?” She says, clambering to her feet.
“I know you hear me, Death.” Agatha didn’t clarify. She didn't need to.
“I don't give life. I take. I took.” Lady Death spouted out, restating Agatha’s words. It had been a year and seven days, but she still remembered every single utterance and action of that day.
Agatha recoiled slightly, eyes furrowed a bit at Rio using her words against her. “I'm sure you have some other powers you’re hiding.”
“No Agatha. I don’t have any life giving powers, sorry to break it to you.” She muttered “it's kinda in the name ‘Death’”
Rio looked away again, refusing to make eye contact with Agatha, turning her body away from her. Everything about Rio spoke like a person who wanted to be left the fuck alone.
“Why do you even want to be mortal again anyway? Tired of torturing me with this-” Rio vaguely pointed to Agatha’s ghostly appearance. “-already?”
“Not everything is to hurt you, Rio.”
“No, I guess it's not. But everything you do does seem to hurt me.”
Agatha freezes momentarily, uncomfortable. She smacks her lips before beginning in a new tone. “Billy needs my help.”
“Billy needs your help.” She repeats dumbly. “And you can't do that as a ghost.”
The word drips grossly off her tongue. It's disgusting and repulsive.
“I can't. I need to be mortal, to hold things. To be alive.”
This sparks a bit of anger in Rio, and she looks at Agatha with an intense glare. “Why him? Why is Billy more important than…” She stops herself, trailing off.
“Than what, Rio. Than. What?” Agatha says, voice cold and demanding, Rio doesn't fall into the trap.
“I want you to leave.”
“Fine with me. I'll be on my way.” Harkness looks around the cottage momentarily, eyes catching on all the very unchanged features.
She spots a crayon sitting atop the worn down table, everything in the cottage was slightly damp and overgrown, even with a fixing up.
The crayon was purple, half used and blurred. The wrapper was frayed and ripped.
Agatha didn't dare to try and reach for it, or through it.
“It was the last thing he touched.” Rio supplies her, knowing her curiosity.
Agatha chokes herself on a sudden sob, emotions reading to flow. “H-How do you know that?”
Death shakes her head at her ex-lover “It's time for you to go.”
She can't be in this cursed, haunted house with Agatha, especially as a ghost.
It's ironic, really. Agatha Harkness becoming just like her mother.
A ghost, a cruel, manipulative being that would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. They’re so very much alike.
But only in the ways that don't count.
Unlike Evanora, Agatha tried, prayed, begged for Nicholas’ life even before it began, she put everything into loving him.
Agatha tried her hardest to keep him alive.
Evanora Harkness gave up the second she was overpowered.
“For what it's worth, I never stopped loving you.” Agatha gave Rio a short, final word before vanishing off into wherever next.
“And I, you.”