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“Mom, you have to pull the phone away from your face,” Nicky’s voice is tinny through her phone, “I can see up your nose.”
Agatha shifts on the sofa, pulls her phone back. Her son’s face comes into view—fuck, he’s only been back at college for a couple of weeks and she misses him already. Fortunately, or unfortunately, a watery smile just barely makes it onto her face before she catches a glimpse of her own face in the bottom right hand corner of the screen.
“Jesus fuck, how many chins do I have?”
Nicky cackles away to himself as Agatha starts to spiral a little.
“Mom, it’s the angle,” He laughs, and Agatha, who had been mostly focused on the tiny image of herself, realizes he’s wiping actual tears from his eyes. Jesus, he really is her son—finding glee in the misfortune of others, “Just hold your phone higher.”
She does as he says, jawline sharpening the higher she holds the camera—thank fucking god.
“See, you should have let me give you that technology masterclass you said you wouldn’t need.”
Agatha grumbles, thinks of all the times she’s had to call Nicky outside of just missing his voice (and his face when she figured out video calling). She’d had to call him only one week into his first semester to admit she didn’t know how to pull Netflix up.
(She watched a lot of Jeopardy! that week.)
“Attacked by my own flesh and blood,” Agatha gasps, hand to her chest—which Nicky will actually be able to see now that she's listened to him about her camera placement. Whatever. “I should just end this call right now. See how you like that.”
“Do you even know how to do that?” Nicky raises an eyebrow at her.
“I’m not that technologically illiterate. The big red button is always the kill switch, I got it.”
“Go on then,” Nicky taunts, “Press it.”
Agatha groans. Maybe it was a mistake to raise a child all by herself—he’s got all of her traits without anyone else’s to balance them out. She’s not sure where his kindness came from.
With her bluff successfully called, Agatha huffs, “Shut up, I’m allowed to miss you.”
“And you’d miss me less if you started dating like you’ve been saying for years is what you’ve been waiting for me to go to college for.”
“Okay, I actually will end this call in a minute.”
“Mom,” Nicky tilts his head, grows a little more serious, “What is it you’re waiting for?”
“I’m not waiting for anything,” Agatha groans, tilts her head to the back of the sofa, then nearly gives herself whiplash when she realizes the words sound eerily familiar, “Who’ve you been talking to?”
“Aunt Wanda said she tried to set you up the other day and you bailed on the date.”
“Aunt Wanda should mind her own business,” She scowls, “I don’t need any of my friends setting me up with women they met in the damn supermarket. It’s beneath me.”
“Okay, so if you’re not dating, have you booked that solo trip you’ve been talking about doing since I was like fourteen?”
Is this what talking to her is like? It’s a wonder she has any friends at all.
(He’s not exactly wrong though. When he’d deemed himself old enough for Agatha to have a girlfriend—fucking hell, it sounds so juvenile—he’d started suggesting she date near enough any woman she had a five second mildly friendly interaction with.
These included his fifth grade school teacher who they bumped into in the park, the waitress at Agatha’s favorite restaurant she now can’t go back to on principle, and the cashier at Hot Topic who was much too young for her.
Agatha swore she was never taking Billy shopping ever again after that.
Her response after this happened one too many times became, “When you go to college, I’m booking a solo trip like all the other single moms wish they had the guts to do, and I’ll have a whirlwind vacation romance, you’ll see.”
Now fifty, Agatha’s interest in dating had long passed and she was quite content seeking pleasure in the temporary. So obviously this had been a joke.
Apparently her son hadn’t taken it as one.)
“Nicky, no,” Agatha tugs at her hair, “I’m not doing that.”
“What?” He smirks, “Are you scared?”
Agatha scoffs—Agatha Harkness and ‘scared’ don’t belong in the same sentence. She’s never been scared of anything.
(She hasn’t kept herself acquainted with anyone who can rebut that—her mother is long gone, and she never exactly got all buddy-buddy with her midwife.)
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Nicky giggles, a childlike sound that tugs at her heartstrings. She is lonely now he’s moved out.
It does make her think though.
Going on vacation doesn’t necessarily bind her into contract with the ‘romance’ part of that statement.
If she’s not scared, what is she waiting for?
✦
It’s that line of thinking that has her, only three weeks later, demeaning herself by flying fucking economy to Italy.
She’s crushed between a man who fell asleep before the plane even left the tarmac, head lolling in her direction every time they ever so slightly tilt, and a woman who must be on track for breaking some kind of world record for words said per minute.
She loves her son, Agatha reminds herself. He’s the best thing that ever happened to her—she says it like a mantra.
The repeated words have her falling asleep in no time.
✦
When Agatha is checked into her blissfully child free hotel—she wasn’t about to make that mistake when this is her first vacation without her own son in eighteen years—she sends two identical texts; one to Nicky, and one to the group chat with her friends, of a photo of the view from her balcony with the accompanying message, ‘here’.
Then she changes into a deep purple bikini, throws an oversized white cover up shirt over the top and heads straight for the elevator down to the pool, with the intention of spending the rest of her day doing two of her favorite things: reading, and looking good.
The first day is heavenly. It’s quiet at the pool—indistinct overlapping chatter fades to background noise as she sinks into the sun lounger, and the only time she has to speak to another person is when she goes up to the bar for another drink.
Agatha generally likes to spend as little time as possible thinking about people she doesn’t know. They take up too much space in her mind when she’d much rather put it to use thinking about her son, or ugh—her friends.
Her brain is well trained to lose strangers' faces once she no longer has use for them.
There is, however, a woman at the bar.
She’s been at the bar at the same time as Agatha three out of five times.
Unfortunately for Agatha, this may be true for half of the guests staying at the hotel—she’s never been alone when she’s headed inside for a drink, but no one has stood out to her like this woman.
(Agatha notes it as something to be concerned about.)
She’s not anything special, she tells herself—brown hair, brown eyes—
Fuck. Why does she know the color of this woman’s eyes?
She’s plain, is all she means.
Well, no. Not exactly—the devil on her shoulder chips in.
She’s probably just had one too many negronis, she thinks as she orders another. That’s why this woman’s face is sticking in her head.
It’s not just her face though, is it? The devil is back.
The devil is right though, of course. In fact, the first thing Agatha noticed about this woman was her arms—she remembers casting a glance over at the woman taking her beer, remembers watching the muscles in her forearm move as she reached across the bar.
Agatha shakes her head to rid herself of the memory.
She’s there now—the woman.
She’s wet, her mind supplies unhelpfully.
She’s clearly just come in from the pool—hair wet, swim shorts clinging to her thighs, bikini top the only thing covering her torso, abs on display as a bead of water trickles south.
She spares Agatha a glance—a smirk pulls at the corner of her lips and Agatha realizes she’s been caught staring.
The next time Agatha heads up to the bar, sees the woman already there waiting, she does an about turn and slouches on her sun lounger with her book again, not actually digesting any of the words on the page she hasn’t turned for five minutes.
Her phone buzzes—a text from Wanda.
Been swept up in that whirlwind romance yet?
Agatha sends back the middle finger emoji.
✦
The next two days pass mostly the same. She’s left alone except for when she orders food and drinks, and she’s already halfway through her second book.
She should be feeling great.
Wanda’s text keeps swirling around in her head though.
It’s not that Agatha actually expected anything to come of the ‘romance’ talk, but it’s been a couple of months since her last one night stand, and even longer since her last good one. Maybe she should have booked a city break instead—been one of those cool single ladies sitting at a bistro table in the street with a glass of wine.
Not only be cool and mysterious, but look it too.
Fuck, maybe that’s where she’s gone wrong.
She should have booked an apartment in Venice, she thinks, but then pictures herself and this elusive date she would apparently be with on a fucking gondola or some shit and the appeal is lost.
Agatha would never admit it anywhere but the safety of her own mind, but though she’s never lacked options for a quick orgasm, dating— properly dating has never exactly been her forté.
And that was fine, her friends all left her alone about it because, besides Wanda, they hadn’t had much luck either. That all changed when, a few years back, instead of looking elsewhere, Alice and Jen turned to each other for their big romance and have been together ever since.
She’s been able to feel their pity from then on.
It’s this knowledge that she is pitied, that all her friends are not so secretly hoping she’ll be swept off her feet just enough to kickstart a belief in love, that has her firing off a text to Nicky—one she’s sure will make its way back to her friends too, after receiving too many from them like, how’s things going in the romance department? or, you have 7 days left - get a move on.
Me
Guess who’s got a date tonight?
Christ, it’s embarrassing that she has to lie to her own son about this.
The response comes quick,
Nicky
!!!!!!!
is she hot?
What the fuck kind of question is that?
Me
Obviously.
Nicky
send a photo!
Agatha huffs, locks her phone, debating whether it’s worth throwing it into the pool.
Me
I don’t have one
Is her response after a few minutes of deliberation.
Wanda
So who’s this date with?
Fucking hell, that was fast.
Me
None of your business
Wanda
Why are you lying?
Oh, this just gets worse and worse. Agatha contemplates drowning herself in the pool alongside her phone.
Nicky
aunt wanda said ur tooootally lyingggg
Agatha locks her phone again, rests it on her stomach and doesn’t touch it even as it continues to buzz away on her skin. She throws an arm over her eyes and lets out a monstrous groan.
“You seem stressed.” A voice rings out from above her.
Agatha slowly removes her arm, opens her eyes and is immediately met with the sight of the woman who’s been plaguing her thoughts and her time at the bar, leaning over her head from behind her sun lounger.
Agatha had underestimated her, knows the devil on her shoulder had been right all along—this woman, even from below and upside down, is stunning.
It’s this revelation that has her forgetting she should actually form a response.
“Hello?” The woman waves a hand in front of Agatha’s face.
“Oh,” Says Agatha, “Yes, a little.”
“A little?” The woman leaves her spot from above her, walks around to the base of her sun lounger, “May I?” She asks, pointing to it.
Agatha nods, sits up properly and moves her legs out of the way, curiously watching the woman, wonders what her angle is.
“I’m Rio.” She says once sat, holds out her hand.
Agatha takes it—soft, she thinks, shakes it firm, “Agatha.”
“Like Agatha Christie?” The woman— Rio says, tilts her head a little like a puppy.
Agatha barks a laugh, thinks about her mother’s response to that same question she’d asked when she was younger, “Detective novels? Complete frivolous drivel,” She smirks, “Mother was not a fan.”
Rio grimaces, “Ouch,” Then her mouth returns to a neutral state as her eyes map Agatha’s face, “You wanna share what’s wrong?”
Agatha squints—what does this Rio gain from Agatha telling her? But then again, what does Agatha lose by telling her?
“I’ve seen you around a lot.” She says instead while she weighs up the pros and cons in her head.
A small smirk plays on Rio’s lips, quivers slightly like she’s trying to hold it back but can’t quite, “And that’s an issue for you?”
“No, it’s—” Agatha huffs, feels overly sweaty in the heat of the sun, “That’s unrelated.”
“What’s your next line gonna be?” Rio doesn’t hold back her smile this time—lets it fill her face, “Come here often?”
Agatha falters—now that’s not something she’s used to. She sits for a moment, replays it all in her head; from her words Agatha gathers she’s probably single, maybe even interested in her, and most important—seems to want to help. Rio’s obviously younger than Agatha but does that really matter when none of this is real?
Agatha’s mind spins a rapid tale—a ruse. Yes, her libido is screaming at her not to do this, but every other part of her says not sleeping with Rio might work out for her in the long run.
Which is a shame really, Agatha thinks, eyes lowering to toned arms and following them all the way down to Rio’s hands, watches fingers stroke over the mesh of the sun lounger.
A real shame.
“I may have,” Agatha wiggles her fingers in the air as the words come to her, “Led my friends and my son to believe I was coming here not just to relax, but to prove to them my love life hasn’t completely dried up,” She pouts, drums her fingers against her chin, “I believe the term whirlwind romance may have been used.”
Rio’s eyebrows scrunch together—must be trying to work out where the hell Agatha’s going with this, “I’m guessing from your near tantrum before that it’s not going well then.”
Now, usually Agatha wouldn’t let that go. Tantrum? But her friends are right—she does only have seven days left, and it’s unlikely she’s going to be able to draw anyone else into this little scheme she’s become quite fond of in the past two minutes.
“It’s not going at all.”
Agatha notes the way Rio’s eyes scan the length of her body, and she really really has to remind herself that for this to work it’s imperative she does not sleep with this woman.
“I find that hard to believe.” The words are said with a little tug of her lips that Agatha finds much too attractive on someone she’s decidedly not going to have sex with.
She decides to ignore the comment entirely, forges forward, “I don’t date.”
Rio’s expression is a little unreadable, “And so the whirlwind romance…” She trails off, leaves Agatha to fill in the gap.
“Not happening,” She says, then decides to go for it, “Not that they need to know that.”
“You’ve lost me.”
Agatha leans in towards Rio, all attention on her, “I told them I’m going on a date tonight—”
“Ah, so there’s the line. You know, if you wanted to take me out, you could’ve just asked.”
Agatha glares at Rio for her stupid joke, “No need for all the excess—a photo of you will do, just so they know when I come home that I could date if I wanted to.”
Rio’s eyes run all around her face like she’s a puzzle she can’t quite figure out. That’s okay, Agatha doesn’t need her to actually do the puzzle, just glance at the box for the end result.
“So you want a picture of me to convince everyone back home that you’re going on a date… instead of just going on a date?”
Agatha clicks and points at Rio, “Now you’re getting it.”
Rio considers this for a moment, “If they’re anything like my family, they probably won’t let this go after just one picture,” Fingertips creep close to Agatha’s leg, lightly brush her knee. Agatha doesn’t back away, “A vacation romance implies multiple dates.”
“Which is where my plan—if you agree, comes into play.”
“Are you sure you’re not named after Agatha Christie?”
Agatha ignores that, “We take a picture together every day for me to send back, and I’ll make up some sort of date activity to keep up the appearance that I’m being wooed—”
“Counter-offer,” Rio cuts her off, “Instead of making stuff up, we hang out and actually do activities,” Rio’s smile disarms her a little, “As friends, obviously. You don’t date.”
Why Rio felt the need to add that last bit, she doesn’t know. It’s not as if Agatha doesn’t know that, and it’s not as if Rio approached her out of any interest that went further than sex at best.
“Why?”
Rio just shrugs, “I’m bored.”
And, well… Agatha doesn’t have any better offers, so says deal, and grabs her phone to take the expected picture. It’s tame, just a selfie of them sitting next to each other, smiling towards the camera. It’s all part of the plan though—more date-like, intimate pictures as the days go by. She could probably get Rio to kiss her cheek for a picture or something.
Picture taken and sent, Agatha watches, as expected, Rio return to her own sun lounger, and she settles back to wait for the responses. Not that they leave her waiting long—she has to silence her phone to stop the notification sound from annoyingly overlapping as she receives the rapid responses.
So caught up in the masses of !!!!!!!! and she’s hot!! and rudely, what did you bribe her with? that Agatha doesn’t even notice until she’s replied to all of them that Rio had grabbed her things just to return to the sun lounger next to hers.
She locks her phone, scrambles for wherever she last had her sunglasses and shoves them over her eyes, watches Rio as inconspicuous as she can.
Rio settles back, doesn’t even so much as glance at Agatha, which is a little frustrating since all of her attention is caught on the expanse of Rio’s body as she stretches out, the muscles in her stomach captivating as she moves into a comfortable position. A hand comes up to rest behind her head, and Agatha is treated to the sight of her bicep flexing.
It turns out the sunglasses are a pretty useless cover when her whole head unconsciously moves to follow Rio’s motions, a ridiculous sort of heliotropic movement that has Agatha’s face flushing from more than her days spent under the burning sun, when she spots Rio turning her head just slightly, a smirk obvious to anyone paying close enough attention.
Which, unfortunately for Agatha, she is.
Had she done all of that for Agatha? To tease her?
Refusing to give Rio what she wants, Agatha huffs and looks away. And if she spends the rest of her afternoon flipping page after page through her book, not actually taking in any of the words, Rio doesn’t need to know that.
✦
That evening, after a day spent in, for the most part, strangely companionable silence with Rio, Agatha takes herself down to the hotel bar for a drink before she plans to head to one of the nearby restaurants.
Of course, since it’s become a bit of a trend over the past few days, she’s not exactly shocked to see Rio already at the bar. What she is shocked to see is a second glass of wine next to the one she’s drinking from.
Agatha knows full well that Rio’s here alone so slinks up behind her, takes pleasure in how Rio shivers from the closeness when she says, “Is that for me?”
Rio turns, their faces close now since Agatha doesn’t move away to accommodate her. Rio’s lip twitches as she reaches for the second glass, pushes it into Agatha’s hand, “It might be.”
“Do I have a stalker?” Agatha takes a sip of her wine, recognizes it as the pinot noir that’s become her go-to for her pre-dinner drink.
“All the pretty ones do.”
Agatha rolls her eyes, pulls away to find a table somewhere deeper into the bar, knows Rio’s following her, “Flattery will get you nowhere,” She says over her shoulder, sits at one of the more secluded tables where a candle has already been lit, “This is a business agreement.”
Rio’s smile only widens, “Okay, Agatha.”
Agatha thought a vacation was supposed to be a relaxing experience, but she’s already predicting an increase in her blood pressure.
“We should take another picture.” Agatha says—no point in them sitting together without capitalizing on the moment. Besides, everyone back home will be expecting an update on her date tonight, so it’s worked out in her favor.
Rio doesn’t object—Agatha didn’t expect her to, and she appreciates the scent of Rio’s earthy cologne when she shuffles closer to Agatha on the bench seat. Agatha chooses not to say anything about the way Rio’s hand settles around her lower back, fingers brushing her hip, even though it’s completely out of the frame.
It feels nice. Sue her.
Pictures once again taken and sent, Agatha looks back to Rio who is distracted by something across the room. Agatha follows her gaze to a pool table, a centered low hanging light illuminates it in the dimmed bar.
“You want to play?” Agatha can’t help asking.
It’s the first time she’s seen Rio flustered, “Oh,” She averts her gaze, “I was just thinking that’s something people do, right?”
Agatha takes a sip of her wine, tries to discern what Rio means, doesn’t figure it out, “Which people?”
“Couples,” Rio says, then must realize how that sounds, “People on dates, or not-dates in our case.”
“Is it?”
Rio shrugs, “Isn’t a classic move helping your date line up a shot?”
Oh.
Agatha’s finally caught up, “You think my friends will be convinced when they see me helping you position your cue?”
“Hang on,” Rio laughs, “What makes you think you’re in charge?”
Agatha rises from the table, an amused smile hidden in the rim of her wine glass, “Undefeated pool champion, baby.” She walks slowly backwards from Rio to the pool table, maintains eye contact.
“Oh,” Rio stands to follow, undeterred, “I just meant your friends might find it suspicious to see you behind me.”
Agatha’s eyes grow wide and she bumps into the pool table at her back. She’s not going to give Rio the satisfaction of a response to that. Did Rio really just imply that she’s…
Rio’s grin at Agatha’s lack of words tells her all she needs to know.
“You want to break?” Agatha says once she’s set the table up.
“No, no,” Rio gestures towards the table with an exaggerated sweeping motion, “Go ahead, undefeated pool champion.”
So she does, sends a solid sinking into a pocket with a smug smile.
Going a few rounds tells Agatha all she needs to know about Rio’s pool playing abilities—in that, she doesn’t have any.
She’s sank one ball to Agatha’s five, and has racked up an impressive amount of fouls. Rio oddly takes all of this in her stride, full belly laughs when she fouls, shrugs when a ball ricochets off the pocket, and most strange of all, claps Agatha when she does something that impresses her.
(Which happens a lot since her own pool skills leave a lot to be desired.)
None of this however, dissuades her from her earlier appeal to take pictures of her helping Agatha line up a shot.
“Come on, you can’t tell me your friends won’t love this.” Rio says, rests her head on the hand that’s resting on the tip of her cue.
Agatha shakes her head with a small smile but grabs her phone anyway, sets it up on the other side of the table where she’s going to take her shot. Rio makes her presence known with a hand on Agatha’s hip when she returns, “I’ve set it to record,” She says, “Thought it would be easier to screengrab the shot from that.”
Rio hums but doesn’t say anything more, just gently tugs Agatha’s hip so she turns to face the table. Agatha leans over, lines up her shot perfectly without any of Rio’s input, and fuck she should be annoyed with how Rio’s body coming to press into her, a hand wrapping around her back to ‘help’ set up her cue momentarily causes her to misalign her shot.
It only serves to make her forever rampant brain buzz a little softer.
She takes a breath, makes the shot, and it’s a miracle with the sheer amount of Rio’s body parts in contact with her own that the ball sinks in.
They stay like that, Rio pressed close, hips to Agatha’s ass, for well after what is necessary, for both the shot and the picture. Agatha clears her throat before she straightens, Rio respectfully backing off, “The irony isn’t lost on me, you know,” She moves to collect her phone, stops the video, “My friends are going to think you’re some sort of pool witch. It might be suspicious, I’ve never lost to any of them.”
Rio only comes up behind her, reaches for her phone and scrubs through the video before pausing it on a frame of Agatha—mouth slightly parted, and definitely not in concentration. She sees Rio pressing into her from a side angle, eyes focused not on the pool table but on Agatha’s face.
She does look enamored, Agatha will privately admit to that. Maybe Rio was a good choice—a good actor.
“Send them that,” She says, points to the screen, “And caption it something like,” Rio alters her tone, shifts it to something overly alluring, makes it sound somewhat like a joke, “I love it when she bends me over the table.”
“Absolutely not.” Comes Agatha’s immediate response.
“What?” Rio laughs, “I bet they won’t even question my pool playing abilities with that.”
Sadly, Agatha has to agree, and when Rio leaves her to take her own awful shot, Agatha does exactly as she suggested—this text going only to her friends, and not her son.
(She pretends not to notice how none of her friends seem shocked to see her being the one to be bent over the table.)
✦
Two days later, Rio joins her by the pool. Agatha’s at what has become their usual spot, but unlike either of the days before, Rio doesn’t flop herself onto the sun lounger, nor does she abandon her belongings and her clothes to jump into the pool.
She stands, blocking Agatha’s sunlight, hands on her hips.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m thinking we should do something.” Rio doesn’t move from her position.
Agatha pushes her sunglasses up into her hairline—she doesn’t need them to see Rio with the shadow she’s forming, “We already agreed to keep things professional.”
“No, not,” Rio’s hands fall from her hips and she drums her fingers against her leg like Agatha’s caught her off guard somehow. She huffs a breath out of her nose, starts over, “Like an activity.”
“An activity?”
“Yeah,” Rio says, takes Agatha’s question as interest, which by the way, it isn’t, “I figured if I were wooing you for real, I’d take you out to do activities.”
“What kind of activity?” She’s probably going to regret this, “If you say anything more strenuous than going to a vineyard for a wine tasting, it’s not happening. I came here to relax.”
Rio doesn’t falter, “Uh, no. You actually came here for a whirlwind romance—fake or not,” She throws up her hands in defense, “Like, those were your words, so let me give that to you.”
✦
It turns out Agatha was definitely going to regret that.
Rio convinced her to take a walk to the beach, and settled by how normal that sounded, she had agreed.
It’s only now, standing in front of the sign for ‘Parasailing Adventure’ that Agatha’s realizing what she’s let herself in for.
“Rio, no.” She stands rooted to the spot. Rio doesn’t force her, just stands next to her, watches a far away fucking airborne couple.
“Why not?”
“It’s unnatural!” Agatha throws out a hand, gestures to the couple—she really shouldn’t have to spell this out, “Why would I want to be up in the fucking sky, Rio? Humans were not meant to fly!”
Rio doesn’t seem to see the issue and slowly starts walking to the shore where they would sign up, “It’s only like going to the top floor of a building,” She calls over her shoulder. Agatha has to follow to be able to hear her, “You’ve been in an elevator before, right?”
Agatha growls at that. The fucking audacity.
“A fucking skyscraper, more like,” She says, stomps after Rio in a way she feels would come across angrier if the soft sand wasn’t absorbing her steps, makes them almost silent, “And I’m not usually hanging outside the fucking window, Rio!”
Agatha hopes her fast paced breathing comes across as anger as she notices they’re almost to the shore where there are boats waiting to take Agatha to her death.
“Come on, I’ll be right there with you the entire time,” Rio looks over to her, offers a comforting smile that quickly descends into evil, “I’ll even hold your hand if you want.”
She doesn’t need to be babied by this younger woman, and just to prove it, Agatha carries on softly stomping her way to the boat that will take her to her end.
It’s only when she’s out on the water in a boat that’s probably going as fast as a fucking Ferrari, and wearing a very unattractive neon yellow life jacket, that she realizes she’s fallen right into Rio’s trap. The boat starts to slow and Agatha thinks about sending up a prayer, but the thought of religion quickly reminds her of her mother—something that only serves to panic her more. And then fuck, fuck, fuck, the only times she’s thought of her mother since she passed were in times of great danger—probably a reminder that with her imminent death comes being reunited with Evanora Harkness.
Agatha doesn’t notice how hard she’s breathing, how lightheaded she’s getting, until a hand—soft and warm, and definitely not her mother reaching out to her from beyond the grave, presses to her thigh.
“Hey,” Rio says, voice soft and soothing, “We don’t have to do this.”
Rio’s hand feels solid and unshakeable on her leg, and it’s this that grounds her. She opens her mouth to say something nice in return, “Don’t be fucking ridiculous, we’ve paid already.”
Well. It’s the thought that counts.
She doesn’t have time to rectify that before it’s time to harness up. Rio’s hand leaves her leg as they both stand and takes all of Agatha’s serenity with it.
“I know where my legs are supposed to go.” Agatha snaps at the man helping her into her harness, and admittedly her tone is a little rude for speaking to someone who’s going to ensure she doesn’t plummet to her demise.
“Oh, really?” Agatha snaps her attention to Rio, who’s made quick progress with her own harness, and stupidly just looking at her calms her down a little, “You just don’t give me the vibe of someone who knows her way around a harness, is all.”
What the fuck?
Is Rio seriously calling her a bottom again?
It’s bad enough that she can’t actually dispute that, nevermind the fact that Rio’s onto her despite only having just met her.
To make matters worse, Rio’s jokes only confirm her suspicions that the two of them would be… compatible. But this is a business arrangement, and they’re not going to sleep together because as soon as they do this whole thing is over.
(It’s not paranoia, it’s fact. Back when Nicky was too young to remember, Agatha did used to date, and it always ended the same way—with a woman she’d been on two or three dates with escaping into the night once they’d each had a couple of orgasms.
Adventurous, optimistic, patient Rio is not someone who would date pessimistic, sarcastic, though admittedly hilarious Agatha—not in the long run.
Thirty-something year old, child free Rio doesn’t want fifty year old with a college aged son Agatha.)
She chooses to ignore Rio after that comment but it only makes the other woman laugh. But when they’re sat side by side, hooked up to the rope by their harnesses, a massive parachute at their backs, ignoring Rio becomes a very short lived affair. The wind catches in the parachute and they’re slowly tugged out and up over the water.
Agatha white knuckles the side straps immediately—god, this was such a bad idea.
As they rise higher and higher, she’s instantly transported back to the time she took Nicky to the park and, after only looking away for a few seconds, he was swinging much higher than was safe—almost tipping horizontal. Because that’s essentially what this is, Agatha thinks as they get further and further away from the boat, a gentle breeze swaying them—a giant swing.
(She remembers panicking then, much like she is now,
“Look how high I can go, Mama!”
“Nicky, get down from there, you’re going to hurt yourself!”
That was the day he listened a little too well, and let go of the side chains, flinging his little body into the air. It seemed to last forever—Agatha helplessly watching in slow motion as her son fell to the ground.
Somehow, her little superhero managed to land into a roll, a giddy smile on his face when Agatha reached him to pull him back to his feet.
“Mama, I was flying!” He said, his entire body vibrating with excitement, “Can you fly too, Mama?”)
Mama absolutely cannot fly. She didn’t fly that day and she shouldn’t be flying now.
The further out they go, the more isolating the experience. Agatha can no longer hear the busy beach they came from, nor the boat engine, and not even the lapping ocean.
She jolts as something touches her forearm.
Rio.
Rio’s let go of one of her straps to reach across for Agatha. The touch is, once again, annoyingly comforting.
“You sure you don’t want to hold my hand?”
The teasing words and tone should make Agatha roll her eyes, but her options right now are limited—either suck it up and relax into Rio’s touch, or pull away and panic, maybe even vomit into the sea.
It’s out of self preservation, and self preservation alone that she psychs herself up, lets go of the strap she’s been clinging to and grabs onto Rio’s hand.
At the touch—Rio’s warm steadying hand in her own, Agatha feels her heartbeat start to slow. She feels a little like a plant the way Rio’s calm seems to transfer over to her via osmosis.
Agatha loses track of time after that—she knows they sit in silence for a bit, just holding hands and looking out across the sea
It’s Rio who speaks first, “So what does your family think of me?”
Family. Like Wanda, Jen, and Alice are part of that—like her family isn’t just one teenage boy. Maybe they are.
It’s a strange question, Agatha thinks, Rio doesn’t need to be liked by her friends or her son. By next week, Agatha will be but a footnote in Rio’s life, and vice versa.
“I think they’d like anyone who makes me happy.”
Rio sits on that, then says, “And am I?”
Agatha looks over to Rio, eyebrows knitting together, “Are you what?”
“Making you happy.”
The words are said with such sincerity that they briefly knock the air from Agatha’s lungs. She thinks about the past few days with Rio, and yes, not only has she been having fun, she thinks she’s been happy.
Agatha swallows that thought down—she doesn’t need to be caught up in feelings. Satisfaction with Rio for successfully helping her fool her family is fine. Being attracted to Rio is fine, also. But happiness? Genuine happiness given to her by someone she’s never going to see again? That’s a worry.
Agatha clears her throat, looks back out to the sea. She can’t admit to that, “I go home on Tuesday.” She says instead.
Agatha feels Rio’s fingers twitch slightly against her own but she doesn’t pull away. When she looks back over to Rio the smile on her face looks a little forced, “Thursday for me. At least you’ll get full use of me.”
Agatha’s eyes drift from Rio’s face, mutters a soft yeah, and doesn’t say any more on the subject. Rio’s right—at least she can see her plan through to the end.
It’s only later when they’re firmly back on the solid ground of the boardwalk that Agatha realizes that whole near death experience went unrecorded—there’s nothing she can send back home as proof.
✦
Rio doesn’t leave to do her own thing when they return to the hotel like Agatha had expected. When Agatha tells her she needs a drink to counteract that entire experience, Rio just follows her to the bar like it’s an unwritten rule that they go together.
They drink and talk and play another game of pool that Rio once again horrifically loses, and then when the first signs of the sun setting appear, Agatha’s surprised when the words, why don’t you join me for dinner? leave her own mouth and not Rio’s.
It’s because she’s the closest thing to a friend Agatha’s got here, she tells herself.
It’s a telltale sign that the devil on her shoulder is back when her traitorous mind tells her she wouldn’t even be able to stand spending an entire day with no breaks with Wanda, her closest friend.
She pushes the thought away. It’s just dinner.
✦
It turns out ‘just dinner’ with a friend gets a little twisted in her stomach when she has to combat Rio’s stupid natural charm, her handsome face, and her genuine interest in Agatha’s answers to her questions, all while sitting opposite her, splitting a bottle of wine and taking pictures of each other like they’re on a real date.
That’s just something she doesn’t need to be thinking about.
Is it more self-sabotaging to actively deny her own happiness completely than it is to let herself be happy for only a few days, knowing it’s going to be ripped away from her? Agatha’s not sure.
It’s with this thought rattling around her head—that she was fine before when she just thought Rio was attractive, that has her sprawled out on her back, completely bare as her hands tease the insides of her own thighs.
It’s a bit like a factory reset, Agatha reasons—if her brain and her body realign and remember that thinking about fucking Rio is okay as long as feelings stay out of it, then she’ll have nothing to worry about for the rest of the vacation.
And fuck, that’s exactly what she wants. An image forms in her mind—Rio hovering over her, ghosting her lips over Agatha’s collarbone as a hand trails down just shy of where she needs it most.
Agatha leaves one of the hands between her thighs, brings the other to gently brush over her collarbone, moans as the sensations match up with her thoughts.
She thinks about how Rio gripped her hip the other day when she had her leaning over the pool table. Would her hands be as solid on her naked hips? Would she manipulate Agatha’s body to whatever position she likes?
A soft groan leaves Agatha’s slightly parted lips at the thought—Rio’s gentle teasing words and firm hands.
She’d intended to drag this out more, but she can’t quite remember why when she takes two fingers to her cunt, feels how wet she is.
Fuck, a shudder rips through Agatha’s body when she presses the tip of a finger to her clit and she sucks in a breath, dips her finger back down to gather up the slick there. She pushes the tips of two fingers inside of herself, just enough to feel the slight stretch.
The hand from her collarbone unconsciously makes its way up to her mouth, and she takes a thumb between her lips. She thinks of it being Rio’s, pictures her face if she were to watch Agatha take it deep into her mouth—hooded eyes a deep dark brown, mesmerized.
She switches then, to her middle two fingers, wants this fictitious Rio to be pleased with her—a thought that has her aware of just how needy she is.
She takes her fingers deep, not stopping until her lips meet her knuckles, groans around them as she pushes deep inside her cunt with the fingers from her other hand.
The image swirls in her mind then, unbidden—Rio on the boat teasing her about the harness soon devolves into Rio, here with her now, a much different harness around her hips, pushing the tip of her strap to Agatha’s lips.
Agatha gasps around the fingers still in her mouth when her cunt clenches around the fingers inside her.
God, it's not fucking fair how that's the thought that stays with her. She pulls her fingers from her mouth then, just before she pushes them back in, lets the fantasy take over every inch of her mind—Rio pushing her cock in her mouth.
She takes her fingers inside, right to the knuckles again and doesn't bother trying to push away the thought that matches—Rio murmuring words of encouragement as she takes her to the hilt.
“You can take it, can't you?” Agatha can hear the words so clearly it's like Rio's really saying them—she feels almost drunk on the words, sees herself from outside of her own body for just a moment, sees how desperate she is for something that only offers mental stimulation rather than physical.
She sees Rio pulling back so she can answer, feels her real body flush with embarrassment when she can't conjure up any answer that would bring her back in control, sees herself whimper a breathy, “I can take it, I can take it.”
And it's so unlike Agatha—she’s not one to beg pathetically like that, and definitely not for just some strap sucking. She wrenches the fingers from her mouth, tries to shift the thought, bring herself to the forefront of the pleasure—Rio's fingers inside her, getting her ready for the toy.
Agatha manages to relax into the thought for only a few seconds before she can’t shake the image of Rio pressing soft kisses to her cheeks, asking her how she likes to be touched.
She groans, stills the fingers inside her before she does something stupid like come to the thought of Rio gently taking her apart, because she will never come back from that.
Maybe her stupid horny mind was onto something before—there's absolutely nothing gentle about deepthroating Rio. Agatha’s fingers drift back up to her lips and she changes tactics, comes at it from a different angle. In her mind’s eye she takes Rio’s cock into her throat once more, but imagines instead, a Rio who is needy and whimpering, begging for Agatha to let her come.
Feeling much more in control, Agatha curls the fingers inside herself, groans around the fingers in her mouth before setting a steady rhythm. It’s a lot less embarrassing how close she feels when it’s Rio under Agatha’s thumb rather than the other way around.
“I’m not gonna last,” Rio sounds pathetic and whiny in her head—good, “Agatha, please, please let me come.”
Agatha would love to make her wait for it, even if it is only happening in her head, but she doesn’t want to waste all this build up just to come before she’s finished with her fantasy. She’s clearly already committed to making any future interaction with Rio as shameful as possible, so it might as well be worth it.
And it is worth it—not being able to look Rio in the eye tomorrow is worth the build in her gut at the thought of Rio’s uncontrolled thrusts, her little gasps and twitching fingers as she tries to be respectful even when Agatha has her nose pressed against Rio’s pubic bone.
Agatha shifts the hand between her legs until she can press a thumb to her clit as she thrusts and it only takes a few flicks over it, the visual of Rio holding the back of her head to keep the toy down her throat as she comes is overwhelming and she tips over into her own very real orgasm.
In the aftermath, rare post-orgasm depression settling in like a too heavy blanket over her brain and over her skin, Agatha’s thoughts jump involuntarily to the last time she’ll see Rio. Her brain plays out their goodbye—an awkward thing; a quick hug, the clearing of throats and averted eyes.
Her fingers slip out from inside her, her come cooling quick on her fingers, and she wipes them on her thigh before she rolls onto her side, curls up naked and suddenly cold even in the heat of her room.
It’s fine, Agatha tells herself, it’s just because she’s been spending all her time with Rio, has just come to the thought of her, that she’s this unsettled by the thought of never seeing her again.
It’s fine.
✦
Agatha has always been something of an actor. Her mother used to call her a liar and a sinner for this, but Agatha always liked to refer to it as flexing her natural muscles.
Someone else has something she wants? She’ll flip a switch and seize it for herself.
Nicky forgot to do his homework? She’ll speed down to that school and invent some awful family crisis she’s just so sorry he got embroiled in.
One of the PTA moms inevitably didn’t like her, and tried to make her uncomfortable at school events? Unfazed entirely from an outsider’s perspective.
This though? Trying to meet Rio’s eyes when she comes to join her by the pool without thinking about how pretty Rio would look coming in her mouth is a gargantuan task.
Agatha doesn’t think she’d be able to act her way out of a paper bag in this state.
Rio throws a hand up in greeting, soft smile on her lips in a way that makes Agatha feel almost guilty about the way she was fantasizing about those lips parted in open mouthed pants last night.
Almost.
Any guilty thoughts disappear entirely when Rio, already hot in the baking sun, whips her oversized t-shirt over her head and treats Agatha to a view of her abs. From where she’s standing next to her sun lounger all this means is Agatha would have to uncomfortably crane her head to look at Rio’s face, whereas the much simpler option offered to her is to watch the stomach that’s more or less on display just for her.
Rio stands with her hands on her hips, looks out towards the pool like she’s trying to weigh up wanting to go for a swim with the fact she’ll have to sit unpleasantly wet for a time after.
She seems to decide it’s worth it and when she turns back to Agatha she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, “Picked up a leaflet for a pasta cooking class tonight, if you’re interested.”
“Uh-huh,” Agatha says, not really processing the words when she’s trying to be normal between not being able to look Rio in the eye, her stomach muscles flexing as she undresses herself, and the very provocative image of Rio slowly pulling her shorts down near enough at Agatha’s eye level.
She takes in a deep breath.
“My eyes are up here.” Rio waves a hand in front of Agatha’s face and she gulps when she tears her eyes away. Gone is the smirk from the first few days—a full grin replaces it, and Agatha gulps at the sight.
Be normal, she thinks, don’t give away that you fantasized about giving her a blow—
Nope.
“So are you up for it?”
Agatha racks her brain for whatever the hell that could mean, eyes flitting back down Rio’s body. She’s definitely up for something.
“The cooking class?” Rio clarifies. She sits on her sun lounger, facing Agatha with her arms resting on her spread legs—none of this is helping.
“Cooking class?”
“Yeah,” Rio’s body wiggles with excitement, “I thought it could be fun. You’d get loads of cute content to send back home of us cooking together.”
Agatha groans, “Rio, I’m on vacation. The whole point of this is so I don’t have to cook.”
Rio pouts—ridiculous, “They serve unlimited wine.”
“When can we go?” Comes Agatha’s response before she’s even thought it.
Rio stands, pout nowhere to be seen, a massive plastered on her face, and she winks—clumsy, one eye only just managing to close more than the other that follows it, but still somehow entirely effective, “I booked us a slot for tonight.” And then she dives into the pool.
Agatha zones out, eyes fixed to the entry point as she slowly realizes that for maybe the first time in her life, she’s been played.
✦
As it happens, Agatha’s plan to reset her brain to her basest instincts can only take her so far—something she finds out when they’re meant to be listening to the introduction for what they’ll be doing this evening.
An older woman—Lydia or something, is talking them through the different kinds of pasta they’ll be making, and while Agatha is half aware she should be listening, she gets thoroughly distracted at the sight of Rio, head tilted and intently focused on her words.
Rio’s dressed in loose dark green linen pants and a shirt that’s bordering on indecently buttoned—not that Agatha cares when she can practically see down to Rio’s belly at certain angles. She’s stroking her fingers over her own arm as she listens, and the action pulls most of Agatha’s attention.
She curses herself when there’s a flutter in her heart rather than deep in her stomach, curses herself for the way she imagines Rio running those fingers soothingly down the nape of her neck, rather than the insides of her thighs.
Shit.
There’s a clap that jolts Agatha back to reality, and she’s left making eye contact with Lydia—the older woman absolutely knows she wasn’t paying attention as everyone else scatters to stations. Agatha clears her throat and follows Rio.
Under Lydia’s instruction, Agatha portions out the flour and dumps it onto the work surface—the easiest step of them all, probably, which is good because she’s not in the business of embarrassing herself for self-betterment. She retreats to her freshly poured glass of wine when she’s done, allows Rio to start adding the eggs. Glass raised to her lips, Agatha reaches out with a pinky finger and starts pushing the flour around with it, just for something to do that isn’t watching Rio as she works.
“Would you stop fingering the ingredients?”
Agatha freezes, pinky finger pushed nearly to the center of the flour where Rio’s made the well for the eggs that was supposed to be Agatha’s job. She realizes she’s pushed in so far that she’s almost touching the eggs, and pulls her finger out with a faux indignant huff.
“I haven’t fingered anything.”
Her voice comes out sort of as a whine, and Rio’s eyebrows shoot up, amused, “Never?”
It takes a lot to catch Agatha off guard, a lot to make her face redden in embarrassment. This question alone, and its implication usually wouldn’t have this effect, but paired with the ever present reminders throughout the day that Agatha did in fact finger herself to the thought of Rio last night, means she suffers both of those things.
Luckily, they’re interrupted before Agatha can mortifyingly stutter her way through an explanation.
“Good work.” Lydia is watching Rio mix the eggs into the flour over her shoulder.
“Learning from the best, Lilia.” Rio grins and sends one of those stupid not quite formed winks over her shoulder to Not-Lydia—Agatha can tell from the way the eye she can see half scrunches adorably.
Wait, no.
“Oh, stop it you charmer,” Lilia bats her praise away with a smile that tells Agatha she loves it. A fire bubbles in the pit of Agatha’s stomach, and it’s not from hunger. “The two of you make a beautiful couple.”
Agatha doesn’t wait to see Rio’s reaction to that, “Oh, we’re—”
“Thank you.” Rio beams, first at Lilia and then at her. Agatha has no idea what her goal here is.
“Is it new?” Lilia asks, looks between them with inquisitive eyes, “I can see the sparks practically flying from the two of you.”
“Fairly new, yes,” Rio’s eyes soften and don’t leave Agatha’s face. What game is she playing here? “We just clicked.”
“You’re well suited, I can tell,” Lilia says, but Agatha can’t look away from Rio, heart hammering in her chest at the thought of all this being real, “You haven’t been able to keep your eyes off one another.” And with that she walks away to the couple next to them.
A lesser person might have panicked over their own actions, but not Agatha. Yes, Agatha’s aware that Lilia had caught her earlier, watching Rio doing absolutely nothing interesting by normal standards, but, Agatha notes with interest, Lilia’s words imply Rio’s been watching her too, and at times Agatha hasn’t been watching her.
She looks at Rio who pointedly does not meet Agatha’s gaze, focuses on kneading the dough, faint blush evident on her cheeks.
“Why did you let her think we’re together?”
Rio clears her throat, still very focused on making sure their dough is just right. She’s very diligent, obviously.
“Well you’re the one who wanted to make it convincing,” She says, and it looks like she almost puts a fist through the dough as she tries to remain unaffected by Agatha’s line of questioning, “Nothing says unconvincing like telling the first person who asks that we’re not a real couple.”
And well, Rio’s kind of right. But she doesn’t see how it matters—it’s not as if she’s pulling a long con with this, it’s going to be over in a couple of days.
So Agatha doesn’t respond to that, doesn’t want to make it known that she’s caught up in thinking about the termination date of this whole thing.
Instead, worryingly, Agatha divides her attention between swallowing her wine without dribbling it down herself, and watching Rio mold the dough into shape—near perfect. It's watching Rio that means she has to focus on her fine motor functions—Rio’s hands pressing the dough into the table, definitely not underutilizing her strength.
The worst part about all of this is that Agatha, once again, isn’t really thinking about what those hands could do to her, how Rio could probably hold her down with ease, could shape the softest parts of her body in strong hands.
No, those thoughts are buzzing away in the back of her brain, sure, but the image that pushes its way to the forefront is of Agatha coming home after a long day at work, seeing Rio, the sleeves of one of Agatha’s sweatshirts pushed up her forearms. She’d send a goofy grin her way, wispy bits of hair falling in front of her eyes as she makes pasta from scratch, just for Agatha—just because she cares for her.
And that has to be the worst thought of all.
She picks her phone up, disgusted with her own shaking hands and takes a picture of Rio, sends it first to Nicky, accompanied with a message of nothing but a black heart emoji. Then she sends it to her friends, texts them saying ‘I think this one came with all the latest upgrades’.
The text she gets back from Nicky only moments later reads, ‘wow now i don’t have to worry about u starving to death’.
Agatha sends him back the raised eyebrow emoji as bile rises at the implication that Agatha will ever see Rio again, will ever have her cook for her after they say goodbye on Monday night.
She puts her phone away and, hard as it is, focuses on being in the moment with Rio, tries not to think about if this would be more or less painful if they were doing this vacation romance for real.
✦
When they get back to the hotel later that night, it’s with bellies full from homemade pasta, giggling and holding hands so as to help keep the other upright with all the free wine they’ve had.
Agatha knows this isn’t the whole truth—that she’s not going to go toppling over if Rio lets go of her, but it’s easier to pretend than show her cards.
Agatha knows full well by now that if she were to ask, Rio would walk her back to her hotel room, would kiss her outside her door, would come inside and take her apart over and over again. All she’d need to do is ask.
And Agatha is selfish, but not to her own detriment, so she won’t.
Instead, Agatha comes to a stop on the path near the pool—the crossroad between her room and Rio’s, still holds tight to her hand.
She turns to face her, eyes roaming Rio’s face, she speaks, voice softer than she’s ever heard from her own throat, “I had a good night.”
The twitch of Rio’s lip is something she’s seen many times now, but this time there’s no smile in her eyes to accompany it, “Me too.”
And Agatha, who has never possessed the ability to leave something in neutral, digs her nails into the bony top side of Rio’s hand. Rio barely flinches.
“Goodnight, Rio.” She says, a little disturbed by how even that didn’t put Rio off, unlatches her grip on her hand and backs off as quick as she can without looking like she’s running away.
“Night, Agatha.” Rio calls after her.
Agatha doesn’t have to look back to know Rio will be rooted in place, watching her until she disappears from view.
✦
It would appear that she and Rio are awfully, horrifically linked in some odd way.
She hasn’t spoken to Rio since last night, didn’t mention her plans to do a bit of souvenir shopping in the town, but there up not too far ahead, is Rio.
She doesn’t seem to have noticed Agatha yet, too busy looking absurdly attractive for what she’s doing. There’s not a single scenario in which someone should look good leaning against a fence, ice cream melting down their hand, watching pigeons of all things.
It would be rude not to say hi though, Agatha thinks, which is how she justifies the way her body gravitates towards Rio of its own accord.
“You really are stalking me.” She says in lieu of a greeting.
Rio holds a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun, ice cream dribbling down to near her elbow in this time. Agatha watches her face twist in discomfort when she notices, and then, because of course she does, Rio slots her tongue to the drip, stops it from sliding any further; then licks with an unbroken glide of her tongue, all the way back up to her hand, ridding herself of the ice cream trail.
What probably only takes seconds has Agatha feeling as though she’s watched it like a high definition, slow motion advertisement for ice cream—one of the unnecessarily sexy ones where the actors close their eyes and moan.
Rio seems to have absolutely no idea the effect she’s had on Agatha—a relief, truly. She looks around in an overly showy motion, and then says, “I think you’ll find I was here first.” Then she gets back to her ice cream, watches Agatha through her lashes—and god, that’s equally as attractive.
Agatha ignores her words—has never enjoyed giving away the upper hand. She wants to ask Rio what she’s doing, what her plans are for the rest of the day, whether Agatha factors into any of them, but she refrains. Any of those things would give away far too much.
(A little voice in the back of Agatha’s head—the devil from the beginning of her vacation, probably, tells her just even the thoughts threaten to leave her vulnerable. And that’s something Agatha Harkness should never be.)
“Nicky always loved buying a new fridge magnet for wherever we went on vacation.” Agatha says instead of any of those other things—lays the bare basics of a trap for Rio to think that what comes next is wholly her own idea.
“Is that what you’re here for?” Rio’s eyes soften around the edges, a sign that she’s taken the bait.
Agatha hums her assent, “The cheesier the better, he always says.”
“Want some company?” Rio says, crunches into her ice cream cone, “I was just on my way back to the hotel. I like getting up early for a walk.” That was even easier than Agatha had anticipated—she got everything she wanted without having to sound like a needy, whining schoolgirl.
Agatha shrugs, the picture of apathy, “If you must.”
Rio is one of the strangest people Agatha has ever met because she’s not fazed by any of this in the slightest. In fact, she just shoves the rest of the ice cream cone in her mouth, looks a little like a chipmunk with her rounded cheeks from being too ambitious with it. She rocks her head from side to side like Agatha’s waiting on her—like she couldn’t just walk away, as she laboriously chews.
(There’s maybe something to be said about how she chooses to stay.)
Agatha drags Rio around various souvenir shops on the main street, purposefully pushes her luck with the way she deliberates over more or less the exact same magnets in every shop.
(And there’s maybe something to be said about how Rio chooses to stay—something Agatha doesn’t want to hear.
Agatha tells herself over and over until she almost believes it that Rio is only humoring her with seemingly attentive questions about her life, about Nicky—the jig is sure to be up soon.)
With knowledge she’s trying to convince herself she didn’t force feed her own mind with, stomach turning at the thought of Rio leaving like everyone else—even though it’s Agatha who will fly home first, will be the one doing the leaving, she assuredly plucks a magnet from the stand.
Rio’s tongue pushed into her cheek looks to be the only thing stopping her from calling Agatha out on that particular magnet being a replica of the one Rio had pointed out as the ‘perfect cheesy keepsake’ in only the second shop they’d gone in.
It’s only after Agatha has paid—when she asks if Rio wouldn’t mind holding the paper bag the magnet is in, and gets no response that she looks for Rio.
But Rio isn’t there when she turns around.
Agatha backtracks, steps outside the store, scanning for Rio. She spots her a little further up the street, talking to someone with exaggerated motions and laughing.
Of course, Rio is allowed to do that—she’s allowed to do whatever she wants, even if what she wants is to talk to some of the locals, and make them laugh, and… press a hand to the shoulder of the probably drop dead gorgeous Italian woman holding a bouquet of roses.
Drop dead indeed, Agatha thinks.
She knows she has no claim to Rio, that she was the one who put a stop to all of her initial advances, but that doesn’t mean she wants to see Rio putting her hands on another woman.
Agatha slams her back against the building with a huff to wait for Rio to finish flirting, shoves her sunglasses over her eyes—the less Rio can see of her when she returns, the better. She reaches into the bag, fiddles with the magnet just for something to do, runs her thumbs over its gaudy details.
What probably only takes a minute feels like a lifetime before something is thrust under her face.
A single rose.
Rio’s holding it out to her, eyes wide as she waits for Agatha’s reaction.
“I don’t like roses.” And, while true, she says it just to be difficult.
The smile on Rio’s face only grows and she wiggles the flower a little, a prompt for Agatha to take it. Agatha does—snatches it from Rio’s hand in fact, and in hindsight, is glad the stem has been stripped of its thorns.
“You don’t really have room to be picky,” Rio says, outwardly pleased that Agatha has, under duress, taken the flower, “This was all she had on offer.”
It’s probably not all she had on offer, Agatha thinks, lips pulling into a grimace as she remembers the way the woman laughed at unfunny Rio.
“Go on,” Agatha says, pulls her phone from her bag and passes it to Rio with the camera app opened, “Take a picture of me with it then.”
Rio is hesitant when she takes it, and for a brief second doesn’t look like she knows what she’s supposed to do with it. And when she holds the phone up, Agatha looks not at the camera, but at Rio’s face. She looks at the way the stupid glee has left it.
She can’t help but feel she’s done something wrong. Not that it matters. Not that she cares.
Rio wordlessly hands her phone back, seems to notice the change in herself because she sucks in deep breath, chest heaves with it, and presses a light touch to Agatha’s arm, “You wanna head back and play mermaids in the pool?” Rio’s smile is wide and obviously a front.
Agatha isn’t going to dignify such stupidity with an answer, and her lack of one pulls a genuine laugh from Rio—a much welcome sound.
They do end up at the pool—Rio making a beeline for two empty sunbeds pressed close together, touching; one of them in the shade of a parasol, the other exposed to the sun’s heat. Perfect for the two of them—like even the universe in all its cruelty is playing a dumb trick on Agatha. Because it’s not fated, it’s not a sign, they’re not made for each other.
It feels somewhat worse to know all this and still be unable to shake the thought that Rio is supposed to be in her life for longer than mere days.
Rio bends at the waist, one arm extended to the sunbed under the parasol, “M’lady.” She says, silly expression on her face.
Agatha can only roll her eyes or else something resembling a genuine smile might make its way onto her face instead.
She can see out of the corner of her eye Rio already stripping off to get into the pool, and she doesn’t tempt fate by trying to take a peek when she’s getting herself comfy.
“So you’re not gonna play mermaids with me then?” Agatha pointedly pulls a book from her bag and holds it up, “Worth a try.” Rio laughs, heads to the water.
Agatha holds her book in front of her face, glances over the top of the pages to watch Rio, heart clenching when the only words that come to mind are Nicky would love her.
And he would, Agatha thinks, can almost hear his laugh alongside Rio’s, can picture the two of them trying to bribe her into the pool with them.
She’d love to say she couldn’t feel her chest crack open at the thought—that there isn’t a sickness in the pit of her stomach upon remembering that will never happen. Even Agatha, known liar, can’t say that.
She takes a photo of Rio to send back home, smiling and splashing around like an idiot, looking back at Agatha every so often like she knows she’s not really as invested in her book as she makes out. Then she takes a few more—just for her, just to keep. Thinking about forgetting Rio feels something akin to dread.
✦
As with all things, there must be an end.
Agatha is glad that Rio seems as fond of her as she is of—
Rio has wanted to spend the entirety of Agatha’s last day together, is all. Which is nice because it means Agatha didn’t have to appear needy about wanting Rio’s company.
They sat together for breakfast, Agatha reaching over and brushing away croissant crumbs from the corner of Rio’s mouth.
They sat next to each other at the edge of the pool, thighs pressed close, hot skin sticking together as they dangled their legs in the water. Agatha pretended not to notice how Rio’s pinky pressed into her own when they leaned back on their hands.
They ate lunch together, Rio leaving Agatha at the table to order at the bar for the both of them, pretending Rio pressing a hand to her shoulder to keep her from standing doesn’t affect her, pretending the words, “I know what you like,” don’t send a shiver down her spine.
“I saw a cute restaurant when I went for a walk the other day,” Rio says as she lays on her stomach on her sunbed. Usually by this point she’d be in the pool, but maybe she’s feeling sentimental over this being Agatha’s last day, doesn’t want to spend any time away from her, “Maybe we could go there tonight?”
“Is this place date-worthy, do you think, Rio?” And she wants to shove the words right back in her mouth at the way Rio visibly lights up. She’s quick to rectify, “I’m thinking a few pictures in a nice, intimate restaurant will have my friends believing you’re a gentleman, and not just with me for the sex.” But really, is that any better?
It takes Rio a moment to respond, but when she does it’s like Agatha had all but imagined the look of hope she’d given her, “I didn’t know I was getting sex out of this.”
Agatha is unflappable. Agatha is statuesque. Agatha is an emotionless void. Agatha is none of these things.
Agatha swallows too much of the negroni Rio had bought her, has to focus on her breathing so it doesn’t come out of her nose.
“So you are only with me for the sex?” Agatha says, grins like this conversation doesn’t already feel like something they can’t come back from. It’s her last day—really what’s the harm?
“I couldn’t possibly say. How good would this sex be, do you think?”
“Oh, you know,” Agatha trails a hand up her own stomach, raises the loose shirt she’s wearing as she does, exposes the soft skin to Rio. She watches as Rio predictably snaps her eyes from Agatha’s face to the newly available skin, “I think I could hazard a guess at what you like. I think you could do a good job.”
Agatha wishes her lips were pressed to Rio’s throat when she sees her gulp, wishes she could feel her throat bob with how affected she is.
“All hypothetical, of course.” Agatha grins, feels far more settled now that she’s the one in control.
“Of course.” Rio licks her lips, and that’s the end of that.
✦
Rio had been right in saying the restaurant was cute. It’s all exposed brick, dim warm lights, and candles on every table. They split a bottle of red—Rio pouring Agatha’s glass before her own. Rio laughs off the server saying it’s popular to share a few small plates, telling him, “My lovely date is not a sharer. A bottle of wine is as far as she’s willing to go.”
Agatha doesn’t know how Rio knows this—whether she’s been paying that much attention, or whether it’s just a story to fit within their fake relationship. Either way, Agatha happily eats her meal without any of it being stolen.
Maybe it’s the setting that encourages the conversation but Agatha finds them naturally drifting to date-esque topics—their families, friends, what they do for work… when they last went on a date… what they look for in a partner.
Agatha is trying really very hard not to think about how she’s eerily close to Rio’s ideal type, is trying hard not to feel flustered when she’s halfway through describing her ideal partner as someone Rio-shaped.
Agatha finds herself doing a lot of ignoring this evening, has to even place her phone face down on the table when, after sending a few photos of their ‘date’ into the groupchat, Jen replies, I’ve never seen you look so happy. It’s scary. And then, How are you feeling about your last day?
Agatha left her on read.
“It’s your last night.” Rio says, later, when their plates have long been taken and she’s just poured out the dregs of their second bottle of wine. She doesn’t say anything further.
“It is.” Agatha says, drums her fingers against the table, not knowing where Rio’s planning on going.
Rio nods a few times, is obvious in how she’s trying to gather the courage to say the next thing, “Did you want to have sex?”
Agatha hadn’t expected that, stays silent, fingers stilling their movements.
“With me.” Rio clarifies like that’s the thing Agatha’s having issues with.
“Did I once, or do I still?” Agatha feels it’s worth asking the question.
“The second one,” Rio says, quick, “Both. I don’t know.”
“I did when I first met you,” Rio nods like she knew this already, “I still do now, I suppose.”
Agatha supposes. Like she hasn’t been thinking about it daily, like it’s a thought only realized by Rio’s questioning.
“You don’t seem like someone who holds yourself back from what you want.”
“I didn’t want to complicate things, what with the fake element of this.”
Rio takes a minute, looks like she’s working something out. Agatha allows this. “You won’t be sending any more pictures after this date, right?”
Date. Like that’s what this actually is. Maybe for Rio it is. Maybe for Agatha it is too.
“No.”
“So we’ll effectively have broken up?”
“I suppose.”
Rio licks her lips, tongue slightly stained with wine. Agatha wants to suck on it.
“So there won’t be anything to complicate.”
Apparently Agatha hadn’t had the firmest grip on her self control as she had been led to believe because that’s all it took for her to, all whilst maintaining eye contact with Rio, neck the last of her wine, free hand raised almost lazily in the air so she could get the check.
Agatha barely remembers the walk back to her hotel room—is fairly convinced she’s a tangled mess of energy, can’t remember the last time she felt like this, can’t remember the last time she truly, deeply wanted like this.
She knows by design that Rio won’t be able to tell any of this, and so uses that to her advantage, presses her key card to the lock, hooks a single finger in one of the gaps between the buttons of Rio’s shirt and pulls. Not that she needs to—Rio is unfortunately looking at Agatha like she personally placed the stars in the sky, like Agatha is the reason why, even when they both return home, they’ll be looking up at the same constellations.
She has to blink away the thought, much too heavy for a first time—an only time.
Rio’s hands naturally land on hips and she walks Agatha backwards across the threshold. The backs of Agatha’s knees bump against the mattress as Rio presses in close, hips against hips, noses brushing together. Rio doesn’t do anything else though—Agatha realizes she’s waiting for her to make the final move.
So she does—tips her head up just a little and captures Rio’s lips, hand winding around the back of Rio’s neck to hold her in close. As though she’d been only waiting for the explicit permission, Rio hums, tightens her grip on Agatha’s hips and kisses back—harsh, like she no longer has any use for air.
Agatha’s okay with that—breathing isn’t top on her list of priorities by a long shot, not now that she’s skimming her fingers over all of Rio’s shirt buttons, deftly opening them as quick as she can. She groans—gives away how desperate she truly is for this when the final button is undone and she can slip the shirt down firm arms.
Agatha tries to pull away to look down at the skin it exposes—not that it’s anything she hasn’t been seeing every day since she met Rio, but now she’s allowed to. Or rather she was always allowed to but just didn’t want to acknowledge that.
Rio acts like Agatha trying to break the kiss is a personal attack—actually whines the second their lips fully break. Rio, who has been acting pretty normal during this whole ‘fake dating’ nonsense is finally letting her true colors show very plainly.
Agatha presses another brief kiss to her lips—an attempt at placating her, “I just want to see you, baby.”
“You’ve seen me before,” Rio mumbles against her lips, “You’ve seen a lot of me, I’ve noticed.”
Agatha takes Rio’s bottom lip between her teeth and bites, takes pleasure in the way Rio hisses, takes even more pleasure in how she doesn’t try to pull away.
“I’ve been looking at you too,” Rio says when her lip is released. She runs her tongue over the red mark, must be able to taste copper, “You’re fucking gorgeous, Agatha.”
Agatha knows this, of course, but it’s still nice to hear, and so she presses her nose into Rio’s cheek, breathes heavy obviously because she’s so used to hearing things like that.
Rio’s hands make their way up to the zip at the back of Agatha’s dress, slowly pulls it down as Agatha keeps her face pressed against Rio’s like it fits there perfectly, only pulls back when she feels Rio’s hands on her shoulders, fitting under the straps of her dress to gently pull them down.
When her dress pools on the floor, Agatha watches as Rio takes her in, eyes lingering on her bare breasts. Her hands jump back to Agatha’s hips, and then, like she’s only just realized she can touch Agatha anywhere, moves them up just slightly to her waist, thumbs digging into the soft skin of her stomach. Agatha can feel the breath of Rio’s exhale on her chest, her head dipped as she watches her own hands make small impermanent indents in her skin.
Agatha must have caught whatever Rio had before to make her all whiny because she suddenly can’t stand not having Rio’s mouth on hers. Agatha yanks her in, connecting them in a messy kiss, any softness dissipates the moment Rio runs her tongue across the seam of her lips, and Agatha makes true on her earlier wish to suck on Rio’s tongue.
“I thought about you.” Agatha pants in between kisses, hands frantically undoing Rio’s pants and shoving them down her legs.
“Thought about me when?” Rio almost trips at the speed Agatha’s undressing her at.
“When I touched myself.” Agatha says, matter of factly, like she doesn’t know she’s just short-circuited Rio’s brain.
“Oh fuck, what?” Rio looks dizzier now than when she drank two glasses of wine before their food had come out earlier that evening.
Agatha grins, cocks her head in the direction of her bed, “Right there.”
Rio’s eyes are wide, clearly trying to picture it. She gulps.
“What were you thinking about?”
A small shiver of excitement runs through Agatha’s body at that—it’s like Rio’s always there to meet her when she wants something. She doesn’t know how she’s going to give that up.
“Would you like me to tell you?” She says, fingers dipping into the waistband of Rio’s boxers, snaps it teasingly against her skin, and focuses on the way Rio’s eyes shutter closed. Rio’s part way through a nod before Agatha speaks again, “Or would you like me to show you?”
Again, a whine slips from Rio’s lips and she takes on the clearly colossal task of opening her eyes again, “Please.”
“Aren’t you polite?” Agatha knows her smile is wicked. Oh, Rio is so reactive—she’s having such fun watching her.
She doesn’t waste time, drops to her knees, silently mourns the loss of the touch of Rio’s hands on her stomach—silent because she’s not letting Rio know her every thought, even though the other woman blatantly doesn’t share her concern.
Agatha tugs Rio’s underwear off, self-indulgently presses her nose to the patch of hair she finds there before she looks up, meets Rio’s glazed eyes.
She knows what Rio thinks is about to happen—that she’ll press her mouth to her cunt, eat her out on her knees. Agatha isn’t patient enough to let that thought simmer though and she smirks, reaches up to tangle her fingers with Rio’s, just feeling them in her own for a moment.
Rio’s eyes start to soften at the edges and she can’t have that in its entirety so she loosens her grip to be able to press Rio’s first two fingers together, folding the others down. She looks up, meets Rio’s eyes once more, sees brief confusion in them until Agatha moves Rio’s hand to press against her own pelvis, then licks from the base of her fingers all the way to the tips, takes them into her mouth.
She takes Rio’s fingers to the knuckles, mouth twitching around them when she notices one of Rio’s knees buckle slightly. From the look on Rio’s face this definitely hadn’t been what she’d expected. Good, Agatha would hate to be too predictable.
She bobs her head a few times, slicks up Rio’s fingers as she maintains eye contact.
“You thought about this?” Rio’s voice is deliciously strained.
Agatha pulls away. There’s a string of spit that connects her lips to Rio’s fingers. She waits for it to break before she speaks.
“Not this exactly.”
“Agatha,” Rio groans, swallows before she speaks again, “Please, you’re going to have to lay this out to me like I’m very stupid.”
Rio is not stupid, but Agatha will humor her, “Thought about sucking you off,” She says, presses a kiss to Rio’s fingers, a tease, “Properly. With you wearing a strap.”
A moan rips from Rio’s throat before she’s even done speaking, “You’re insane.”
“You like me.” Agatha says, doesn’t mean to. As soon as she’s realized her mistake she takes Rio’s fingers back into her mouth again, groans around them as a distraction.
It must work because Rio lets out a noise like she can feel it on her cunt, a hand finally makes its way into Agatha’s hair, presses on the back of her head lightly, encouraging her movements. It’s exactly what Agatha needs and she slips a hand into her own underwear, feels how wet she is. She doesn’t even need to build herself up, she doesn’t think, wouldn’t even need precision at this point—just a few messy swipes over her clit and she’d fall apart.
“You’d look so fucking good with your lips wrapped around my cock.”
Fuck, that’s not helping. Agatha has to move her hand away from her clit—just in case. She dips her fingers lower, pushes the tips of two just barely inside herself—that’s when Rio notices, when she makes a near choked noise around Rio’s fingers.
“Are you touching yourself?”
Agatha hums, doesn’t want to stop sucking Rio’s fingers for long enough to form a response.
The noise Rio makes is sort of like a growl and she tightens her grip in Agatha’s hair, pulls her head away. “Fuck, get on the bed.”
Agatha thinks she’d do anything Rio asked if she said it like that, so she does as told—takes her time with it though, slowly stands and then lays back on the bed, propped up on her elbows.
Rio takes the hand that hadn’t just been used as a strap replacement and runs it over her face like Agatha has personally aggrieved her.
“Don’t hold out on me now, big boy.” Agatha says, just to rile her up further.
“Agatha… what the fuck?” Rio stumbles towards the bed—Agatha giggles a little at that until Rio grabs at her hips, peels her underwear down her legs, throws it somewhere over her shoulder.
Agatha reaches for her, pulls Rio in close, bodies melding together as Rio leans her back further, crawls on top of her.
“What else did you think about me doing to you?” Rio licks into her mouth like she wants to taste Agatha’s response on her tongue before the words are even spoken.
“I—I—” Agatha racks her brain for something to say, anything to say. She’s usually a much better liar put on the spot like this but—
“Agatha,” She doesn’t like how she can hear the smile in Rio’s voice, tilts her head to the side so she doesn’t have to look at it too, “Did you come from thinking about giving me a blowjob?”
Agatha grimaces, “You were very pathetic about it, might I just say.”
Rio’s fingers—the ones Agatha just had knuckle deep in her mouth, walk a path down her stomach, stroke through the thick hair between her legs and then spread her cunt open, “That does sound like me.”
“Sounds like— fuck,” Agatha’s breath hitches when Rio chooses that moment to press a finger to her clit, gentle at first but then adding more and more pressure—Agatha can feel her brain slipping away along with the touch, “I’ve got you pegged.” She manages to get out.
Rio hums, removes the pressure only to slip to fingers inside Agatha, going deep and to the knuckle with ease, “You could. If you wanted.”
It takes a minute for Agatha to process the words, her body is much more interested in the feeling of Rio’s fingers starting up a rhythm, sliding deep and curling, and then her brain suddenly makes the connection just in time for Rio to look down at her with a smile far too normal for what she’s doing, “Kidding.”
Agatha would like to be in a position to tell Rio she’d do whatever she wanted if she was serious about it, but she’s not and so she moves her hips in time with Rio’s thrusts, “Enough talking,” She grits her teeth, “Another finger.”
Rio doesn’t make her wait for it and Agatha’s cunt accommodates for the stretch, finally feels properly full, “Fucking god, Rio.” Her words are choked as those three fingers now curl inside her. God, Rio’s fingers fit so perfectly inside of her it’s like she was fucking made for—
Agatha clenches her eyes shut as she tries to rid herself of that stupid fucking thought, and Rio—kind, perceptive, attentive Rio sees this, must interpret it as something else because her voice softens, “You’ve got it, baby. You’re doing so good for me.”
And shit, even in Agatha’s tightly clenched eyes she feels a tear start to form at Rio’s words, can’t remember the last time someone said she was—
“You’re such a good girl for me, Agatha.”
Agatha’s body unwinds at those words, feels what’s probably years of pent up energy releasing into the build up of her orgasm. She opens her eyes, finally lets the tear run down the side of her head, feels it skim her ear, and she shoves a hand between their bodies so she can rub at her own clit.
“That’s it, give yourself what you need.” Rio’s eyes are big and open and warm, and Agatha can’t be blamed for possibly the fastest orgasm she’s ever had.
(If Rio mentions it, she’ll just cite it as her own doing.)
She doesn’t feel her orgasm wash over her so much as she’s thrown off a cliff with it—it feels big and heavy and somehow it’s happening all over her body—legs tensing, fingers clenching, tears falling, heart tightening.
Rio slows her fingers but still fucks her through her orgasm. Agatha isn’t even shocked anymore that Rio knows exactly what she needs.
“You look so beautiful when you come,” Rio says, and Agatha doesn’t feel so ridiculous for crying anymore when she sees how shiny Rio’s eyes are, “Can you come again?”
Rio’s fingers twitch a little inside her like it’s involuntary and Agatha’s breath hitches once more, “You best not fucking stop.”
Rio moans and speeds up her fingers once more, and Agatha can feel the build once more—only less volatile now.
Now that she’s able to comprehend something outside of her own body, Agatha feels how Rio shifts against her, alters the spread of her own legs just a little until she can grind herself on Agatha’s thigh. They both moan at the sensation.
“Oh, Rio,” Agatha says, brings a hand to Rio’s lower back to encourage her to move, “I can feel how wet you are. You wanna come on my thigh, yeah?”
Thank god she’s already powered through that first orgasm because no words would have found her before.
“Please, Agatha.” Rio’s words are barely louder than a whisper.
“So good letting me come first, aren’t you?” Agatha’s ego swells when Rio’s mouth drops open and she ruts even harder against her, “You can come whenever you like, baby.”
Rio nods frantically, and fuck, it really does something for Agatha the way Rio thrusts her fingers in time with her grinding. Fuck, she desperately wants to see Rio come for her, and she wants to see it now.
“You gonna make a mess of my thigh, Rio?” Agatha coos, is glad Rio is so far gone she probably can’t hear how her voice cracks when Rio’s fingers hit just the right spot, “You’ll be good and clean it with your tongue after, won’t you?”
Yeah, Agatha thinks, she’s definitely got Rio pegged because that’s all it takes for her to drop her head in Agatha’s neck, tongue pressed to sweat slick skin as she comes.
Agatha runs her hand up and down Rio’s back, doesn’t care how sweaty it is, doesn’t care that Rio’s lost all ability to fuck her as she rides the waves of her own orgasm.
“Agatha—” Rio’s arm shakes as she lifts herself up. There are tear tracks running down her face when she meets Agatha’s eyes. Agatha doesn’t know what to say so just kisses her, tastes salt on her lips.
“I want to taste you.” Come Rio’s next words when her breathing finally regulates, clearly doesn’t have Agatha’s refractory period.
“You can if you actually make me come this time,” Agatha wants to smirk but feels it come out softer, a smile, “Things are feeling far too even for my liking.”
A challenge seems to be what Rio needs because by the time Agatha passes out it’s with her body numb from breaking through the ceiling of most orgasms she’s ever had in one night.
✦
It turns out Agatha’s earlier fears are unfounded. Their goodbye is not an awkward hug, averted gazes and clearing throats.
Their goodbye is Agatha, exhausted and sticky, feeling Rio press soft kisses into her cheeks as she falls asleep, an arm wrapping around her waist, holding her close.
She thinks reality is worse.
✦
Someone bumps into Agatha, doesn’t even apologize for it as she rolls her suitcase to the check-in desk.
The barb that would usually be on the tip of her tongue is somewhere lost down by her feet—couldn’t even bring it up in time if she tried.
Rio would probably apologize to the person who bumped into her—that’s just the kind of person she is.
Agatha’s throat thickens at the thought of her.
She’d been alone when she woke up, all trace of Rio was gone bar the smell of her hair on a hotel pillow.
They only fucked once, for god’s sake—why does she feel so upset about this? She got what she came for.
She bites her tongue to give her mind something to think about that isn’t— you know why, you know why, you know why, you know —
She runs a hand through her hair, snarls when her fingers tangle in it. It’s her own fault, she didn’t bother brushing it this morning past a quick pass through it with her fingers.
She’s going to sleep on the plane, Agatha thinks to herself, and then she can blame her bed-head on her nap.
(No one else has to know she had the best sleep of her life, woke up feeling more well rested than she can remember—which is funny considering how much sleep she didn’t get last night.)
She checks in her case and then, like on autopilot, makes her way to security. She’s almost there, almost reaches the beginning of the queue when hands on her shoulder grip tight and spin her around.
If she was more in control of her body Agatha might have slapped their hands away, or spat in their face. But since she’s not, she just stares agog at warm brown eyes, perfectly matching Rio’s in tone.
No, scratch that—Agatha stares agog at actually Rio’s warm brown eyes.
What the fuck?
“Agatha.” Rio breathes her name like a sigh of relief and Agatha melts into the sound of her voice, the feeling of her hands coming up to cup her face.
“How are you here?”
“Cab.”
Unhelpful.
“Why are you here?”
Rio blinks, “I couldn’t let you go. Is this not okay?”
Oh god, that was so not what Agatha meant. She kisses Rio to settle her panic.
“Baby, your flight isn’t until Thursday, how the hell did you get in here?” Agatha rubs Rio’s cheeks with her thumbs.
“Booked another flight,” Rio says, kisses her again, before she pulls back, stills, “You do live in New Jersey, right?” She fiddles to pull her newly purchased ticket up on her phone.
Agatha peers down at the screen, reads the ticket upside down, “Yeah, but not in Atlantic City, Rio.” She laughs because this whole thing is fucking absurd.
“Close enough,” Rio shrugs, presses a kiss to Agatha’s cheek like she can’t stand not having done it, “Maybe—only if you wanted—you could give me your phone number and we could work something out when we land?”
Agatha snatches Rio’s phone, adds her contact details, “My address is in there too. You’ll go straight there when you land?”
Rio’s smile is blinding when she takes her phone back, looks back and forth between Agatha and Agatha’s contact information over and over, “I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”
This is ridiculous, Agatha tells herself, she’s only just met this woman.
It doesn’t feel ridiculous though—not when Rio’s looking at her like that.
“You’ll sit with me until my gate is called?”
“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Agatha—” Rio’s body is bent in an awkward way as she reaches around Agatha’s back to her carry-on bag, “Harkness.”
Agatha blinks as she sees Rio holding up her passport, takes it back with a roll of her eyes, starts up a walk with Rio's hand grasped in her own to the building security line.
“Harkness,” Rio says again like she’s trying it out, “Nice name.”
“Yeah?” Agatha says, and then, just to be cheeky, “Do you want it?”
Rio trips over her own feet at her words and she can’t hold the grin back.
“Maybe one day.” The words are said so quietly she’s sure they weren’t meant for her ears. She doesn’t let on that she heard but as she rotates the thought around her mind, finds she doesn’t hate it.
Yeah, it might just be ridiculous, she thinks as she pulls out her phone, takes a photo of her hand in Rio’s, but she is happy.
Me
Guess who’s coming home with me?