Chapter Text
Told from Rio's POV
The door shatters as it takes the full weight of the blast. The hinges and doorframe fracture and splinter, fragments of mahogany flying everywhere in a pleasing display of force.
Agatha is already on the floor as I step inside and stand among the debris. She’s sprawled on her stomach, her hair hanging untamed and framing her face. The blast must have thrown the once formidable witch backwards against the closet door. Secretly I’m thrilled to have already caused such an impact.
And oh, does she look pissed off. She is definitely not used to being thrown around like this.
I begin to speak the incantation in my head that conjures my next spell. The breeze picks up around me as I focus solely on my target. My prey. My witch.
Agatha can feel it too. From her now kneeling position behind a table she knows exactly what’s coming, and that she’s unable to resist it, but instinct has her clinging briefly to the table edge in a show of futile defiance.
As she flies backwards I propel myself using the dresser, unsheathe my dagger and land directly in front of her. Only her split-second reaction grabbing at my wrist with both hands stops my blade from piercing her chest. The momentum propels her back and she thumps into the wall decorated with ugly green wallpaper. Fuck Agnes and her stupid decorating choices.
Agatha’s grip is warm but lacks something crucial. That familiar spark. The witch is relying purely on muscle, adrenaline and desperation. It's a delicious combination.
“I’ve missed you” I tell her, knowing that my playful tone will irritate her just as much as the blade at her throat.
“I hate you”. She practically exhales the words, like saying them is as normal to her as breathing.
“How long has it been, Agatha?”
“Not sure” she retorts, quickly glancing down at our hands competing for dominance.
The dagger wobbles. I’m not even really pushing and already she’s struggling to hold me back. An unstoppable force is about to meet a moveable object.
“Since you acquired the Darkhold, you hid behind all that dark magic”. Hid from me, I think to myself.
Her bratty little eyebrow raise in response only fuels my anger.
“But then you lost it, and now …” I increase the pressure, using both hands to bring the tip of the blade to the top of her sternum. She exhales shakily, her resistance faltering under my gaze.
That momentary surrender and the little grunt as the blade nicks her will live long in my memory. Her blood rushes to the surface and glides down across exposed skin. It rekindles memories of previous times Agatha was at the mercy of my blade, writhing and gasping beneath me.
“Touch”.
Now she’s really mad. I can see it in her eyes, despite the tears forming at the corners.
“You’re vulnerable”. I know for certain that the statement causes a wound which cuts deeper than any physical blade ever could.
But the slight scoff in response is the Agatha I remember. Even without her powers she was always dangerous. “Only physically” she replies.
Her grip is strong on my hood and I get an unwanted close up of the ugly wallpaper as she slams my head against the wall. Simultaneously we're struggling for control over the dagger.
Momentum helps her slam our arms downwards and lodges the blade deep into plasterboard.
I almost admire her little “ha” of celebration before the urge to strangle her overwhelms me and I lunge for her throat, my thumb pressing into her carotid artery. I shove her sideways and kick her unceremoniously backwards over the kitchen countertop. She lands with a thud and a yelp.
The dagger comes free easily from its temporary sheathe. Agatha is already getting to her knees as I hurl it towards her. She blocks it from imbedding itself in her forehead with a metal baking tray.
The dagger ricochets away and settles between us on the wooden floor.
We both dive for the hilt but she’s slower and realises too late as her hand closes firmly around the bladed edge. The little “ah” sound confirms the damage is instantaneous. I know exactly how sharp this steel cuts. Her blood hinders her grip, forces her hand to slide, yet she’s somehow still clinging on. It’s admirable. And also the perfect opportunity to taunt her.
“Do you remember pain?”
She’s shooting her own daggers at me now, her eyes filled with venom. She wants to tear me limb from limb.
“It kind of tickles, doesn’t it?”
I’m momentarily distracted by her chuckle and she blind sides me with something in her right-hand to send me sprawling. But at least I still have the dagger in my grip.
“Coochie coochie coo” is all I hear as I regain some composure.
I feel a red mist descend and I lunge at her. She dodges it and I slice at nothing but air, giving her the opportunity to slam her full weight into my torso and send us both backwards to the floor.
This time she has the upper hand, and it’s gripping firmly at my throat. She’s squeezing hard and I swear that it’s muscle memory that brings my own hand to cover her grip, urging her on.
“You can’t kill me” I remind her, slowly testing how much weight she’s using with her injured hand to restrain my other arm.
“You can’t kill me!” I note the emphasis on the me. “It’s not allowed”.
A shove and a particularly satisfying headbutt sends her backwards. Back on my feet I watch her stumble, clutching at her face and making exasperated sounds. Hopefully I broke her nose.
The noise she makes as I propel her backwards to collide with the dresser is also incredibly gratifying. Glass shatters around her and she slumps forward.
While she writhes a little amongst the debris I retrieve the dagger from the floor.
“Maybe I can’t kill you, but I can make you wish you were dead.”
“Ah! Wait wait wait wait wait … wait …wait … wait!” she pleads, her cut hand raised towards me. The sight of her bloody and begging makes me pause.
“This isn’t what you want”.
She’s stalling, and she’s playing with fire. Her little pout confirms she’s trying a new tactic. I recognise this game but I’ll let her play it for a little while longer.
“Me…without power”. Her laugh exudes more confidence than I know she’s actually feeling.
“This is undignified”. She’s on her knees now, arms outstretched. I’m appreciating the aesthetics, though wondering how the hell her flimsy silk robe is still intact.
“Don’t you want me at my best?” I watch as she continues to stall and carefully get to her feet. “Admit it. You prefer me …”
“Horizontal?” My memory flashes back to another time. Her naked body against mine, somewhere in some woods, her hands clawing at my back as she screams my name. God dammit.
“In a grave?”
“Formidable”. She’s showing signs of the old Agatha now. Her shoulders are pulled back. Her chin raised defiantly, her gaze fixed on me.
“So take my power”. I offer it despite already knowing her answer. Knowing she’s too smart to take the bait but loving that it emphasises she has no powers of her own.
“That’s cute, but you know that would kill me. Just let me get my purple back… and then come find me”. Her fingers twirl almost subconsciously as she mentions her power. Her long, slender fingers.
“I am not the only one that wants to see you dead. Wants to see you burn. Or hang. Or drown”.
The threat hangs heavy, I can see it weighing on her as her mask briefly slips. “There are no new options?” she asks.
“I could just sit back and watch…” The idea is an appealing one, I always did have a bit of a voyeuristic side.
I leave the offer hanging while I inspect my blade. Agatha’s blood stains the steel.
“Come on” she almost whispers, slowly stepping towards me. It’s an invitation that in another time I couldn’t have resisted. “You love it”. Another step forward and my eyes are drawn to the trail of blood on her chest that has disappeared beneath the fabric. “The anticipation”.
Dammit, that voice.
I don’t even realise I’m swirling my thumb around the hilt of the dagger as my eyes drift lower to take in the full sight of her.
“Ok Agatha” I scoff, and return the dagger to its sheathe.
Her exhale of relief is short-lived as I step in closer to deliver my good news.
“But I’ll be sure to tell them where to find you”.
I wipe away the tear that has strayed onto her cheek, watch as she flicks her head away and licks her lips.
“Who … specifically?” she asks. She acts like it doesn’t matter but I can hear the tremble in her breath.
“Hmmm, the worst of them. The Salem Seven”. The flicker of fear in her eyes is brief but sharp. “I expect you’ll see them at sundown”.
She doesn’t recoil as I cradle her bloodied hand in my palm and slowly, gently inspect it.
“After all these centuries … Agatha Harkness will finally meet her end. Ugh, it really warms the heart”.
Her retort is quick. “You don’t have a heart”.
“Yes, I do” I step closer, further invading her space and forcing her attention away from what’s coming to what’s directly in front of her. “It’s black … and it beats for you”.
The flat of my tongue slides across her palm. I can feel where my blade has sliced through her flesh and how the tissue now knots itself back together. That familiar copper taste on my tongue. Our eyes are locked and I read the flurry of emotions in that single second. Anger. Lust.
I shove her hand aside and walk back towards what remains of her front door, the taste of her still lingering in my mouth. She’s inspecting her hand as I offer my goodbyes.
“Te veo”. I see you, my witch.