Chapter Text
Scream.
Screaming is good sometimes. Maybe.
That is a lot of screaming, though.
Pain.
Pain is good too sometimes.
Her hand is being crushed. So much so she's pretty sure she’ll lose her fingers.
Death loves her fingers. She loves this body. She knows she spends too much time in it, knows the other forces of the universe, her siblings, don't approve.
But in this body, she gets to laugh, she gets to be held by the most credible witch she has ever met. She gets to smell her perfume, touch her skin and taste her lips.
Death likes this body very much indeed.
She would prefer to keep it intact and not have her bones crushed.
Scream.
Pain.
Death gently caresses the face of the woman in front of her, of the woman who is holding onto her hand so strongly she is crushing it. “You are doing so good” she whispers in her ear. “You are the most amazing woman in history and you. are. doing. so. good”.
Agatha’s smile is so tired but so full of love and Death still cannot believe someone is looking at her like that.
Agatha tenses in pain. “My love” Agatha starts out of breath, “I don’t know…” she gets interrupted by her own scream. “Something is wrong, I can’t…” Scream.
No. Nothing is wrong. Death refuses to accept that. Agatha is fine. She is just fine. And they are about to have a wonderful baby boy that she will get to hold with this body of hers.
Besides, she would know if something was wrong. She would feel it. She would feel the pull. Just like…
Just like…
Just like the pull she’s feeling right now. The pull that is burrowing inside her entrails.
Something is wrong.
No, no, no, no, no.
Time stops.
Death leaves her body for a fraction of a second. Outside of the constraint of flesh, a fraction of a second is an eternity, it’s all she needs.
Then she feels it. She feels it too much. All encompassing.
She can feel Agatha. She feels her too much. She feels that pull. She feels the end of her thread. No, that just won’t do.
Death just got warmth. She just understood the concept of it. Just understood the need of it. That need to connect, to belong, to love had always been foreign to her.
It was alright. It wasn't her place to understand. She didn't need to understand to fulfill her purpose. People born, people love, people die. Death was part of her cycle and that was all she needed to know about it. She never even thought of trying to understand.
Then she met Agatha.
She’d never admit it because the witch’s ego doesn't need any external help, that ego would never come back down ever again, but Agatha taught her that thing she never thought she’d get. Agatha taught her love.
Agatha taught her warmth.
A few decades of warmth isn’t enough. Death needs more of it. And they just redecorated their home, so Agatha cannot die right now.
Home.
Another concept Agatha taught her. Before that, Death didn't know the difference between having a house and having a home. She does now. She understands.
She understands that something cannot be wrong with Agatha. She hasn't had enough warmth yet. She’s not ready.
She would laugh if she could. People have told her they weren't ready since mankind started to learn how to crawl.
Another thing she is just now understanding.
She can't do that. She can't do that. She can't do that. She…
Wait…
…
…
It’s not Agatha.
The pull is coming from Agatha but it isn't Agatha’s thread. It just feels like her.
But there's nothing wrong with Agatha.
Oh.
Ok.
Babies die all the time.
She can do this. She’s used to it.
Time seems to start again. Death is in her body again. She can breathe, she can think, she can feel blood in her mouth. She might have bitten her tongue. She feels Agatha’s hand in hers and she uses it to center herself.
Babies die all the time. She knows how to do this. She’s used to it.
She isn't used however to the way Agatha is looking at her.
“Don’t” she growls.
“Agatha” Death hears herself plead. Why is her throat tightening? Agatha pulls her hand free. Why is she so scared?
“I said no!” Agatha stands, screams and almost falls over. Death catches her before she hits the ground.
“My love” she whispers, “let me help you”.
Agatha lays her head on Death’s shoulder, struggling to catch her breath. “Tell me you won’t take him”.
Death wants nothing more than to swear she’ll never take that baby but that baby is dying. That is just a fact. Death tilts her head to the side. No, that's not right. That baby is already dead.
So, Death keeps quiet.
“Then you cannot help me” says Agatha.
Agatha extricates herself from Death’s arms. She uses the walls to keep herself standing. She screams in pain once again but this time, she doesn't fall.
And just like that, Death watches the witch who taught her the concept of home leave theirs.
And just like that Death feels a little bit colder.