Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Agatha swears as yet another car refuses to let her turn left into the parking lot. Even with her practice runs and timing exactly how long it would take to drive from her apartment to the hospital, she’s still running late, all because she had forgotten to consider just what assholes other drivers could be. She flips the other driver off as he passes, and is rewarded with an extended middle finger in return. God, she hates New Jersey.

Agatha seethes in the turn lane as an unbroken line of cars zooms by, heedless of the yield sign and her blinking turn signal. After a couple of minutes, she’s nearly ready to give up, but then, a boon: seeing the Prius in the oncoming lane, she takes a chance and floors it through the turn, knowing that the poky little hybrid struggling up the hill won’t be able to cut her off in time. She slams on the brakes just as quickly, stopping short at the rundown security checkpoint so she doesn’t hit the barrier arm.

As she rolls the window down, the security guard looks at her, bemused. He’s a plump man, his pink face smiling down at her from above his wrinkled uniform. His worn brass nametag reads Ralph in all capital letters, and just like the checkpoint booth itself, he looks like he’s probably been here since at least the dawn of time. Maybe longer.

“How can I help you?”

Agatha jabs a finger at the freshly installed parking sticker on her windshield, unable to mask her irritation. Seriously, it’s right there.

“Ah. First day?”

“Yes,” she says tightly.

“And you’re a…”

“Fourth-year medical student.” No matter how often she practices saying that, it never stops being a bit embarrassing. At forty, she knows she doesn’t fit the demographic of what anyone would expect from a medical student. She also knows that her later-than-most foray into medicine is absolutely no one’s fucking business.

Ralph does a piss-poor job of hiding his surprise, but obediently presses the button to let her through. “Welcome to Westview Medical Center.”

It takes her the better part of twenty minutes to find an empty parking spot and navigate the staff park and ride system, so by the time she enters the main hospital building — Aster, according to the map she’s memorized from the website — Agatha’s sure the annoyance she’s feeling is written all over her face.

As if on cue, her watch buzzes with a text. She flicks her wrist to read it.

“Welcome to your palliative care rotation at WMC. Meet Dr. Vidal on Aster 4 at the main nurse’s station.”

Agatha turns toward the huge bank of elevators on the right-hand side of the atrium and smacks her palm against the ‘up’ button. She only has to wait a few moments before one arrives with a ding, and she steps inside — alone, thank fuck.

It’s a short, Muzak-filled ride up to the fourth floor. The elevator stops with a shudder, announcing itself with another ding, and Agatha steps out into the empty hallway. Palliative Care, the sign on the wall reads in tasteful, sans-serif lettering, as if it’s announcing something innocuous and not something horrible; as if it isn’t truly the absolute worst kind of pill to swallow.

Next to the sign, an inset map shows the floor layout: it branches off on either side of her. The nurses’ station is to her right, and the waiting room and vending machines sit under the windows on one side. A recreation area sits under the bay of windows on the other side. Patient rooms, infusion pods, a small prayer room, and other various areas fill the remainder of the hall. To her left are more patient rooms, a supply closet, and the hall ends with the staff break room. Agatha turns to her right and heads down the hallway.

She’d been hoping for someone to be there, if for no other reason than to show her where she might get a cup of coffee, but the nurses’ station is empty. Agatha sighs and leans a hip against it, waiting — though not awkwardly, never awkwardly — in her muted purple scrubs and scuffed Hokas. A faded dinosaur-print Kavu backpack — a hand-me-down? Up? from Nicky — is slung over one shoulder, holding the fluffernutter sandwich and Capri-Sun she’d thrown together in her hurry to leave. Despite everything, she still occasionally likes something sweet.

Adjusting the pack on her shoulder and checking her watch to be sure she hasn’t missed another notification, Agatha takes a moment of solitude to assess the rest of her surroundings. A reed diffuser sits on the edge of the nurses’ station, making a feeble attempt to counteract the overwhelming smell of bleach and sickness with a hint of grapefruit and decidedly losing the battle. The lights here are lower; warmer than they’d been in the soaring atrium, and it’s much quieter on this floor than the ones she’d passed on her way up to it. It seems to be a theme on this kind of ward. She’s never understood it. While she knows that some of the choices are for the patients’ wellbeing — reducing stimulation, avoiding agitation, all that jazz — the rest feel almost morbid. Like the place is a funeral home instead of a hospital; like it’s preemptively mourning people who haven’t even died yet.

She shakes her head and sighs. This rotation hadn’t even been her idea. She wants to work in internal medicine as a diagnostician; she wants to catch the dark things before they can gain a foothold and send them packing. She does not want to play a part in helping to lead her patients gently into that good night. She’s had enough of that for a lifetime.

But it’s a requirement. So here she is.

Agatha props an elbow atop the empty desk, making a mental list of things she does and does not want to discuss. These palliative care physicians have a habit of weaseling things out of you, and she is not going to let that happen.

Do: Do what you’re told, answer questions, and help patients competently. Don’t: Volunteer any personal information, get overly invested in any one patient’s care, or be bitchy to the attending. Even when you’re right. 

Footsteps sound from the opposite end of the hall, and Agatha turns to see Dr. Vidal striding towards her. She'd be easy to spot even if Agatha hadn’t been expecting her. She’s tall, much taller than Agatha. Her long brown hair is braided back from her face, and she has the kind of dark eyes and olive complexion that make it nearly impossible to tell how old she is. Dressed in a sage button-down and black slacks, she’s clutching a Hydroflask in one hand and a clipboard in the other, rifling through the papers on it. 

“Harkness,” she says, once she’s close enough to do so without raising her voice. Agatha rolls her eyes internally. She’s clearly committed to the funeral home bit.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Dr. Vidal.” It’s a statement, not an introduction. When she finally looks up from the clipboard at Agatha, she has an unfathomable look in her eye. Too steady. Too knowing. “You can call me Rio. Everyone else does.”

Agatha nods, feeling uncharacteristically small under the other woman’s gaze. 

“You’re late,” Rio notes. It’s a statement again; there’s no unkindness, just directness.

“Yeah, no one would let me turn into the parking lot.”

“You should try coming from the other direction.” Rio takes a sip from her Hydroflask. “This isn’t the kind of medicine that gets to wait in traffic.”

With a tilt of her head, Rio turns to start walking back down the hallway, leaving Agatha scrambling to follow her.

Chapter Text

Rio walks at the clip of someone who isn’t used to being followed, and that, coupled with the significant height difference between the two of them, leaves Agatha practically jogging to keep up with her. By the time Rio swipes them into the staff break room, Agatha is nearly out of breath.

“After you,” she says, nodding for Agatha to enter first. Agatha brushes by her into the room, clutching the strap of her backpack as she tries to keep her composure. 

The break room is dim and cozy, like the rest of the ward. There’s a small table tucked in the corner in front of her as she enters, flanked by a few chairs that Agatha guesses were stolen from the cafeteria at some point. A rainbow of medusa lamps in the opposite corners provides a cheery glow while the overhead lights remain off. She’s starting to think she might emerge from this rotation sensitive to light like a vampire. 

The wall beside the table has a humming refrigerator, a small coffee bar with a Keurig, a microwave, and what looks like a row of different herbal teas in cut-glass jars. A squashy couch and a couple of cubbies with hooks take up the rest of the wall.

“You can put any food you’ve brought in there,” Rio says, pointing to the refrigerator. Agatha makes quick work of pulling her sandwich and juice box out of her backpack and tucking them into an empty shelf in the refrigerator’s door. Rio crosses to the cubbies in the opposite corner, so she follows her. One of the cubbies has a label bearing her name. “You can store your backpack and other personal items here while you’re with us.”

Agatha’s grip tightens on her backpack, a pink triceratops clenched between her fingers. “No lockers?”

Rio looks at her with what almost seems like mirth in her eyes. “Did you bring something that valuable?”

Yes, Agatha thinks to herself. She wants to flick Rio on the nose; to jar the smirk right off of her face, but she doesn’t want to explain to her that the backpack itself is what’s valuable (or why) rather than anything contained in it. 

She squares her shoulders and hangs the backpack on the hook under her name. 

Rio is all business, cool and collected as she turns away from the cubbies. She tosses her clipboard on the coffee table and sinks into the far end of the sofa, patting the cushion beside her in clear invitation for Agatha to join her.

Still irritated, and not entirely sure why she’d let herself be talked into this rotation, Agatha takes her seat as directed. She can tell that if she sits all the way back on the plush cushions, her feet won’t touch the floor. She scoots closer to the edge, perching there with her Hokas safely on the ground.

Rio studies her for a moment. She’s so tense. It’s to be expected from most of her med students on rotation; the very subject of palliative care makes most of them go a bit squirrelly, but Agatha is different. She seems like she could run out of the room at any second.

“What is your specialty?” It seems an innocuous enough question to break the ice. 

“Internal medicine.” 

“And what do you hope to do with that?”

Agatha picks at a loose thread in the welt detailing on the cushion. “Be a diagnostician.”

“Like Dr. House?” Rio asks. There’s no mirth in her voice this time; she wants to be sure that Agatha knows she’s no longer teasing her. 

“Better.” Regardless, there’s an edge to Agatha’s tone, and Rio can’t help but be puzzled by it. She wants to ask her why she wants to be that specific type of doctor — hell, she wants to ask her why she wants to be a doctor at all; she’s so much closer to her own age than any of the other medical students she’s taken this year — but there’s something so bristly about Agatha’s demeanor that it gives her pause. She somehow already knows that it’s better not to pry with this one. 

“That’s… an admirable goal,” she says instead. Charitable, but not patronizing, it’s the kind of front she’s perfected over the years. It’s what makes her great at her job; at delivering the absolute worst kind of care that most doctors won’t even touch. 

Agatha nods, and Rio can tell that she won’t be contributing much more to the topic, so she decides to move on.

“Okay, well, let me tell you a bit about me. Then we’ll go over the basics of what we do here—”

“I know what palliative medicine is,” Agatha interjects before she can stop herself. 

“I think you’ll find it different in practice than in theory,” Rio says gently. “Every practitioner does it their own way.”

Agatha’s cheeks redden, but she doesn’t interrupt a second time.

“So,“ Rio continues, unfazed, “As I was saying, I’ll tell you about myself,  we’ll run through the basics of the ward, and then we can start rounding patients and looking at consults for the other departments. Sound good?”

Agatha nods dumbly.

“Okay. So, I am originally from Massachusetts. I attended Boston University for pre-med. Then I went to the University of North Texas for medical school, where I studied to be an osteopathic physician. Like you, I originally specialized in internal medicine and did my residency at UCLA. I found my passion for palliative care during my time working at Cedars-Sinai. After residency, I matched at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for my palliative care fellowship, so I spent a year in North Carolina—”

“My apologies,” Agatha mutters.

“I actually loved it down there,” Rio counters. “So green. Gorgeous mountains if you’re up for a hike. Plus I grew very fond of Bojangles.”

Agatha scoffs. “It’s a ridiculous name.”

“Maybe, but they have amazing biscuits.” 

“I preferred their sweet potato pies, personally—” Oh, son of a bitch. Barely an hour into her first day, and she’s already broken one of her rules: don’t volunteer any personal information.

Rio cocks her head, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Are you… from North Carolina?”

Agatha folds her arms and pointedly fixes her gaze on the wall behind Rio’s head. “No.”

Rio can feel Agatha’s walls slamming back into place and decides not to continue pressing her, no matter how much she might want to. “I can’t believe how rude I’m being. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Agatha is far from obtuse enough not to recognize an olive branch, but she takes it nonetheless. “That would be great.” 

She’s barely answered the question, but Rio is already crossing to the Keurig, pleased to have a change in subject. Agatha makes to get up and follow her, but Rio waves her off, secretly glad to have some distance and to give her hands something to do. She always hates this part of meeting new students; the small talk feels so disingenuous. Like they’re dancing around the reason that they’re here, and she’d much rather just go ahead and rip off the Band-Aid. “I think all we have is the Donut Shoppe K-Cups."

“Perfect.” 

Rio pulls a mug from the small cabinet by her head and sets it on the Keurig platform, setting it to brew before leaning against the counter to face Agatha again. “So, what exactly do you know about palliative care?”

Agatha sucks her teeth. “You help people die.”

Rio chuckles. “I’m not surprised you’d put it that way.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Rio doesn’t look perturbed, but her eyes widen slightly at the snap. “Nothing. That wasn’t a dig. I’m agreeing with you, because I know that’s what most people think.”

“Oh, I see,” Agatha mutters. She jiggles her knee to relieve some of her tension. 

“The truth is a little more nuanced,” Rio explains. She pulls the end of her braid over her shoulder and idly twirls it around her finger. “It— it isn’t really about helping people die. Yes, that’s their endgame, and there’s usually nothing we can do to change that. But I like to think about it as more about the journey than the destination. We try to come in as soon as we can to help improve their quality of life. Allow for more comfort and clarity, and less suffering, for sure. Sometimes peace and even joy, if we’re really lucky.”

Agatha pointedly doesn’t meet Rio’s eyes. She can’t think of death as joyful; can’t imagine how it possibly could be. It’s so foreign to her that she can’t even think of a sarcastic retort. She just nods as if she understands and sits there quietly, trying to wrap her mind around the strange ideas the other woman is putting into her head. 

Rio, noting Agatha’s extended silence, is about to say something else to continue the conversation when the gurgling Keurig behind her suddenly stops its cacophony. She turns to pick up the steaming mug and sets it on a saucer with some sugar packets, creamers, and a spoon. She carries it over to the coffee table, making room for it by pushing aside a tray bearing two small bowls of river stones that Agatha hadn’t noticed before, then takes her seat back at the end of the sofa. 

Agatha sets about ripping four sugar packets open and dumping them into the mug, but she can’t keep quiet for as long as she was hoping. She nods to the tray that Rio had pushed aside. “What’s that?”

“Oh.” Rio reaches over and picks up the tray. It isn’t like anything one would expect to see in a hospital. It looks like it would be more at home in some kind of shop selling incense and crystals. “You know how I told you that all palliative care doctors do things a little differently?”

Agatha nods and sucks a stray bit of sugar off of the end of her finger. 

“I came up with this while I was working at UNC,” Rio explains. She trails her fingers over the stones in one bowl, and even someone as cynical as Agatha can feel a shift in her energy; it’s almost reverent. “When you spend enough time around this much death, it’s hard not to hold onto it. All the grief and endings. Even when you know better.”

“...I don’t follow.”

Rio continues as if she hasn’t heard her, her fingertips still tracing over the smooth surface of the river stones.

“I know the work we do matters. I know it helps people. But it can give you whiplash sometimes. Things can change so quickly. You might have to move from one room where someone is gone to the next where someone is still fighting. You have to brush yourself off because the ones that are still here need to be taken care of. But I want my team to take care of themselves, too.”

“...I don’t follow. What is that?”

“It’s simple, really. When a patient departs from this life, after you mark the time and notify whoever will be looking after them during their transition, you come in here. Sit down. Pick up one of these from the bowl on the left,” she picks up one of the river rocks. “Sit with it. Feel the weight. Then, when you’re ready, drop it in the other bowl.” 

Agatha is unable to stop the ‘you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me’ scoff that erupts from her. “Seriously? All that buildup, and all you want me to do is pick up a rock?”

Rio manages to catch her eye, and Agatha’s laughter dies on her tongue.

“This rotation is for you, Agatha,” she begins. Her tone is even and unfazed, but Agatha can’t help but feel like she’s being scolded like a naughty child anyway. “To learn. I don’t expect you to understand why I do certain things, but I do expect you to respect it.”

“I—“

“Yes, as you put it, I want you to pick up a rock. But it’s more than that. I want you to acknowledge the person who passed, I want you to hold space for them, and then I want you to let them go.”

The dinosaur print backpack hanging in Agatha’s cubby across the room feels like a neon sign pointing directly at her, all but screaming her distinct inability to let anything go. She opens her mouth, ready to break her own self-made rule about not volunteering any information, but the moment passes, and then Rio is speaking again.

“You’ll only be here for two weeks, but realistically, we will lose patients in that time. You’re going to lose patients in your own practice later on. It is so easy to second-guess yourself and take this job home with you. If the rocks don’t work for you, that’s fine. Find your own way to get through. But you have to find one. This work will kill you if you let it.”

“I’m sorry,” Agatha mutters, feeling abashed. “I… get it now.”

Rio nods, setting the river stone in her hand back in its bowl and replacing the tray on the table. She’s quiet for a beat, leaving Agatha wondering if she’s forgiven.

“Finish that,” she says finally, nodding to Agatha’s coffee. “We have patients to see.”

Chapter Text

Somehow eager to please Rio despite the awkwardness they’d just gone through — and her absolute hatred of being here in the first place — Agatha sucks down the rest of her coffee a little too fast, wincing against the burn as the hot liquid sears down her throat and regretting her haste. She goes to set the mug back down, but Rio’s hand is already outstretched, her fingers brushing against Agatha’s for a split second as she picks up the mug and glides over to the sink. By the time Agatha gets to her feet and joins her, Rio’s already rinsed it and set it neatly in the drainer. 

It’s all Agatha can do to keep from rolling her eyes. Of course she has. 

“I could’ve done that,” she mutters, brushing a flipped-up hem of her scrub top back down over her hip.

“I’m not going to make you do chores on your first day.” Rio picks up her clipboard and nods to the door. “Shall we?”

Agatha nods, folding her arms over her chest and following her out of the room. After all of the talk about needing to see patients, she expects Rio to turn into one of their rooms, but she keeps walking, leading Agatha past the nurse’s station in the center of the floor and heading down the other side of the corridor. 

“I thought we were seeing patients.”

Rio stops at a conference room Agatha hadn’t cared enough to notice on the map she’d been studying earlier. “We are. But we have to get everyone on the same page first.”

Agatha looks at her more curiously than she wants to let on. “Everyone?”

She swears Rio actually sighs as she opens the door. 

“…Anyway, like I was saying, the secret to fluffy begonias is—”

“More gardening tips, Sharon?” Rio asks. Agatha trails behind her into the room and immediately feels the weight of five more pairs of eyes on her, sizing her up. A Costco platter of scones and croissants sits in the middle of the table, and each person has one of the treats on a paper napkin in front of them. 

On the far side of the table, the woman who’d spoken sits in cheery pink scrubs, flanked by a grave older woman in a grey pantsuit and a boy who looks like he might’ve gotten lost on his way to a rock concert. Her scone is already half gone, and there’s an open can of Celsius—gross—placed carefully next to her plate. She nods at Rio, completely unfazed. 

“Pruning and pinching,” she finishes, holding her hands up as if unveiling something particularly groundbreaking. “Works every time.”

She turns her attention to Agatha, who hovers behind Rio in the same way a kindergartener might lag behind a parent on the first day of school. 

“Oh, good, another student. Welcome!”

There’s some nodding and similar hellos from the rest of the table. It’s an unexpected show of warmth in a place like this. Caught off guard, Agatha waits a bit too long before she realizes that they’re looking at her expectantly. 

“I, uh— yeah, hello. I’m Agatha. Harkness.”

Another chorus of greetings. She feels like she’s wandered into some kind of alternative AA meeting. 

At the near side of the table, a woman in a crisp pink linen wrap dress sits quietly pulling the burnt shreds of dough off of a croissant. One seat away from her, another woman in a black t-shirt and blazer waves and gestures to the empty seat between them.  “I’m Alice. Come sit by me.”

Agatha practically rushes over to join them, relieved to have something to do. Alice pulls her chair out for her and has a scone settled on a napkin in front of her by the time she takes her seat. 

“Thanks,” she mutters.

“You’re welcome. We start almost every day with some kind of carb.”

“I can get into that.”

Agatha’s barely picked up her scone to take a bite before Rio is joining them at the head of the table. She carefully selects a croissant and places it on her own napkin, then gestures to the people surrounding her.

“You know how this goes, guys. Introduce yourselves.”

“I’m Sharon!” says the begonia lady. Her lips are stained pink from her dragonfruit Celsius, and it would be a little cuter of a coincidence if her teeth didn’t bear traces of the same hue. “Head nurse.”

The woman in pink flicks a burnt crumb off the end of her finger. “Jennifer. Death doula.”

“Alice,” Alice says again. She shakes her black hair back out of her face, revealing a couple of tasteful orange streaks carefully dyed above her ears. “Music therapist.”

“I’m Lilia,” says the grave woman next to Sharon. She has a steely, unflinching gaze that instantly makes Agatha even more uncomfortable than she already was. “Licensed clinical social worker.”

The boy next to Lilia has his entire mouth full of croissant, oblivious to the conversation until she pointedly elbows him in the ribs. His eyes widen, brown curls bouncing as he frantically tries to swallow the wad of pastry. 

“Billy,” he says finally, giving her a nod. A tasteful silver stud winks at her from his eyebrow. “Master's degree candidate for social work, here to learn with Lilia and get some service hours.” He smiles at her, oblivious to a speck of chocolate smeared across his front tooth. 

Agatha feels something pull in the bottom of her stomach and sets her scone back down, suddenly not hungry anymore. There’s a flash of pink in her peripheral vision as Jennifer turns her head to look at her, and Agatha can’t help but shrink a little under her gaze. God, do these people miss anything?

“Good,” Rio says. “So, onto the patient roster—”

“Wait,” wheedles Sharon, “you haven’t let her introduce herself properly.”

Rio looks at her expectantly, and the sinking feeling in Agatha’s stomach immediately clenches into a ball. 

“Oh, I’m… not that interesting.”

“Nonsense. Just a little something,” Sharon insists. She folds her hands under her chin and leans in conspiratorially. “I like to garden.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Agatha’s heartbeat is roaring in her ears, and she can feel herself starting to panic as she scrambles for something to say that doesn’t go against her rules. She folds her arms again, left hand tucked into her right elbow so she can dig her nails into her skin. Relax. Don’t volunteer any information. “Um… I’m in my fourth year. I want to be a diagnostician.”

There are some murmurs of approval and interest from around the table. Thank god that’s over. 

But then Sharon presses on. “Married?”

“No.”

“Any kids?”

Agatha just barely hesitates before answering. “No.”

If anyone notices—which at this point Agatha is almost certain that one of them did—they have the grace not to mention it. She half expects one of them to ask why she went to medical school so obviously so much later than everyone else, but the moment mercifully passes without anyone saying anything.

“This is how we start each day,” Rio explains. “Check in, review the caseload, support each other—”

“Eat,” Alice chuckles from beside her.

“Exactly,” Rio agrees. “We see any new patients on Mondays and schedule follow-ups and hospital visits for the afternoons. But the work here is always changing. We might have nothing but follow-ups one day, or just checking on hospitalized patients the next. You have to be ready for that kind of variation.”

Agatha just nods and digs her nails deeper into her elbow.

“So, this morning we have a consult with…” Rio rifles through the papers on her clipboard. “Mr. Jarvis. His ALS has progressed faster than his neurologist had hoped. He isn’t at end of life quite yet, but he and his wife are coming in to discuss their care goals.”

“So sad,” murmurs Sharon.

“And then…” Rio flips to the next page on her clipboard. “Ms. Romanoff. Stage four ovarian cancer. She’s actually admitted currently for pain control, so we’ll go down to talk with her and her sister.” She turns to look at Agatha. “Agatha, we all attend consults as a team and then see the follow-ups as needed.”

Agatha nods, but can feel everyone’s eyes on her, waiting for some kind of verbal reaction. “Right on.”

“Great. Mr. Jarvis will be here in about fifteen minutes, so everyone, meet downstairs then. We’ll regroup after lunch to discuss follow-ups. Let’s make this a good day.”

Clearly dismissed, the team starts gathering their trash and filing out of the room, led by Sharon. Agatha had been planning to walk out with Alice, but she practically flies from the room, mentioning something about needing a bathroom break before clinicals. She’s trapped behind Jennifer for a moment as she carefully replaces the lid on the croissants and picks up her napkin. By the time she’s finally nearly out of the room, the only people left are her and Rio. 

She uncrosses her arms and struggles to align the wheels on Jennifer’s chair to push it in so she can get by. Facing the door, she doesn’t hear Rio coming up behind her; doesn’t notice she’s there at all until she feels the light touch of a fingertip brushing against the indented nail marks on her arm and whips around to face her. 

“How are you holding up?” Rio asks. 

She’s looking at her with far more concern than Agatha wants or thinks she deserves. She schools her features into a blank mask of nonchalance and pushes her hands into her pockets. 

“Haven’t bolted yet. Think that counts for something.”

“It’s a good start,” Rio admits. “But we still have patients to see.”

“I know.”

“Remember what I said.”

“I know, we all attend together and meet downstairs in fifteen.”

Rio smiles ruefully. “I meant about this work killing you if you let it.”

Agatha feels the mask slip for just a millisecond before she corrects herself. “Yeah, I know.”

Rio’s gaze flickers to her elbow again, then back to her face. It’s a pointed glance. It drives home the fact that absolutely no one in this place misses anything.

“I’ll meet you downstairs with everyone else,” Rio finally offers. “Let you get your bearings.”

Agatha nods, then allows herself to take the opportunity she’s been given to turn and walk out, resisting the urge to look back and see if Rio is watching her go. She already knows she is.

Chapter Text

Still slightly unnerved by her interactions with Rio so far, Agatha does her best to center herself in the brief fifteen-minute respite she has before she has to meet everyone downstairs in the neurology ward for their consult. She goes to the bathroom and tries not to sigh with relief at finding it empty, taking a moment to splash a few drops of cold water on her face. 

Coming back up, she places a hand on either side of the sink to steady herself, coming face to face with her own reflection. She tugs at the collar of the thermal shirt she wears under her scrubs to keep her warm. It's already a little stretched and curled from having done the same so many times before, but she can't help it. She can't stand having anything touch her throat, except for the tiny golden locket she always wears carefully tucked beneath her clothing, an infinitesimal cameo on the front, with a lock of Nicky's baby hair sealed inside. She keeps it pressed against her so she can have him close and breathe him in whenever she needs him. She's a little afraid to admit, even to herself, that she's concerned she'll need him a lot throughout this rotation. 

"Dermatology was nothing like this," she murmurs, pulling her ponytail down and making quick work of redoing it. "Dermatology, they just hand you a blackhead extractor and call it a fucking day."

She looks at her watch and, figuring she's wasted enough time, washes her hands more thoroughly and leaves the bathroom to duck back into the break room and grab her charts. As she breezes back out of the room, she nearly smacks into Billy, lurking right outside with Lilia. 

"Sorry, I didn't—sorry."

"It's okay," Billy says, and the sincerity in his tone is so palpable that Agatha has no doubt that it really is. "We're just about to head down. Can I—" he gestures to the chart she's holding. "Can I carry that for you?"

Agatha looks down at the manila folder in her hand, which contains a single sheet of paper, as if she thinks he's kidding. His round, earnest eyes once again tell her that he isn't. 

"This? Oh, that's... kind, but I—I think I got it."

Billy nods, giving her a small smile so boyish that she thinks she might cry, but then Rio appears, and suddenly the group is moving, and the moment passes. 

Agatha has spent most of the day so far trailing a half a beat behind, and it's clear that routine is going to continue as they make their way down the stairs to neurology. Rio leads them as if they're going into battle; each step intentional, not even a trace of hesitation or lingering. She knows her purpose, Agatha muses, and she's going to fulfill it without any distractions.

Rio stops outside of one of the two clinic rooms closest to the elevator. She knocks twice, gently; more gently than Agatha realizes she had been expecting. 

There's a beat, and then a woman's voice sounds from inside: "Come in."

Rio pushes the door open, and they file in and arrange themselves in a semicircle. It's as if they've done it a million times, Agatha thinks, and then she reminds herself that they probably have. Unsure of where to stand, she awkwardly positions herself in the corner and tries not to look like she wants to bolt. (She does.)

A painfully thin man sits in a power wheelchair beside the exam table. He's wearing a plaid flannel button-down shirt and jeans, the everyday outfit stark against the sterile room. A worn navy blue blanket is carefully folded over his knees. He has blond hair that's greying at his temples, and wears horn-rimmed glasses. His hands are folded in his lap. His left hand is thinner, atrophying from the slow progression of his disease, but Agatha can't help but notice his wedding ring still riding loose on his finger. 

"Hello, Mr. Jarvis."

"Dr. Vidal," he says, and Agatha is surprised to hear a lilt of a British accent. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Agatha has to bite back a chuckle. He's so formal in such a horrific setting. As if the house he's welcoming them to isn't on fire.

Rio nods, but doesn't offer to shake his hand. Agatha is at first surprised by the impropriety, then, with a pang, realizes that the motion might be painful for his wasted hands.

"My wife, Wanda."

Though she'd heard her invite them in, Agatha just now notices the woman in the room. She's moved her chair from against the wall to directly beside her husband, an act that Agatha would find cloying if it weren't so heartbreaking. She's younger than him, clearly; her red hair doesn't bear a trace of the age that's already colored his, and she's strikingly beautiful—the kind who doesn’t know it. She has huge green eyes that are kind despite the discomfort and fatigue present in her face, and her loose hair cascades gently over her shoulders. She wears black pants, a burgundy sweater, and a grey hooded coat. She's so put together that Agatha finds herself wishing she had on a nicer pair of shoes—as if this woman would care. 

"Of course," Rio says. "Hello, Mrs.—"

The woman cuts her off before she can finish. "It's Maximoff. Never changed it." She worries her hands in her lap, the action clearly a nervous tic; her fingers are already turning red from the friction.

"Of course. Ms. Maximoff." If Rio is surprised by her sudden sharpness, she doesn't show it. "I believe you've met Sharon already. This is Jennifer, our death doula. Lilia, our social worker, and Billy, her intern. Alice, our music therapist. And this is Agatha, our fourth-year medical student."

Wanda looks over them all and gives a strained smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "So many of you. We weren't expecting a crowd."

"I'm sure it can feel overwhelming," Rio concedes. "But we're here to help."

"We don't mind a crowd," Mr. Jarvis says. "We just want a plan."

"We can help with that. I believe your intake paperwork had a bit of a wishlist for you to fill out; did you have time to think about that?"

"Yes—dearest, would you?"

Wanda reaches down to the black leather satchel at her feet, pulls out a piece of paper, and hands it to him. 

"Thank you, my love. Yes, okay, we'd like to do voice banking if possible. I am interested in eye gaze technology. I do not want any ventilators or feeding tubes. And I certainly do not want any heroic measures."

Wanda swallows hard beside him, her gaze trained on the floor. This is clearly a conversation they have had several times before, and she is no more at peace with it than the first time it happened.

"Wanda," Rio says, her tone warm and gentle, "is there something you'd like to add?"

"I just..." she trails off. Clears her throat, then tries again. "I didn't expect things to drop off so fast. When he was first diagnosed, the neurologist said we might have a few years, but now with his being in a wheelchair, it seems like the volume's been turned up to eleven." 

Rio is quiet, giving her plenty of space to tease out precisely what it is she wants to say. 

Wanda bites her lip. The air conditioning kicks on above her, sending a blast of cool air down her back and making her shiver. He turns his head to look at her, and Agatha can just barely see a tinge of white behind his ears: silicone tabs on the arms of his glasses, clearly put there by Wanda, to keep them from sliding down his nose so he won't have to push them up. 

"Oh, my poor dear," he murmurs, and uses one frail hand to pick up the corner of his blanket and nudge it, uselessly, over one of her knees. Wanda darts her own hand out to cover his, holding his palm there like she's afraid it might disappear. 

Agatha watches all of this with an uncomfortable heat crawling down her shoulders and across her chest, something almost like embarrassment, but not for the couple; never for them. For the team. It feels like they shouldn't be here. They're all intruding on something intimate. 

"We just needed more time," Wanda says simply. 

Rio nods again. "We'll do everything we can to make sure the time you have is what you want it to be."

"I'm also interested in music therapy," Mr. Jarvis offers, setting the piece of paper down on his lap. 

Alice, quiet in her corner, looks relieved to have something to say. "I can play whatever you want. Nothing is off limits!"

A glimmer of mirth disrupts the sorrow in Wanda's eyes. "You are not making an excuse to terrorize me with 'Yakety Yak'."

"Don't talk back," he chides, and is rewarded with a smile. 

"Agatha?" Rio asks. She has to try not to flinch at the sound of her name. "Anything to add? It might be good to jump in."

"Just… to clarify," she begins cautiously—feeling her training, the detached air that she's been implored to master by every professor she's ever had creeping into her tone—"you want to transition to..."

She doesn't get a chance to finish her sentence before Wanda's head snaps toward her, the kindness in her eyes replaced by an edge she's admittedly surprised to see from her, even after their brief interaction.

"Transition to what, exactly? I just said we needed more time."

Heat races up her neck; she’s sure she’s bright red as she uselessly opens and closes her mouth as if that will magically make the perfect response appear.

"What Agatha's asking," Rio says, quickly stepping in to smooth things over, "is what you want the focus to be from here forward. If comfort care is your goal—and judging from your list, it sounds like it is—you can help us sketch in a few more details about what that looks like. We’ll build your care around that. This isn't a transition to anything nefarious; rather, it's a transition from doctors telling you what you should do to you telling us what you need."

Wanda holds her gaze for a beat too long, then exhales. 

"Of course. I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm just so tired."

Agatha holds up a hand and shakes her head, indicating there's no need to apologize. 

"I want him home with me as long as he wants to be home," she says. "I want him to eat what he can, when he can. I want whatever helps him stay himself."

"We can do that." Rio gestures to the piece of paper still folded in Mr. Jarvis's lap. "May I take this? We'll discuss it at our next meeting and develop an outline for a game plan."

"Please."

"Thank you." She turns around to look at the rest of the team. "Does anyone have anything else to add?"

There's a series of 'no's and a slight shrug from Billy, and Rio turns back to the couple. 

"Thank you so much for taking the time with us today. We'll be in touch."

The somber mood that washes over the room allows the team to slip out without protest, offering comforting glances and warmly intoned, noncommittal goodbyes as they depart. Sheepish and uncomfortable, Agatha does her best to match their energy. It's a wasted effort. Years of chasing Nicky have ingrained themselves into her voice, and she's not accustomed to speaking softly anymore. Her attempted farewell comes out as an embarrassing rasp, and she's all too happy to tumble back into the hallway at Rio's heels. 

The little group meanders down the hall for a moment as one. No one speaks, not wanting to break the solemnity of the moment they'd just experienced. 

Agatha is enjoying the quiet, taking the time to notice a few small sensations that she would have overlooked just a few short years ago. How her Hokas, even secondhand, absorb her weight and then spring her forward into the next step. The faint itch of the tag in her scrubs, tangling in the baby hairs at the nape of her neck. 

The intercom system above their heads crackles with an announcement—Dr. Vidal to pediatrics, Dr. Vidal to pediatrics—breaking the quiet and setting the uncomfortable knot back to blazing in Agatha's stomach.

Rio breaks from the group almost instantly, turning back in the direction they'd come from and striding purposefully back down the hall. Agatha can't help but watch her go. She's gripped by a morbid fascination with it all.

Rio's back is rigid beneath her crisp white coat, cut in half only by her braid. It's a little more frazzled than it had been this morning, Agatha notes. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she wonders if Rio's hair might be wavy. Like it might be struggling against the plait as the day goes on, a study in entropy; one more thing that Rio tries to keep in check, but the nature of the universe won't allow her to control. 

Frizzy hair and all, Rio almost makes it to the bank of elevators, but stops short to call back over her shoulder. 

"Harkness. With me."

Agatha freezes for half a moment. Alice bumps into her. Billy tugs the chart from her hands, relieved to finally have an excuse to carry something for her. It isn't until she feels a nudge to her back—she isn't sure from who—that she finally moves, quickly closing the distance between herself and Rio until she's at her heels once again.

The whole exchange feels like an eternity, though realistically, she knows it couldn't have lasted more than a couple of seconds. Once she's in line with Rio, the doctor doesn't say another word before disappearing into the stairwell. Her footsteps echo as she takes the stairs two at a time, leaving Agatha scrambling to keep up with her. Her sudden urgency sets Agatha's teeth on edge, dredging up the memory of how it feels to be on the other end of that page, to hear distant footfalls approaching at a frantic pace—

She reaches a hand up to her neck, brushing against her collar to press the tiny gold locket into her throat. 

Mama, stop.

Agatha's breathing normalizes, but her discomfort remains palpable as they make their way down to pediatrics. Rio pauses before they can exit onto the main floor, reaching for her belt and unclipping her pager to read the text now scrolling across the screen. She furrows her brows a bit, but otherwise says nothing, leaving Agatha standing there awkwardly and unsure what to do.

"Everything okay?" she tries after a beat. She'd still prefer to go back upstairs. 

"It's just a fu—it’s just a consult," she sighs. She clips the pager back to her belt and runs a hand over her frazzled braid. The action does nothing to smooth it; a dozen more hairs spring free. "I've told them not to page me for stuff like this. I've told them a million times that if they come over that intercom, someone better be actively in the process of dying."

Agatha makes a mirthful sound in spite of herself. She can still feel her locket pressed against her throat, but the tension isn't quite as urgent now. The chink in Rio's smooth demeanor has calmed her nerves. Perhaps it's possible this woman doesn't actually know everything. 

"So... what do we do?"

Rio shrugs. "We consult." 

Agatha winces as Rio turns back to the brightly painted double doors and pushes them open. She'd been afraid of that.

Rio's pace is much less frantic as they exit the stairwell, though she's still moving with the same kind of purpose that Agatha has come to expect from her. 

The smell of the pediatric ward—a mixture of crayons, baby shampoo, and antiseptic—all but slaps her in the face as they enter the ward. She swallows hard, momentarily distracted by the bright, primary-colored walls and cloud-patterned fluorescent light covers. It's brighter here than it is in neurology, and brighter still than the dim, muted comfort of the palliative floor. This morning, she never would've thought she'd long for that place. Now it's taking all of her restraint not to run back up there without looking back.

She's never been here before, but she's been here before, far too many times, and it isn't something she wants Rio to pick up on. Her hand finds its way back to her collar, her thumb jamming the little locket against her racing pulse point and willing it to slow.

Mama, stop.

Rio is oblivious in front of her, turning left at the nurse's station and making her way down the hall until they're at a quartet of patient rooms near the end. 

"Oncology," she explains, turning to her. Agatha drops her hand and shoves it in her pocket, sure that her heart is going to fall out of her ass. 

Rio knocks on one of the doors, waiting until she's invited in to open it. For the second time that day, Agatha follows her into a patient's room, trying not to look like a deer in the headlights. 

A teenage girl—too thin, too young—sits propped up in her bed, a game controller in one hand. The wall behind her features a large mural of rainbow fish. Her nondescript father—Agatha assumes—sits in a recliner next to her, reading a newspaper. A nasal cannula is looped over her face. She wears a Red Sox hoodie over her hospital gown, her head covered by a slouchy purple beanie. A green leaf-shaped pin with three points, wrapped in a spiral of silver wire, glints from the brim of her hat. Agatha can hear faint guitar plucking from the TV on the wall, and turns to see The Last of Us paused on the screen above her. 

"Lila?"

The girl nods, her brown eyes huge against her delicate face. 

Rio steps farther into the room and squats slightly beside her, so they're at eye level. "My name is Dr Vidal. It's nice to meet you." This time, she does hold her hand out to shake.

Lila reaches out to return the gesture. Her nails are coated in chipped teal polish. 

Rio jerks her head in Agatha's direction. "This is my friend Agatha. She's a medical student who'll be working with me for a little while. Would it be okay if she stayed?"

"Sure. Hi, Agatha."

"Hello." Agatha gives her a tight smile, but looking at this—this child is almost too much for her to bear. She takes a couple of steps to tuck herself against the cabinets on the opposite wall; close enough that Rio can't say she isn't part of the conversation, but far enough away that, with any luck, she won't actually have to be. 

"I understand you've been making a bit of a ruckus down here." Rio's eyes are undeniably kind as she says this, as though she and Lila have some sort of secret.

"You can say that again."

"Dad!"

"It's alright," Rio assures her. "What can I do to help?"

"I'm terminal. I know that. I read online about the kind of doctor you are. Reddit says it's your job to help me, like, have what I want. Since it's the end."

"For once, Reddit is right," Rio says with a smile. 

It's the first time Agatha has seen her smile all day, and she can't decide how she should feel about noticing it.

"It's true that with your condition—stage four osteosarcoma with lung metastases—your oncologist unfortunately does not expect you to reach remission. So... what is it that you want?"

Lila's expression softens with relief, and she relaxes against her pillows. With her head back in place, Agatha notices a ray of light coming through a misaligned slat in the window, forming a bright, blinding rectangle directly across her face and making the girl squint.

"I know I'm probably not going to die tomorrow," Lila begins. 

Agatha quietly crosses to the window and gently moves the troublesome slat back into place, taking care not to let it make too much noise. The beam of light disappears, and Lila's face relaxes. Agatha slips back into her spot against the cabinet. 

"But I don't see the point in continuing all of these protocols when we all know that I'm going to. I want to stop throwing up." 

Agatha turns and silently opens the cabinet behind her head. She retrieves a fresh emesis bin and two alcohol swabs, ripping open one of them and slipping the whole affair onto the edge of Lila's tray table. Her work done, she once again returns to her spot against the cabinet.

Rio, eyes focused on Lila, doesn't miss a thing. "Sometimes smelling rubbing alcohol can help reduce nausea in the moment. Agatha just gave you some for if that happens. Thank you, Agatha."

"Sure."

"We can also ask pharmacy to take a look at your medication regimen and see if there's any room for additional antiemetics."

"Okay." 

"What about your breathing?"

"Like a straw. And I'm allergic to ragweed—"

"It is bad this time of year," Rio acknowledges.

"I know. So they won't let me go outside."

Rio raises an eyebrow. "You want to go outside?"

"She wants ten minutes in the courtyard, with her practice bow," her father interjects. "I told her that we could just watch The Hunger Games and call it a day."

"It isn't the same, and you should know that." Lila looks back at Rio. "He taught me."

"Oh, two archers in my midst." Rio stands up and pulls out her stethoscope. "May I?"

Lila nods, leaning forward and allowing Rio to listen to her heart and lungs. She's quiet, eyeing Rio hopefully, but Rio's expression gives nothing away as she feels her lymph nodes and checks her pulse.

"I can arrange a brief fresh air visit tomorrow afternoon, if your CO2 levels don't get too high and if you promise to wear an N95 to keep the allergens out of your face."

"I promise!" Lila chirps. "I swear!"

"Okay. I'll hold you to that. We should also probably add you to the palliative intake list. The rest of the team I work with can help you with anything else you want. Within reason."

Lila nods happily. 

"Take it easy, and try to get some good rest tonight so you have the best chance of that little excursion tomorrow. Okay?"

"Yes, yes, okay."

"Good. I'll be back to check on you in the morning."

Rio turns to give Agatha an expectant look, and together they exit the room.

"You have good instincts," she notes, paying Agatha the compliment once the door is closed. "Don't think I didn't notice the blinds."

"It was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. Not to her."

"My instincts weren't good this morning," Agatha argues, thinking back to how she had put her foot in her mouth with Wanda.

"Of course they were. She just wasn't in a place to realize that. That's the thing about this job, Agatha. You have to be ready to meet people where they are. To give them the tiny slivers of happiness that they want, no matter how insignificant they might seem. To them, it could mean everything."

"Like with her," Agatha muses. "All she wants is outside."

"Exactly. So we make outside as safe as it can be for her."

"And what if it isn't?" Agatha asks. "What if her numbers are terrible tomorrow?"

"Then we make inside kinder. And we try again another day."

Rio's pager goes off again, making her groan. She reaches for it and reads the screen, her mouth forming back into a frown.

"Shit, this one is urgent. Uh, why don't you go ahead and knock off for the afternoon?”

“What about that other patient? The one with the ovarian cancer?”

Rio waves a hand dismissively to get Agatha to stop talking. “I’ll check on her this afternoon and make sure it’s controlled, then we can do a full round another time, maybe tomorrow morning, when she’s gotten some rest.”

"Oh. Thank you."

“First days are a lot,” Rio notes. “You’ve done well.”

Rio gives her a decisive nod to let her know that she is dismissed, then turns and sweeps off down the hallway. Agatha makes her way back upstairs alone. By the time the elevator opens on the palliative floor, she's left feeling a little raw. All of this is so... new and not new. Expected and unexpected. She has never been the kind of person who wants to leave work unfinished, but she's secretly glad that Rio is sending her home early. The extra time to decompress is too tempting to turn down.

She steps off the elevator and stands by the nurse's station, taking a moment to gather herself before heading back to collect her things. She needs to shake the day off a bit before picking up that dinosaur backpack again.

"Pediatric pages." Sharon's voice sounds from behind her, making Agatha jump and turn to look down at the woman in front of her. A grimace dims her usually sunny face, her pink-stained lips pressed into a firm line. 

Agatha's stomach drops at the knowing expression on her face. It's only the first day; how could Sharon have caught on so quickly? 

Her mind scrambles to think of an explanation, but Sharon speaks again before she can come up with one: "They're never a good thing." 

The knot between Agatha's shoulders releases, and she reaches one relieved hand up to her collarbone to rub away the rest of the tension. Sharon doesn't suspect a thing; she's just stating a fact, one she thinks Agatha might not know. 

"Poor dears," she murmurs, shaking her head.

Agatha opens her mouth to agree, but catches herself and closes it again before Sharon notices. You've been given a reprieve, she tells herself. Don't volunteer any information.

Still shaking her head in pity, Sharon stands from her chair, rounds the nurse's station, and grabs Agatha's elbow. The unexpected contact ties Agatha's tongue, and before she can protest, Sharon is towing her back into the conference room. 

Agatha doesn't even get a chance to ask why they're there before she has the answer: Sharon starts loading her arms with the tray of leftover pastries. 

"Oh, I don't…" Agatha tries to protest halfheartedly, but she can tell it's going to fall on deaf ears. "I don't need these. I mean, it isn't fair for me to take all of them."

"Nonsense," Sharon huffs, adding a stack of napkins. "We take turns. Whenever we have a guest, they take them."

"Thanks," Agatha says softly. Despite her best efforts to keep up her facade, the mood that had shifted in the hallway still hangs over them. 

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Of course. I'm just… tired."

"It's a long day," Sharon muses.

"It is," Agatha agrees, but that's as much leeway as she's going to give the woman, and Sharon seems to know that, because she segues into another subject entirely.

"Croissants are excellent in the air fryer, you know. Caramelizes the sugar. Just a couple minutes on the toast setting. Also delicious with a good honey compote—do you like honey? I make my own. My Todd keeps bees—they are such wonderful pollinators for my garden. Oh, you have to come over sometime and I'll teach you. It simply could not be easier—"

"I'd love to," Agatha blurts out before she can think the better of it, if only to get her to stop talking.

Sharon's face lights up with a huge grin. "I will hold you to that!"

Agatha nods and ducks out of the conference room and into the break room across the hall. She's so focused on setting the tray down on the table, she doesn't even notice Jennifer, leaning up against the counter with a tasteful, pearly white Stanley in her manicured hand. 

"She caught you, huh?" she asks, using the cup to gesture to the tray and haphazard stack of napkins. A muffled sound of ice cubes clinks through the room at the motion.

Agatha nods in reply, crossing to the cubbies to retrieve her backpack. "I tried to tell her it was okay, but she insisted."

"She's a nurturer. It's best just to let her do it."

"I took them, didn't I?"

"Yeah. After you flinched at the page."

Agatha's hand freezes on the strap of the dinosaur-print backpack, having been about to pick it up so she could stuff her soggy fluffernutter and Capri Sun back inside. Jennifer looks at her, calm and measured. Not at all surprised by her reaction. Not missing a thing.

"Sure," Agatha says. Her response is a little too fast; her tone a little too practiced for the nonchalance to be genuine. She tries again. "Sure. A palliative care doctor being paged to pediatrics—I think anyone can infer that's probably not a good thing. And it wasn't." She carries the backpack over to the refrigerator and retrieves her uneaten food, more than ready to be done with the conversation.

"If you say so."

"I do." There is no pretense of informality this time. The words come out tight and gritted between her teeth, and she knows that Jennifer is picking up on every word of the lie, even if she doesn't know exactly what it is yet. 

Jennifer’s eyes are still wide with questions, but she nods, seeming to decide not to pry any further. Agatha breathes a sigh of relief as Jennifer turns away to set her Stanley on the counter. She shrugs the backpack back on and is about to turn to go, only to watch, puzzled, as Jennifer grabs a baggie from the drawer, reaches into the pastry box, and uses a napkin to pull out a pain au chocolat.

"What's that?" she asks. She's half expecting Jennifer to take a bite, but she also can't picture her wanting to risk getting shards of pastry on her immaculate clothing.

Jennifer slides the pastry neatly into the baggie without touching it, then places it in the refrigerator. 

"You're leaving one here."

"Why?"

"It's a promise that you'll be back in the morning."

Agatha walks back to her car in a daze, barely remembering to wave back to Ralph as he buzzes her out of the gate. The drive back is a blur; she's thankful she took the time to practice it a few times last week. 

Still, she nearly misses a turn. She rounds the corner a little too fast, and the lid on the tray pops open, the leftover pastries that Sharon had practically shoved into her arms spilling everywhere and leaking buttery crumbs all over the front seat. 

She pulls over two blocks later to scoop what she can back into the plastic lid, then drives the rest of the way in a car that now smells like butter and regret. She hopes the scent doesn't linger too long.

She pulls into the driveway of her rental, the latest in a long line of rentals, none of them anything like a home. This Airbnb is one of those crumbling stucco duplexes with matching planter boxes that hold nothing but dirt and dead roots. She punches in the code to the keypad and turns the handle with her elbow, shouldering the door open the rest of the way with her arms laden with inedible croissants. 

It's still light out, so she can make her way to the kitchen without worrying about searching for a light switch. Agatha puts the croissant box on the counter and tucks her sandwich and juice box into the refrigerator for later. She sighs as she crosses back into the living room, kicking off her Hokas and making her way down the short hallway to the second bedroom.

These short-term rentals are a lot. It's tiresome to pack your entire life up every two weeks. That's why she made sure only to bring what she absolutely needed. 

She carries the dinosaur backpack into the spare bedroom and goes on autopilot. Hangs it on the doorknob, unzipped, ready for tomorrow. Smooths the corner of the pillowcase with her knuckle, then reaches into a faded Power Rangers duffel on the floor beside the small twin bed. She lays the folded pajamas across the pillow. She tucks the stuffed bunny under a throw blanket bearing the Duke logo, the one a volunteer gave her when the conversations with doctors suddenly turned from next steps to final ones; when their tone turned too gentle for her to bear. She stands there one heartbeat too long, the way you linger for no reason when checking on a sleeping child. Breaking from her reverie, she touches her fingers to her lips and traces them over the edge of the pillow. 

"Goodnight, baby."

She leaves the door open a crack.

Heading back to the laundry room, she strips off her scrubs and tosses them into the washer, then goes across the hall to take a short, scalding shower. She changes into pajamas she'd left on the counter this morning specifically for this purpose, her skin pink from the heat. She winces at it and hurries to get dressed and cover it up, trying not to think of Wanda's wringing red hands and Mr. Jarvis's loose wedding ring.

She leaves the light on in the bathroom, spilling into the spare bedroom through the cracked door. Not too dark. Never too dark.

Agatha heads back to the kitchen, pulling a bottle of Malbec from its paper bag—the liquor store had been her first stop when she'd gotten here—and reaches for a wine glass in one of the cabinets, then thinks the better of it and digs through a small cardboard box on the table.

The 'Best Mommy Ever' mug is there, just where she'd left it. She tugs it out of its paper wrappings and smiles at the wobbly handwriting and uneven paint, then dumps wine into it until it practically sloshes over the rim.

She walks into the living room. It's barely even 5pm—or at least that's what the analog clock on the wall says. It's the strangest thing; no matter how many of these places she stays in, none of them ever seem to have clocks that work. The second hand constantly stutters between the 5 and 6.

Agatha sits down on the couch with her wine, turning on the TV and flicking through the channels until she finds Antiques Roadshow. A woman is having a hideous vase appraised. She raises her eyebrows as she sips her wine, trying to understand what could compel her to hold onto something that long, and then it hits her. 

The woman on the TV is not the only one who can't let something go.

Chapter Text

She's in room 1111 again.

It should be an auspicious number. Once, she believed that. Now, she's lost count of how many wishes she's made in this room. How much time she's spent in the rock-hard vinyl recliner by the window; how long she's stared at the yellowed water stain in the ceiling tile, as if by staring at it long enough, it will morph into a shooting star and grant her request.

It doesn't happen. It never does.

"No. He's only five—"

"I'm five and a half."

"You don't understand. Please. There has to be another way—"

His small, too-warm hand finds hers and pats it. His fingers are tacky with remnants of dried-out grape acetaminophen syrup and Tegaderm adhesive residue, the stickiness dulled by a layer of fuzzy lint lifted from his blanket. The blue devil splashed across his body grins up at her from its fleece prison.

Will his hand ever be any bigger than this?

"I—"

Another pat.

"Mama, stop."

A monitor chirps—a noise that does not belong in this house—before the sound slides into something familiar: the screech of an alarm clock. It screams from her nightstand, making Agatha groan. Her hand buzzes with pins and needles, and she opens her eyes to find that she's lying nearly sideways on the bed. Her fingers are still outstretched; still reaching out for the ghost of a touch that she realizes, with the same sinking feeling as always, was just a dream.

She pushes herself up to an elbow and flexes her fingers, wincing as the sensation crawls back into her hand. The old-school analog alarm clock keeps shrieking. Of course it does. She rolls her eyes and picks it up to turn it off.

Five-thirty.

"Middle of the goddamn night," she yawns, setting it back in its place on the nightstand.

The second hand stutters between the 5 and 6. Agatha pretends not to notice.

She swings her legs around to the side of the king bed to try to get up. It's almost too tall for her; her toes barely brush the floor, and she has to shimmy her way down like a child.

The hardwood is cold. Agatha winces. Stretches. Makes her way to the window to open the blinds. A feeble attempt at a sunrise is just barely beginning to brighten the horizon. She might be able to make it to the hospital without too much damage to her retinas.

She rolls her head and shoulders, loosening the tension that had crept in overnight. The adjustable chain of her locket is tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, shortening it so the pendant is jammed against her throat.

Still yawning, she pads into the bathroom. The door is still open, the light still on, spilling into the second bedroom across the hall. She stands in front of the cheap, chipping mirror and wrestles with the snarl at the back of her head until it finally gives and the little cameo locket drops back into the hollow of her collarbone where it belongs.

Agatha leans closer. She'd fallen asleep with her hair damp, so one side is frizzier than the other. One cheek still bears the creases of her pillowcase. She'd known she had to have been sleeping hard to have summoned that particular dream, but hadn't expected to look or feel quite this rough. She pokes at the bags under her eyes with her ring fingers, relieved that even though she looks tired, they're not bloodshot. Not yet.

"Up and at 'em," she mutters. She grabs her sparkly purple toothbrush and tube of Kid's Crest, applies a fresh stripe, and brushes a little more aggressively than the act really requires.

It's probably weird to keep buying the Kid's Crest. She knows that. But it's the only thing she can stomach anymore.

She rinses, spits, snaps the toothbrush back into its travel case, and drifts into the other bedroom. Autopilot takes over.

She opens the blinds just as she had in her room. She sets the Power Rangers duffel bag back on the bed. Picks up the folded pajamas, presses them briefly to her cheek, then tucks them neatly inside. Bunny gets a quick kiss on the head, then joins the pajamas in the duffel, which she zips and sets on the other side of the bed. The Duke throw blanket is pulled up and smoothed; the bed finally neatly made and ready for the ritual to repeat that evening.

She touches her fingertips to her lips and brushes them against the edge of the pillowcase.

"Good morning, baby."

Then she grabs the dinosaur backpack from the doorknob and heads back down the hall, through the small living room, into the kitchen.

The analog clock on the wall shows it's not even 5:45 yet, though she's amazed that anything in this house manages to tick at all. She figures she has plenty of time, so she tosses the backpack onto the bare table and stumbles into the living room to grab the "Best Mommy Ever" mug from where she'd left it on the end table the night before. She gives it a quick rinse before putting it under the mini Keurig and stuffing a K-Cup inside, hoping the coffee will at least make her feel a little more human. Turning to lean against the counter while she waits for the coffee to brew, she catches a glimpse of the forgotten tub of croissants and pastries from the day before.

What was it that Sharon had said?

"Croissants are excellent in the air fryer, you know. Caramelizes the sugar. Just a couple minutes on the toast setting—"

Agatha pulls an almond croissant from the box, dangling it between two fingers as though it might bite. A small air fryer crouches on the counter. She tosses the pastry inside and dials up the toast setting, half-worrying, half-hoping that she overdoes it and scorches it into oblivion.

While the croissant warms, the Keurig cheerfully tumbles coffee into her mug. It fills the small room with a cozy aroma that almost masks the Airbnb's sterile, soulless feel.

Just like the grapefruit diffuser on the ward, it doesn't quite manage it.

When the Keurig stops, she moves the mug aside. Two packets of Sugar in the Raw. One Mini Moo. Everything purchased at the grocery store when she'd first gotten to town, before she'd even bothered to check in. The last Airbnb had only had Sweet' N Low and powdered Coffee Mate, and she was not taking the chance of living through that again.

She stirs her doctored coffee and takes a tiny sip. Perfect, as always.

Her stomach rumbles. The croissant smell is getting to her.

When the air fryer finally dings, Agatha reaches into a cabinet to grab a salad plate. She wrenches the door of the air fryer open and—ignoring the wooden toast tongs placed there for this exact purpose—picks up the piping hot pastry with her bare hands.

"Shit."

She tosses it onto the plate and pops her singed fingers between her lips. The air fryer really did caramelize the sugar. She can hear it fizzing.

Sighing, she removes the burnt digits from her mouth. Still a little pink. Could've been worse, especially with the sugar. She'll probably live.

She crosses to the sink and runs her hand under some cool water for good measure, then pats it on a dish towel hanging from the stove handle.

Agatha grabs her salad plate and mug from the counter, settles herself in one of the hard vinyl chairs at the Ikea table, and picks up the croissant to take a bite.

Shards of buttery pastry, toasted almonds, and pearl sugar explode in her mouth.

"Oh, fuck."

She even surprises herself with her outburst, and catches herself looking around the room as if to check if anyone else heard her before remembering that she's alone.

"It just— it wasn't this good yesterday," she mutters, more to settle herself than anything else. She puts the croissant back on her plate, warring against the urge to cram the entire thing into her mouth and forcing herself to relax with a sip of coffee instead. She picks up her phone and opens the New York Times, flicking through the articles like she does every morning. She figures any good doctor should be up to date on the latest news and treatments.

(She also loves the wedding announcements, but that's nobody's business but hers.)

"'Pediatric Brain Cancer Group to Lose Federal Funding,'" she reads aloud.

The croissant turns to dust in her mouth.

She flicks the article closed and opens the games panel instead. She forces herself to play through Wordle and Connections, even though she hates Connections. It's a smug little bastard of a game.

But today, she solves it on the first try. The tidy rows of colored boxes cheerfully lighting up her screen hearten her enough to finish the croissant.

Agatha brushes crumbs from her lip and downs the rest of her coffee, then sets the mug on her empty salad plate and stands up from the table. She picks up the stacked dishes and puts them in the sink, running some water over them to deal with them later.

Turning back to the table, she grabs the backpack, stuffs it with yesterday's sandwich and Capri Sun, and puts it on the console table by the front door.

She ducks back into the laundry room. Her scrubs are clean, but wrinkled from being wadded up in the dryer all night, though she doesn't suppose that matters much. She grabs a sports bra and a pair of socks from her laundry bag and pulls a clean thermal from her suitcase. Though she always wears one, the palliative ward had been even colder than she'd bargained for, and she'd found herself extra grateful for it yesterday.

She dresses quickly, runs to the living room to put on her shoes, then dashes back to the bathroom to try and make something presentable of her wrinkled hair. Brushing it only makes it expand into a bushy mess, and she doesn't even remotely have the time or desire to shower again and blow it out.

She decides to take a page out of Rio's book and wrestles it into a haphazard braid.

She stares at her reflection for another long moment, warring over the choice to either lean in closer and nitpick until she feels even worse than her admittedly pretty shitty baseline or to go ahead and leave the Airbnb before she loses her nerve.

What does she need to have nerve for, anyway? Why does she even want it?

She thinks she might know the answer, but she's certainly in no mood to unpack it.

She tears herself away from the mirror and stomps through the little house, grabbing her backpack and keys and slamming the door behind her.

The weak sunrise she'd scoffed at through her window has brightened into something blinding, all but dazzling her as she weaves her way through the streets of Westview. There are a couple of moments that she can't actually see in front of her at all and is, frankly, just going for it and hoping to fuck that she doesn't hit anyone. She'll have to remember to stop in at the store on her way home and pick up a pair of sunglasses.

She's ignoring the route she'd practiced so carefully, taking Rio's advice to approach the hospital from the other direction. This way takes her through the picturesque city center. It's full of shady sidewalks and cheerful shops with inviting front windows, all neatly surrounding a town square with a little pavilion and playground.

It's a cute place. Even Agatha can admit that.

She turns onto another side street and pulls up directly behind a school bus with its stop sign out. Sighing, she stops and waits, shading her eyes with one hand.

A woman stands on the curb, backlit into silhouette, but Agatha can still see the halo of flaming red hair blazing atop her head.

Wanda.

She watches her for a moment, with the curiosity one feels when seeing someone out of place. What is she doing?

Agatha leans forward in her seat, her nosiness getting the better of her.

Flanking Wanda, barely visible over the hood of the car, are two little boys with bowl cuts and matching Paw Patrol backpacks. Twins. Wanda kisses each one on the top of their head, then boosts them onto the first step of the bus.

Agatha genuinely feels like her heart is going to fall out of her ass.

Wanda watches her boys clamber inside, then steps backward onto the curb. She shades her own eyes with one hand, waving as the bus finally drops its stop sign and pulls away.

Agatha cannot move.

A horn blares behind her. She startles, her hands fumbling back to the wheel. She numbly makes the rest of the drive with no real memory of the trip. She turns directly into the parking lot without having to wait, but Jesus, wouldn't waiting have been better than seeing that?

She's a few minutes early, so she takes a moment to sit in her parking spot and try to center herself. One hand reaches up to press her locket into her throat, the other frantically stroking over the knee of her scrub pants in an attempt at soothing her racing pulse.

"It's okay," she mutters. She closes her eyes and presses her forehead against the steering wheel, taking a deep breath. "It's okay."

Once her heart rate calms a little, she flips the visor down to inspect her reflection one last time. Her eyes are harried, but her expression doesn't betray any hint as to why. She's all masked up; the perfect picture of a wiseass, transient medical student with no past, no future, and no reason to pry.

She squares her shoulders, picks up her backpack, and gets out of the car to catch the park and ride to Aster.

The break room is already abuzz with conversation once she walks in. Alice stands off to the side, talking animatedly with Billy and Lilia. Sharon stands by the coffee bar with Jennifer, and judging by her hand gestures, she's going on about pruning and pinching again.

Still rattled from her drive, Agatha hesitates for half a second in the doorway, then forces herself to walk inside like she owns the place.

Sharon spots her first.

"There she is!" she crows. Her teeth are already stained pink from her morning Celsius. "Back for another great day!"

A great day? Is she kidding?

Agatha gives her a tight-lipped smile, pulls her sandwich and juice box from her backpack, and puts them in the fridge. She can feel Jennifer's eyes on her and takes care to square her shoulders, not wanting to betray any kind of emotion to this person who so clearly picks up on even the idea of it.

"You kept your promise. You came back," Jennifer notes. She wears a rust-colored dress today, a silver chain glinting tastefully from her neck. "And you're early."

Agatha holds her breath and waits for a barbed remark, but it never comes. She feels some of the tension leave her shoulders.

"Yeah. Took a different route."

Jennifer uses her Stanley to gesture into the open refrigerator. "Plenty of time for breakfast."

Agatha closes the refrigerator, finally relaxing enough to turn and face Jennifer properly.

"I already ate, actually. I put one of the almond croissants in the air fryer."

Sharon's eyes widen with delight. "I told you! It—"

"Caramelizes the sugar. Yeah, you were right." She holds up her left hand, the pad of her thumb and pointer finger still pink. "Almost caramelized me, too."

"I've got something for that," Jennifer offers. "I make a salve from my herb garden."

Agatha is surprised by the offer, but the smarting of her fingers is too annoying for her to refuse it. "Really?"

She wonders, absently, just how many gardens these women have. All she has is the single dead plant petrifying in the window box of her Airbnb.

Jennifer nods. "I'll have it for you at the meeting."

"That would be great, thank you."

"Don't mention it."

Jennifer strides away in a swish of linen and patchouli, leaving Agatha alone with Sharon.

"Was it still good?" She asks, a waver of anxiety in her voice. "The pastry?"

"Oh, it was delicious," Agatha responds, somehow feeling the need to comfort this woman even though burning herself had been entirely her own fault. "You were… really onto something there."

Sharon beams again, pleased that Agatha has given her idea some validity. "It's even better with honey," she trills, and Agatha feels the knot start to tighten back between her shoulders. "I was wondering when you'd like to come see the bees."

"I— um—"

This isn't even breaking one of her rules, technically. She still feels as uncomfortable as if it were. But Sharon is looking at her so hopefully that Agatha finds she can't bear to let her down, no matter how much she wants to.

"Maybe Saturday afternoon?" The words leave her mouth before she can finish talking herself out of them, and the knot between her shoulders clenches even further.

"That would be perfect!" Sharon agrees. "I play Bunco on Saturday nights. You're welcome to stay."

No way in hell, Agatha thinks, but she pretends to entertain the idea as Sharon prattles on about whatever the fuck Bunco is. She gathers that it's some kind of dice game. Apparently, Sharon is sure that Dottie down the street is cheating with a weighted die.

She can feel herself getting too close to these people, and it's only day two. But maybe it's okay to get too close to them, she decides, as long as she makes sure the opposite isn't true. That she never lets them get too close to her.

New rule: Play along as much as you need to. But never, ever show anyone your hand.

Never show your hand.

Agatha repeats the new rule to herself like a mantra as she politely breaks away from Sharon to go stow her backpack at her usual cubby. (Is day two too early to refer to something as usual? Or hers?)

As she wraps the dinosaur-print straps around the hook, Alice materializes at her elbow. Agatha turns to give her a nod, noticing the orange streaks in her hair are pulled back in a half updo today.

"Hi," Alice greets, with a smile that might still be slightly uncertain but is undeniably genuine. "I like your braid."

Agatha's hand flies up to her hand and she winces as her burned fingers smooth over her flyaways. "Oh. Thanks. It… seemed functional."

"Exactly what Rio is always telling us," Alice replies. "But I'm not clinical, so I get a little more wiggle room. She'll be thrilled that she's finally started a trend."

The same discomfort that Agatha had felt in the bathroom this morning washes back over her, but she gives a noncommittal snort to try to shake it off.

"I highly doubt that Rio will care what my hair is doing."

Alice shrugs. "I think you might be surprised by what she notices."

Before Agatha can decide how to feel about that, Rio sweeps into the room. She doesn't say anything, but the chatter falls to whispers just the same as she crosses to the coffee table and perches on the edge of the couch. She silently picks up a stone from one bowl and holds it in the palm of her hand.

Once the others notice what she's doing, they stop talking completely. Some of them clasp their hands in front of them. Alice bows her head, her lips moving around the lyrics to a silent song. Lilia fingers the rosary beads poking out of her pocket, and Billy goes so far as to doff his beanie and hold it over his heart.

The air of reverence that washes over the room is almost too much for Agatha to bear.

Put it down, she begs silently, warring against the urge to press her locket into her throat. For God's sake, put it down.

Finally, after what feels like years, Rio places the stone in the other bowl, and the spell is broken as she stands back up.

"Conference room. Let's go."