I am very excited for Coven of Chaos. I fell hard for Agatha the first time, her hands are magic. If your requests are open I would like to request an angst. Powerful Witch without training R who wakes up Agatha/Agnes from Westiview because R wants Agatha teach her magic and Agatha is interested because R is powerful
A/N: Still learning Agatha, and I know I put a lot of backstory in my one shots (sorry)
The world was a big, difficult, complicated place. Everyone wants a magical solution, but they burned the witches into secrecy. Now it was nigh impossible to find a coven without already having one. That meant you were even more screwed without guidance. Oh, yeah, you were magic. A witch, to be specific, but that was a title you gave yourself. Bursting with pitch black ink spilling from your hands and painting the world with your will, you were terrified. There was a reason for the saying "be careful what you wish for". Instant gratification was wrong and it never worked out quite right. So you ran away. You got your dream of traveling the country, maybe even the world eventually, but it wasn't how you wanted. You had to keep moving because you broke things when you got upset, because people became things, and because everyone could track it all back to you when you got upset.
You felt like an idiot when it occurred to you. Watching a rerun of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, you gaped at the black cat, Salem. If anywhere had the resources you needed, it was old Salem, Massachusetts. From your position on a motel bed, you vanished in an explosion of obsidian energy. The bowl of cereal you had been eating out of fell to the linen which had irritated your skin.
You were in the woods, in your pajamas, three states away from that motel room. Your jaw dropped in exasperation. "You've got to be shitting me!" you shouted up to the stars. You had no way of knowing which way was out and not deeper, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't pop right back into the motel room. Maybe it was nerves from the impossible happening again. Or maybe it was the freezing air brushing your state of undress and the hard, pokey ground beneath your bare feet. In any event, you couldn't focus, not that you knew what triggered the episodes anyway. You spun in a circle to see if that would help you get your bearings. Behind you stood a post on a platform. It was possible it used to be a towering structure, but it just looked like a pyre now. A trick of the light illuded you into seeing wisps of blue and purple energy floating through the air. You marched in a direction, paying it no mind. You were done with weird.
You walked for a day and a half. You must've looked a fright, as you felt afraid. The longer you were out there, the more unhinged you became and the less likely you were to help yourself.
Luckily, you stumbled on a young couple more startled to see you than you were to see them. Well, you were still in a nightgown. They both kept their distance as if your state meant you were a murderer, not a victim. You weren't either, and you were relieved when the woman started using her brain. "Do you need help?" she asked.
You looked down at yourself, feeling sarcastic but you held it back. "I could use some clothes. And a finger in the direction of a road."
The woman was a little taller than you so you had to roll up the pant-legs and sleeves of the clothes she had lent you, but you didn't look terrible. They offered to drive you into town, confirmed it was Salem, and you accepted. You did a lot by accident, on little emotions. If they tried anything or got in an accident, you knew you would be fine. But as you got close to town, their voices lowered and the radio volume rose. You didn't know how - a reoccurring feeling - but you still heard them. They weren't bad people, as you'd expected, but they really wanted you to go to the hospital.
Once the trees became buildings, you reached one hand to your seat belt buckle and the other to the door. But it must've been child-locked. You'd seen no sign of a child and still hadn't, and the car was insanely clean. No way did they have kids in this car ever. You looked at the other side's door, but felt eyes on you. In the rear-view mirror, the man was smiling sympathetically, pityingly, back at you. It made your blood boil and you suddenly wish you were outside so you wouldn't-
...So of course you were on the sidewalk. Gasping at the sudden change, you looked around to see if anyone noticed your teleporting act. One kid was pulling on his mother's sleeve, staring at you with wide eyes, but no one else was looking at you. This was so not the town to be exposed in. You turned and walked away, seeking the type of shop that drew your thoughts and - apparently therefore - your body. A Wicca shop in Salem had to be the biggest tourist trap. This felt stupid of you, but you'd hardly chosen to come. It was just an idea. Oh, well. You got some food and walked the tourist town.
There was an occultist shop on every corner, but a few stood out to you. You figured it was just an aesthetic thing, but after the third one you passed being practically empty, you guess it wasn't the appearance because it only stood out to you.
"...ms the charm," the older lady behind the counter told the younger. "Sometimes, they need a little nudge." She was whispering poorly, or perhaps it was your continued superb listening skills. "Welcome to Never Normal. Looking for something in particular?" she asked, speaking with a European accent.
You shook your head, though that was a lie. You needed guidance. The woman had unknowingly left 80 in her pocket and there was no way in hell you were giving it back.
The shop was as touristy as you expected and it looked half convenience store. Still, you wandered around politely. It was blank journals and media magazines, and sage wrapped in string. Until you came to a book that shouldn't have stood out, but it did. It looked old, but things were made to look that way now. It was leather-like and bound with a thick string. But what drew your attention was the large splot of ink on the raised leather-like fabric. You picked it up and read the back. It was a journal too, but it was called a Book of Shadows and you were supposed to use it for Wiccan journaling, you supposed. Still, you kept it. For a tourist trap/convinience store, Never Normal had some fascinating finds. You got a book on teleportation and found another old tome, but this one felt old too, and you felt you had to have it. With your three books, you went to the checkout.
"Did you find everything already?" the Irishwoman asked.
You shrugged. You weren't really looking for anything, and you weren't confident you were buying anything of value. That and you weren't social.
Both women behind the counter looked shocked. The older - the only one whose voice you heard - kept trying to engage you in conversation, but you weren't interested. "Ooh, trying your hand at instant travel?" You smiled tightly, mutely. "Are you staying in town long?"
You heard the younger gasp and turned to look at her. She was staring out the front window and now so was her elder. The couple was leading the police through the streets. You weren't sure as to the why of the gasp, but you were grateful. You spun back to the woman. "And a map," you requested. She gave you the goods and you gave her the money, getting out the front door quick. It was a really bad town to be exposed in. You found an alley in record time and tore the sticker holding the map shut.
You didn't know how she knew you wanted a US state map, but you were grateful again. You found a state some North of where you were. New Jersey was better than Salem right now. You skimmed a few town names, feeling something massive lingering in Westview.
And so, naturally, you were in Westview. Well, outside of it, staring at the sign. You sighed, deciding you could blend. You always could, for a while. It was... a town. Nothing special about it, no one with an exclamation point tattooed onto their aura.
Yes, there was. She was beautiful, but - other than that - normal. You supposed you were visually normal too. With dark hair combed carefully and flawlessly, bands side-swept, blue eyes cheery, why was she so sad. On the inside, the woman who introduced herself to you as Agnes... was hopeless. Like she was stuck in this town with no prospects and no skills. But she seemed so chipper!
"Hiya, doll!" she'd greeted you once she saw you. Perhaps "introduced" was too strong of a word. You were around for a while, spending nights in another motel to study your magic book and the teleporting mastery tome. It had lots of interesting, complicated content you'd not seen before. It was in Latin so you were staggering to translate it. But you'd also followed the woman for days. This was the first she'd seen you.
You looked up at the brunette in surprise. "Hi." Oh, God. What to say, what to do.
"I'm Agnes." She stepped closer to you where she'd cornered you in the only grocery store on that side of town. Half of following her was doing normal stuff. She held out a hand, smiling wide. "I know everything in Westview and I don't know you." You shook hands and Agnes' long fingers wrapped almost entirely around your hand. She had cold hands, you noticed, as she was still holding on.
You didn't want to let go either, sparks flying between you two as whatever you sensed in Agnes connected with you. You let go, reluctantly, as you were starting to get looks. You introduced yourself with an added, "I'm just passing through."
That did nothing to dim the dual-personalitied woman. She only smiled brighter. "Oh, poppycock! This is the sort of town you come to to stay." Something about that made her burn. So the alternative personality wasn't a choice; Agnes was being held back. You'd read something about mental manipulation in your magic book. Well, it was as good a time as any to find out if that pull you'd felt was real magic. How cool would it be if you had a real spell-book to teach you? It would certainly take a weight off your shoulders.
"We've got the carnival coming to town next week and an aquarium that'll knock your socks off!" And she laughed. Agnes definitely seemed fake and you cursed your crush.
"I can't stay too long, but I'll do my best." You had no idea what she thought you meant, but you didn't have time to ponder. You left the store with no food but a mission. You weren't aware of the woman whose attention you had grabbed.
*
You weren't sure what Agnes did for work. She never mentioned a husband or wife, but she lived in an amazing house. You were invited multiple times throughout your studies and you'd yet to deny the mysterious woman anything she requested. You even studied when asked to stay the night. It was only a matter of time until you cracked the spell.
Agnes didn't have many plants, but they were spread out. Like that was a good enough excuse to warrant the hours you spent with her. She loved her herbs, evidenced by how long she could talk about them, but it sadly went in one ear and out the other. You had a black thumb; and a blacker magic, but that hardly mattered now. She liked puzzles and had more books than you could read, literally due to one being in Latin.
"Speak many dead languages, do you?" you asked while reading titles. It was a plant book, but old and Latin.
"None, toots," Agnes answered with that easy smile you predicted was difficult to maintain for so long. She tried to move on, but moved like she was caught once she saw the words she likely had many times. The smile faded to tragedy before it was forced back. It didn't look happy; it looked painful, emphasized by the single tear that leaked out.
Your own heart broke as even her eyes deceived, shining like stars. You reached out to wipe it away. Like clockwork, she turned away, a totally new idea skewing the pathways of her brain. You smeared the tear on the book. "Veritas," you whispered. The book glowed a powerful purple, surprising you.
"Cooking's no fun alone, hun!" Agnes called from, apparently, the kitchen.
You re-shelved the book and followed the voice, missing the shining blue eyes from outside a lace-decorated window.
Agnes had you stay over and you actually enjoyed it. You liked the direction Agnes was pointing your friendship in, but you knew you had to wake her up. It was safer; it was right even if it ruined that friendship. It was based on a lie, after all. The thought hurt your heart. So after an evening filled with karaoke and Chinese takeout where you drooled over Agnes' mastery over chopsticks, you set to work finding more keys to her past. They were the key to the spell.
You wandered the house, unable to sleep anyway, and you let your magic pull you like a fishing line. It took no time at all to find an ominous, also old door. You fiddled with the knob, but of course nothing is ever easy. You backed away, ready to continue the search for an easier key, but your back bumped someone. You jumped and spun around apologizing already.
She was smiling wide as ever, dressed in a purple nightgown covered by a fuzzy robe robe and wearing fuzzy slippers. "Oh, it's not a thing, sweet thing. It's just that door's never opened." She shrugged like it really was nothing. Her life being a mystery wasn't nothing!
You looked back at it doubtfully. Then, you turned to face her fully. "Then why's the light on?"
The perpetual mega-watt smile dropped for a half-second while she stared in surprise. Was she a bit defensive too? She smiled at you again, entirely too bright for the late hour. "I'm sure it's just-"
"I'm not." You stepped back, keeping Agnes behind you. Lifting your leg, you swiftly kicked the door open. The steps leading down were stone, not entirely unusual, but out of theme with the rest of the house.
Agnes started down the steps first, shocking the crap out of you. You supposed she did like mysteries, nosey neighbor and all. However, once her slipper-clad feet hit the floor, she crumpled.
You flew down the stairs after her, jumping around her fetal position. You knelt down beside her, getting no response to any question. She was obviously in pain, bordering on screaming, and her hands were on her head. Were her memories bothering her? You didn't get this magic shit. But, if her head was the problem and you knew something was wrong with her mind, you threw the slow plan to the wind. You apologized then held her head by force. You shut your eyes and chanted "mens sepulta vide obruo". You looked at her, heart breaking as she continued crying out in pain. You didn't release her head, deciding to keep chanting it. If she wasn't better in 60 seconds, you'd need to call an ambulance and you'd have to explain... well, that you were crazy. And you wouldn't be committed (you could get out if you were, simply by wanting out). You kept chanting, straining to enunciate lest you trip over your words and curse her worse.
Pitch black hair was mussed worse than from sleep, but at least she'd stopped crying. You froze your own face soaked from tears, and listened for any sign of pain. "Oh, God," you whispered. "Did it work?" You let go of her head - hair - but you stayed knelt beside her. "Are you in pain? Do you remember? Did it work? Oh, God." You wracked your brain for the page with the spell. You needed to know how you knew if it worked, what happened if it didn't, what the side effects were, and how you could've fucked it up. "My first spell and I might've made you mute." More tears streamed your face as you were terrified you'd hurt your only friend. "Oh, please no." Now you wished you'd never risked it at all. Maybe you shouldn't have opened the door with her right-
"That was your first spell?" a voice with a lot more attitude came from Agnes' limp form. But it wasn't limp because she was getting up. Still on her knees, Agnes' blue eyes met yours. She really only lifted her heads and shoulders, but she looked completely different. Black hair was revealed as brown and lots of lighter brown streaked some locks. It was wavier than before as well, and she wasn't smiling. That was more of an unhinged smirk. She wasn't happy or amused, but wicked and mischievous. You weren't the only one aware of the change. A little white rabbit with spots the same color as her spots hopped right on up to her. Her sweetly scooping her pet - familiar? - was the most compassion you'd seen from the new - old - personality and it was a jarring change. You couldn't reconcile the two. "It was very well done. But a real baby witch wouldn't have known to repeat the spell." Black fingertips caught your attention as she quickly brought her hand up to choke you. "You better have a good-"
"Have you seen any witch media in the past 30 years? If nothing happens, repeat yourself," you cut her off with the air you still had, and with the same sass she gave you.
Now her grin was from amusement. Either impressed or about to squash you like a bug, you knew each was possible. Her cold fingers tightened on your throat. Without her sweet persona hiding her magic even from herself, you could feel what was once sparks. In all honesty, she didn't even have to be touching you for you to know she could crush you, but the physical sensation was like a roaring fire ready to eat you up. Slowly, the more powerful witch released her grip on you. "Well, then, it's nice to truly meet you. I'm Agatha Harkness and this is Senor Scratchy."
A series of loud thuds came from upstairs.
You both looked up abruptly. Amusement turned to determination of the gritted teeth sort. "And that's a complication." She looked at you. "Baby witch, mind if I tap that keg?" You frowned in confusion, mouth agape in the intention to respond, but you didn't have the words. "Thanks, sweet cheeks. Don't worry. I'll repay the debt." She took one of your hands with her bunnyless one. Then she leaned in and kissed you. The distraction allowed her to summon your power and drain it. She'd like to do it slowly, ease the discomfort, but there was an intruder in her house. She hoped you could take the toll, but she took it anyway.
You broke the kiss to take your turn at crying in pain. It wasn't like giving blood, rather having it ripped from you, consistently. You tried to break the hold on your hands, but Agatha held firm. Fingers lighter than your ink interlocked with your own, your ink meeting her purple halfway, but really it was all your magic.
"I know," she cooed at you sympathetically. It really was quite unlucky that the only one willing and capable of helping her was so inexperienced and just beginning. And that the military brat was keeping an extra close eye on her in case she woke up. Agnes wouldn't have been interested in you if Agatha wasn't. You were quite sweet and smart and so helpful and willing. Agatha pushed down her own groan and ignored all of yours. Someone ran through the home and Agatha only just released your magic to grab onto her own (formerly yours) to get you the Hell out of there.
You watched a pretty woman step down a few steps, eyes glowing blue, before you watched the world twist around you. You were in another basement, set up pretty much the same, but definitely different. Mostly you could only tell because the lady was gone. Senor Scratchy hopped away and Agatha rose to her feet, mostly for superiority. That went out the window when you shakily got to yours.
Gone was the sweet blouse and little skirts or fitting trousers. Agatha now wore a deep blue dress with another cloth hiding her chest despite the shape of the top of her dress. She also had a purple coat-looking shape in the same fabric as the rest of her clothes. Her blue eyes were surrounded by smokey eye shadow and her hair was set free, wild and a mess. The superior witch's jaw dropped and she held her hand out to hover by your elbow, in case you bit off more than you could chew. "Well, well, I know how I'll repay that debt." She still used her perky voice, but it was obviously fake now. If you had met on her terms, though, she'd still want to mentor you. And if you refused, she'd have sucked you dry. Lucky you chose right. "I took enough of your power to get myself back at full strength and you're - what? - winded?" She flicked her wrist and a blast of purple shoved you to sit on the steps. "First lesson: Every witch has a shtick. Every color has a meaning. Blue is basic. Purple is for the Empress. I take power from the undeserving."
You watched the woman with rapt attention, soaking up every bit of Wiccan knowledge she imparted. "Empress? You got that from the tarot card," you accused jokingly. A part of you couldn't tell Agnes and Agatha apart, still.
Blue eyes flashed dangerously, deliciously. "Or perhaps the tarot cards got it from me." Maybe you could like Agatha as much as Agnes, you decided as you laughed. Maybe more. "The Scarlet Witch is the Bringer of Chaos. And the Wanderer, the onyx witch, is untamed in any way. Shall we test that, dear?" she asked with that wicked grin, one finger lifting your chin.
Summary: Agnes is no medical doctor. She was quite right about that.
Not only is Agnes no medical doctor, but she has no medical experience. At all. She’s a suburban housewife, one who has lost her husband (not that she’d ever had one, but she doesn’t know that), lost her kids (not that Wanda remembers giving her kids, so that must have pulled itself in from something within Agatha, not that she wants to know), and lost her best friend to—
Well, she hasn’t lost her best friend anymore, has she?
Wandagatha Week 2023 Prompt 1: Villains
Wanda Maximoff/Agatha Harkness
Rating: T.
AO3
previous chapter
Her entire body screams.
She should be used to this feeling because a part of her mind, shoved back far, far away, also constantly screams. Most of the time, she ignores it, but every now and again, she reaches out to it, checks in on it, and finds it still screaming. It’s as if the part of her that collapses just before her magic takes on a mind of its own has been locked back there, only with a little more free will. That part of her, still screaming, occasionally pounds against the walls of the corner where she’s locked it and forces her to acknowledge it, but she doesn’t dwell there. Can’t dwell there. Refuses to dwell there. Shoves it away again and forces herself forward.
(And, yes, she does call it magic now. She’s acknowledged that. Accepted it. Killed so many people with it. Became exactly what Tony Stark—)
But it’s different, her body screaming instead of just her head, pain rippling through her, with every flinch of her muscles, every furrowing of her brow, every subtle (or unsubtle) attempt at movement sending spasms under her skin, until she finally simply ceases.
Maybe this is what death feels like. An eternity of unending pain, unless she stops moving. Gives up. Gives in.
It would be easier to give in if she had something to distract her from that part of her head that’s still screaming—
~
“Hon, you’ve got to drink something, I don’t…. I don’t have any IVs, and I’m not a doctor, and I don’t think—”
Wanda’s entire body flinches. She tries to snap herself up and awake, but she barely moves an inch before her entire body lights on fire. The most she can do is open her eyes and glare at the woman above her.
Agnes’s brow – Agatha’s, technically, but Agatha wouldn’t care about her this much – knits together, lips pressed into a thin line, until she notices that Wanda’s eyes are open, and then her entire face lights up, lips spreading into an endearing smile. “Oh, you’re awake, good, good, here, will you just—?” She holds a cup of water in one hand – a plastic cup with a lid and an equally plastic straw (that she must have gotten from Burger King or McDonald’s or some other cheap fast food joint because it’s one of those white ones with the red and yellow and blue stripes surrounding it) – and sets the straw on Wanda’s lips. “I need you to drink something, dear. Wouldn’t want you to thirst to death.” She pauses, brow furrowing again, and licks her lips. “Is that the right phrase? Thirst to death? Like starving to death, but with water.” Her gaze flinches away. “There’s got to be an easier way to say that than die of dehydration—”
If endless pain with every movement is death, then maybe this is hell.
Lying here unmoving won’t make the woman above go away, not if she wants her to drink something, so Wanda parts her chapped, cracked, dried out lips and sucks on the straw. It hurts to drink anything at all, hurts to swallow, hurts to cough so that she doesn’t quite choke on her water (her body will absorb it, just like it would absorb chips of ice; it’s hard to choke on water) – but the water itself is cool and refreshing and she finds herself wanting more of it, no matter how hard it is to drink, how long it is for her to get any of it at all.
Water’s the one thing that doesn’t hurt.
Agnes smiles again as she drinks, and she brushes strands of Wanda’s hair back out of her face with fingertips so feather soft that it’s nearly calming. Would be calming if it wasn’t Agnes. “Good girl,” she murmurs when the straw starts to make that annoying, unsettling sound of there not being enough water to draw anything up. Then she bends down as though to do something else, hesitates, and then stands up, the now quite empty plastic cup in her hand. “I’ll be back with more, hon, don’t you worry!”
As Agnes slips out of the room, Wanda mentally reaches out – intentionally in a way that she rarely if ever does, except on that kid at Kamar-Taj, except when she needed someone to run, except when she needs people to obey her without having to argue with them – and just touches the second mind within Agnes.
The screaming in the back of her mind grows louder, angrier, echoing and reverberating in a lower tone, a mish-mash of notes that don’t quite make a harmony, make something just slightly off, setting her teeth on edge and causing her to flinch away so hard that her full body flinches again, and pain rips through her once more.
Well.
That answers that question.
(Except it doesn’t, not really, it doesn’t answer her question at all, it doesn’t answer why she’s here when she should be dead.
Maybe, if she waits long enough—)
~
Agnes is no medical doctor. She was quite right about that.
Not only is Agnes no medical doctor, but she has no medical experience. At all. She’s a suburban housewife, one who has lost her husband (not that she’d ever had one, but she doesn’t know that), lost her kids (not that Wanda remembers giving her kids, so that must have pulled itself in from something within Agatha, not that she wants to know), and lost her best friend to—
Well, she hasn’t lost her best friend anymore, has she?
Not only has Agnes reclaimed her lost best friend, she’s reclaimed a bit of purpose in life. She looks after Wanda the way she might have looked after one of her sons (who she only on occasion mentions, but never in the way she does anything else, never in a way that suggests she wants Wanda to ask (not that she would) or in a way where she rambles on about them the way she always does about Ralph)—
Maybe she dotes after Wanda more because she has no one else.
(This isn’t, strictly speaking, true. Wanda has heard the knocks that come to Agnes’s door, and she’s heard the whispered voices. She knows that Agnes isn’t always around, knows that sometimes she’s somewhere else, doesn’t know where she goes, doesn’t ask.)
Maybe, quite by accident, Wanda put something into Agnes that makes her—
(She refuses to think about that, refuses to think what that might say about her.)
Maybe she’s just honestly afraid that Wanda might actually die.
(Wanda wishes.)
But despite having no medical experience (other than what she must have learned in raising the boys she mentioned, other than what she might have learned for other family members that she never mentions), Agnes takes great care to help Wanda heal. She brings her water, she brings her chips of ice to make sure she can chew before giving her any food at all, she brings her smoothies and protein shakes on the days when all she can do is drink, when she cannot chew at all, and she brings her good stuff, too, not protein shakes that taste like dirt, not smoothies that have the wrong flavors mixed together, actually good stuff—
Which is probably part of the suburban nosy neighbor housewife stereotype that Wanda baked into her; Agnes probably knows all sorts of yoga tips and tricks, and the best sort of all organic non-GMO smoothies for boosting various vitamins and antioxidants, and protein shakes maybe for her lost husband or her lost sons because maybe one of them was an athlete or a body builder or—
Somewhere along the way, Wanda’s body stops screaming.
Mostly.
~
Agnes tries, multiple times, to scrub the inky black stains from Wanda’s fingertips. No matter what she does, they never come off. At first, she’s gentle with them the way she is with everything else; when Wanda can’t move herself, can’t bathe herself, Agnes does it for her, just the way a nurse might, careful and gentle, but when she gets to those stains….
Her lips press together in a firmer line, and her nose wiggles a few times as she mutters something under her breath. “Dear, it’s like you’ve burned them. I don’t think I could even get this off with bleach!”
Wanda doesn’t know how much magic she can still access right now, but she immediately reaches out and—
She can’t modify the Agnes spell, but she can add another one on top of it. That should be fine, shouldn’t it? Just another spell to make sure she doesn’t use bleach on people, which feels like it should be common sense, but when it comes to Agnes…. Well, taking care of Wanda the way she is can’t be common sense, can it? So there’s got to be a loose screw in there somewhere.
After that, Agnes ignores her fingers and cleans them the way that she cleans everything else.
~
It takes a few weeks of Agnes’s idle chatting – and Wanda’s body slowly healing – before Wanda reaches out to touch the mind within her again.
This time, Wanda hears no screaming, no anger, no frustration, no nothing. Her brow furrows with the barest tinge of pain, and she reaches further. Still nothing. Which is concerning.
So the next time Agnes checks in on her, Wanda forces herself to sit up as much as she can, propping herself up on her elbows and ignoring the sharp welt of pain that creeps up her spine and then settles into a low ache. “Agnes,” she says with a voice rasping with disuse.
Agnes freezes. She turns with a brightening smile – “You’re talking!” – and immediately sits herself down on the edge of Wanda’s mattress, just near the curve of her hip. As soon as she does, her smile fades, as does the light in her eyes. “Do you…do you know what happened, dear? I’ve been taking care of you for,” her gaze drops, and she starts to idly fiddle with a loose thread on her plaited skirt, “for a while now, and—”
“Hush.”
The word croaks its way through Wanda’s lips as she reaches out and places her fingertips on Agnes’s forehead. She closes her eyes as Agnes freezes much more completely than before – like a television show on pause, rather than a living breathing person unsteady and unsure of herself – and pushes more directly into Agnes’s mind, ignoring the uncertain but very definite attraction she finds on the surface (definite to her, but Agnes is uncertain, despite the many times she’d read books with this exact scenario, albeit much straighter) and looking deeper, into the murky depths: in the same corner in her own mind where she’d shoved her own screaming self, she searches for the other person who absolutely should still be there.
It takes more than a moment before she finds her, if it can even be called a moment – it’s hard to tell time when she’s swimming in someone else’s mind – but she does find her, standing just as she had when she led Wanda through her own memories, one arm crossed, her cheek resting on the other fist, bright blue eyes gazing at her inquisitively, wry smile on her lips. Like she knows more about any of this than Wanda does. Like she knows anything about any of this.
Instinctively, Wanda’s eyes narrow. “You’re supposed to be in pain.”
Agatha gives a shrug of one shoulder – she’s even still in the same outfit, that purple sweater over a purple button-up, the collar just peeking through and above the other, like she’s some sort of attractive professor and Wanda’s just…just….
“Must have done something wrong, hon. It’s all nice and cozy in here.” Agatha’s smile doesn’t drop, but her eyes wander along Wanda’s form, taking her in. “Surprised to see you, though. Agnes was having a whole Janet with Rocky affair out there.”
Wanda blinks. Twice. “What?”
Agatha groans and rubs her forehead. “Rocky Horror Picture Show. You’ve never—” She lets out a sound of disgust. “Harley and Joker? Florence Nightingale? Marty McFly and his mom?”
“Got it, got it.” Wanda winces, shudders. “And no. Gross. You’re—” She pauses, takes a second to take Agatha in, appraising her, and then shudders again. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting—”
“You’re worse than the Puritans.”
“I’m—”
Agatha waves a hand dismissively and then twists it just so, causing a pair of chairs to appear. “Sit, dear,” she says, “and tell me why you’re here.”
Wanda’s eyes narrow again as Agatha settles into one of the chairs. She doesn’t sit. “The last time I checked on you, you were screaming.”
“Intruder alert, hon.” Agatha lifts one corner of her lips in a knowing smile. “Someone breaks into your mind, first thing you want to do is yell at them. Like a stray cat. Scat!”
Wanda doesn’t believe her, but it’s hard not to when Agatha seems so…calm. She presses her lips together and then, finally, asks, “Why am I here?”
Agatha heaves a huge sigh. “Hon, I believe I just asked you—”
“Not here here,” Wanda interrupts with a growl, “but here. With Agnes. You don’t have magic. She doesn’t have magic. How am I here?”
For a moment, Agatha doesn’t answer. Instead, she conjures what looks to be a cup of tea and sips at it, considering her. Then, finally, she asks, “What happened to the Darkhold, super star?” Her tone takes on the same sort of patronizing softness and false gentility it held when she was leading Wanda through her memories.
“By someone else, or you would be a tub of ash.” Agatha circles her finger above her cup of tea, as though stirring it. “Did you go to Wundagore?”
Wanda’s eyes widen. “You know about Wundagore?”
Agatha just shrugs again. “Went there for a weekend trip with an old friend once. Had a roaring good time.” Her eyes meet Wanda’s briefly. “Doesn’t look like you did.”
“What do you mean?” Wanda asks hesitantly, cautiously.
“Come here, pet,” Agatha says instead, patting the chair next to her. “Sit with me a spell.”
The problem – the absolute worst problem – with Agatha Harkness is that she was very often very right. For all she pretended to be someone else, when it got down to brass tacks, when she spoke as herself, she didn’t really lie. The question would always be whether she is currently speaking as herself or if she’s trying to speak in the context of some other role she’s cast for herself.
Wanda gives a shake of her head. “No,” she says. “I’m fine here.” She crosses her arms. “I’m sure you’ve got a theory. Spill.”
“Why should I?” Agatha asks, setting her teacup to one side with another sigh. “You’ve given me no reason to help you, hon. Trapped me in here,” she raises a finger gesturing to the empty space around them, “and then barge inside to demand answers from me like you’re owed them.” She shrugs a third time. “Maybe offer me something,” she says, smile returning to her lips. “Something nice.”
Wanda’s eyes narrow again. “I’m not letting you out.”
Agatha laughs – high-pitched, mechanical – the fake sort of witch’s cackle that can’t be how she really laughs – all for show, not with any real mirth. “Oh, hon, I wouldn’t ask for that. You’d lie through your teeth and then leave me in the wash. I won’t ask for that.” She pretends to wipe a tear from her eye. “Just come visit me again,” she says, voice softening. “Not because you need anything. Just for a cup of tea. Sit by the fire.” She waves a hand and a fireplace with a roaring fire appears just behind both of their chairs. It flashes orange light around her black waves, and Wanda has to look away, missing Agatha’s expression when she murmurs, “It gets lonely in here, buttercup.”
The fire crackles and pops the same way a real one might. Wanda dismisses it with the same wave of her hand that Agatha used to create it. “What’s your theory?”
“Hm.” Agatha pulls her cup back over, gazes into her tea, and smiles. “What happened at Wundagore, Wanda?”
“I destroyed it.” Wanda clenches her hand into fists. “It needed to be destroyed.”
Now, Agatha does laugh – something real, something just as wrong as it is right – covering her head with one hand and snorting before she catches her breath. “Wanda, dear, if the person who destroyed the Darkhold got turned into ash, what did you think Wundagore would do to the person who destroyed it? Did you think it would kill you?”
Wanda doesn’t blink, just stares levelly at her.
“Ah.” Agatha’s smile fades, softens. “No, hon, Wundagore has something much more sinister in mind. Death is too easy. Just like you thought it was too easy for me.”
Wanda waits for an explanation, and when none comes, she asks, “What do you mean?”
Agatha taps her teacup with one finger. She doesn’t hesitate, just takes Wanda in again, appraises her, and sighs. “Wundagore paired you with me because I suspect I’m the person alive you hate the most.” She snorts half-heartedly. “Your own personal villain.”
My own personal— Wanda’s eyes narrow again. “You’re saying I’m here because we hate each other? Because I’m torturing you the way it wants to torture me? For destroying it?”
“Oh, Wundagore doesn’t care what I think, hon.” Agatha gestures around them with one finger. “It doesn’t matter if I hate you or not, only that you hate me. Out of anywhere you could be, this is where you least want to be. So Wundagore sent you here.”
Wanda stares at her. “So when I get better, I can just leave?”
Agatha glances up and meets her eyes. “I’m not sure it’ll be that easy, hon. Curses – if you’re in one – can take a lot to break. You might need some help.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Or not. You are the Scarlet Witch, after all. You can bend reality to your will. A simple curse should be child’s play for someone like you.”
“Great.” Wanda doesn’t mention that she’s never broken a curse before, doesn’t feel like revealing any of that information to her nemesis. She turns away. “Thanks for the information, Agatha. I’ll be back for our cup of tea eventually.” She hesitates, one lip curling with her own personal amusement. “Maybe after I break the curse.”
She leaves before she can hear Agatha’s response, not wanting to hear anything witty or pithy or the expected you say that now, but just wait – like if she needed Agatha now, then she’ll need her again in the future. None of that matters. She has her answer; all she has to do now is focus on getting better. She can test things out more after that.
Wanda pulls back out of Agnes’s mind, not even noting the attraction she had on the way in, and collapses back on her pillows and mattress, exhausted by the exertion of her magic. She stares at Agnes – who, perhaps, she does not hate and would not hate if not for the woman trapped inside her – and lets out a little huff before reaching over, placing a hand over Agnes’s, and murmuring, “It’s okay. You can breathe.”
All at once, Agnes takes a deep breath in, coughs twice, spluttering, and places a hand on her chest. Her eyes widen, and she licks her lips twice before she turns back to Wanda. “Sorry, dear,” she says with a look of chagrin. “Sudden coughing spat. I’m not sick!” She turns her other hand over under Wanda’s and gives her a little smile. “I’m glad I could hear your voice again.”
Wanda just stares up at her, opens her mouth as though to speak, thinks better of it, and then gives a tired nod.
