Cause she smells like lemongrass and sleep
She tastes like apple juice and peach
You would find her in a polaroid picture
And she means everything to me
agatha upshur and gemma alexander take jake’s advice.
@webseriesfemslashexchange it’s time for webseries femslash february, and this is for @witchhunterscallthepolice! who i can’t tag for whatever reason? but i hope you see this! here are some british unups, as per your request. i hope you like it! might post it on ao3 later, who knows.
song title is from “333″ by against me!
i also played to this song a lot while writing, so for maximum sappy feelings, feel free to give it a listen.
happy femslash february. :)
“hey agatha, i think what you did with gemma was really cool. personally, i think you should kiss her and stuff, but that’s just me, it’s your life. you do you.”
“it’s not just you, jake,” agatha mutters at the screen. which, ok, this is all a bit pathetic, but she’s just saved the whole fucking country or something, so just--just give her a break, please and thank you.
the rest of the video is predictably adorable because hello, this is wally we’re talking about, and alright, daphne seems chill. maybe she could teach agatha sword lessons after that dinner or something? that’d be cool as hell.
“aggie, i...love you a lot, and i can’t wait to talk to you soon, ok?”
it’s this part she replays the most.
love you too, she texts him, adds nerd a second later.
g’night mum, talk to you tomorrow, she texts again, and makes sure to send at least ten sparkly heart emojis. it’s a competition they have to see who can send the most hearts in one given message. spread the love, all that gooey bullshit. still. she does it and only cringes a little.
after that she puts her phone on her bedside table and passes the fuck out. yeah, it’s 10pm on a friday night, whatever. she’s gotten into the habit since the id had entered her mind. easier to sleep than deal with an ancient creature shacking up in her head at all times, isn’t it?
shut up, of course she’s right.
except the id’s not there anymore. in her head, that is. obviously. doesn’t mean she doesn’t dream about it though.
agatha wakes up at--jesus christ, 4:33am, really?--and she’s breathing hard and there’s a phantom pressure in her head, a whispering voice that sounds like hers except--except it’s all wrong, and she is angry and tired and she’s so alone and she can’t-- she can’t breathe--
“aggie?”
fuck.
“...aggie?”
in and out. deep breaths. in and out. 4:40am. “yeah?”
“can i--is it ok if i come in?”
“...m’kay.”
gemma is cautious and careful and quiet as she steps into the room, but she isn’t tentative, and that makes all the difference. she passes agatha a crumpled tissue from her pajama pants pocket, and mumbles, “you wanna talk about it?”
agatha wipes her eyes, blows her nose (it’s loud and honking, always has been; gemma cracks a smile, so agatha does too), and feels the weight in her chest lighten. gemma doesn’t look away. they both know exactly what she’s doing, and this time agatha lets it happen. she lets herself be calmed. she breathes and feels the air fill her lungs.
“bad dream again,” she says after a moment, and god, her voice is hoarse. “id bullshit. i didn’t--i wasn’t myself.”
gemma nods and scoots onto the other side of the small bed until they’re sitting up together, shoulders touching.
agatha stiffens for a second before leaning into the contact. she feels warmer now. she swallows hard. “i think...i think the worst part about all of this is that like, the id stuff isn’t...it’s not new. like, there’s always--for a long time, i’ve felt like this. not constantly or anything. it still happens though, you know? with the id it was just...amplified. all of the bad stuff in my head times a million.”
gemma shifts closer and rests her head on agatha’s shoulder. “yeah.”
agatha breathes in, and it’s not just so she can smell the shampoo in gemma’s hair, but it’s still really nice and really pretty and just because she’s having a bit of a crisis doesn’t mean she can’t be really fucking gay.
after a moment, she keeps talking, because gemma helps her be brave. “i’m scared.” she grips gemma’s hand tighter and mumbles this into her hair, and maybe that will mean that she can take it all back in the morning. “i’m scared that none of this will go away. that i’ll always be like this. that the id’s gone, but i don’t--i don’t feel better. i miss wally and mum all the fucking time. and i was so awful, i’m sorry--” her breath hitches, and she has to turn her face away, and now she is blinking furiously at the ceiling and she’s crushing gemma’s hand--breaking it, she thinks, you’re breaking her hand--you’re breaking her-- she lets go, feels empty--“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry--”
gemma shifts so agatha has more space, and says in a voice that is hoarse like hers, “you don’t have to be sorry. ok? hey,” she whispers, and agatha takes the extra tissue from her hand. “hey. i’m here.”
and then, when agatha is done wiping her eyes and blowing her nose again, and when she isn’t shaking so bad, gemma leans forward and kisses her forehead. “i’m here.”
agatha nods. “ok.”
gemma clears her throat. her voice is hushed and steady, like a heartbeat. “you’re not going to be like this forever. you’re not the id, and the id isn’t you, and the bad stuff is a part of you but it still isn’t you, not ever. does that make sense?”
“mmph,” agatha mutters, and slouches so she can rest her head against gemma’s shoulder this time. “i guess.”
“that’s the spirit,” gemma says, and agatha can feel her smile with her whole body.
they stay like this for a while. the part of agatha that never wants anything to change, that misses spock the guinea pig running around wally’s room, that misses trying on mum’s old dresses when no one else was home, that misses the ancient finger-paintings hung up on the fridge, wants this moment to be forever.
her eyes glance at the alarm clock: 5:08am.
she has to ask, so she does. “did i wake you up with all of my emo angst bullshit?”
gemma shakes her head furiously. “no, no of course not--”
“please just tell me. i’m not going to flip out this time. promise.”
gemma clenches her jaw, and agatha can feel a slight, pulsing nervousness jitter across her skin. “i--you didn’t wake me up. not exactly. i was dreaming, and it--it wasn’t a good dream, and i needed to make sure that...that everything was real again, i guess? and--and i felt you. not like, literally, just--i knew that you were upset, so i got up and walked to your door and then you answered and then i felt real.”
she says all of this in a rush, and agatha feels the air whoosh out of both of them. they breathe together. gemma speaks again, slower now, like she’s never said this aloud before. “it’s hard. feeling everyone’s emotions, not being able to tell which is theirs and which is yours. you were right, before. you were being a jerk, but you were right about some of it. i hate getting mixed up in things, i’m not good at showing how i feel. but it’s like-- if i’m not calm, if i can’t balance everyone out, if i’m not there--it’s like, if i get mad, everyone gets mad. if i get anxious, everyone gets anxious. if i don’t know what’s real, then no one will.”
agatha huffs out a laugh, lifts her head from gemma’s shoulder because her neck is cramped, and shifts closer so they can hold hands again, if she wants to. “that is fucking awful. i don’t know a troll’s tit about what that’s like. this is very serious, don’t laugh--very important stuff here--ok, but for real, how can i help?”
gemma stops giggling, and after a few seconds she takes agatha’s hand. “i don’t know, honestly. i’ve never--people try to help, to make it easier, and nothing ever seems to work--” something flashes in her eyes, and agatha feels a deep and old anger swoop into her stomach-- “they keep wanting to fix me. no one ever really cares about demons, especially demons like me. i’m just a nuisance to everyone.”
sadness replaces the anger now in agatha’s stomach. it settles in deeper than the anger had, and it is gaping and cavernous and ancient, and it aches. agatha swallows the lump in her throat, feels her eyes burn. she thinks about how gemma has felt everyone else’s most vulnerable, fragile, dangerous, destructive emotions, and how halting she had been, how jangled and stilted and refusing to rise to any bait, refusing to lose control.
her hand is hurting slightly because gemma is holding it a bit too hard, but that’s fine. a few weeks ago, she would never have held her hand at all. agatha marvels at her for a moment, because she can and because gemma really is so beautiful it hurts, and she blurts out, “you don’t need to be fixed, and you’re not a bloody nuisance. you’re perfect.”
gemma blinks, then laughs again, because she thinks it’s a joke. “what?”
“i’m serious,” agatha insists, pushing her hair behind her ear, face heating up. “i’m serious, gemma. we saved the country together. your power--yeah, it’s complicated and shit, and it’s hard sometimes, but it saved us. it saved me.” and before gemma can argue and before agatha can take any of it back, she looks at her and repeats, “so you’re basically perfect. not in a movie way, or a creepy pedestal way, or a supermodel way, or whatever, but you are. at least to me. and that has to count for something. that’s real.”
gemma stares at her. there is something unfurling between them in the soft early morning light, and they can both feel it, and they share this together, this quiet loosening in their lungs.
eventually, agatha can feel her hand get sweaty. glances at the clock: 5:33am. gemma hasn’t stopped looking at her. her eyes are so gentle, and she asks, “can i kiss you?” and agatha breathes, “yes,” because she has never been very patient, never has been one to sit and wait and miss out on all the fun--
they take jake’s advice.
gemma is cautious and careful and quiet as she kisses her, but she isn’t tentative. neither is agatha.
when they stop, it is 5:38am. soon they’re both lying down, and gemma tucks herself against agatha like it is the most natural thing in the world, and they’re both blushing and smiling and that’s how they fall asleep, dreamless and unafraid and safe.
it’s the afternoon when gemma wakes up first. her voice tickles agatha’s hair. “hey.”
agatha groans. “mmmph?”
“i’ve got something to say.”
agatha opens her eyes a bit, at least enough to look at her. cracks a smile. “spit it out then, c’mon.”
gemma pokes her arm. “you’re such a dork.”
“and? what is it?”
she doesn’t hesitate. “i care about you a lot, agatha upshur. in like, a girlfriend way. just thought you should know.”
“yeah? i care about you a lot too, gemma alexander. in a girlfriend way.”
when they are ready, agatha lends gemma one of her old sweatshirts because it’s cold in the flat, and gemma helps fix the star in agatha’s hair.
they hold hands all the way to the tiny flat kitchen. allistair shoots them a smug look, the bastard, while erika rushes to give them the last bit of tea.
agatha has barely taken a sip when allistair marches up to her, eyes wide, and announces, “i’ve found this website called television tropes.” he even pauses for dramatic effect, fixes his messy bangs, and grins like a loon. “i know what a manic pixie dream girl is.”
“good god,” agatha swears, nearly flinging her earl grey into the air. “what have i done?”
erika bustles over to them and supremely ignores allistair, who is practically vibrating with excitement. “have you read the coven’s fury at all, agatha? it’s quite informative, and i think you’d like it.” before agatha can object and before allistair can start talking about whatever else he’s discovered on the world wide web, she says, “it has lesbians.”
“got me there,” agatha grumbles into her tea.
they all laugh, and it’s like any other saturday in the flat, except gemma’s fingers rest on top of hers, and agatha smiles just for her, and really, that makes all the difference.
