Zoe, 26, Greek living in Ireland. Very gay, very into never-canon (and now sometimes canon, what up Harlivy!!!) ships. Sometimes I write and art. My AO3 | My Ko-Fi | My Art Tag | My Art Instagram.
Not me posting a fic????? It's also on AO3, as per ushe. Okay, bye now, love you!
With her eyes closed and her head tilted back, Agatha lets the night air fill her lungs in a way that makes the world spin. She recognises the bitter and tangy taste on her tongue, the unmistakable scent of burning wood and ash; of flesh, if she focuses hard enough. She doesn’t. Lets her cloak snap around her and her hair tangle in the wind instead.
Had it been anyone else, they would have completely missed the imperceptible shift in the air; the smell of musty leather and blood and orchids that seems to always be around when she is. But Agatha knows better.
“You always did love the theatrics.” The voice comes from behind her, low and silky with just a touch of amusement running through it—it sends a shiver down Agatha’s spine which she promptly ignores.
“Takes one to know one, my love.” She doesn’t turn. She spits out the pet name like she would a curse.
Rio only rolls her eyes and fails to stop a small smile from tugging on her lips as she takes a silent step forward. “Still calling me that after all these years?” Agatha doesn’t bother with a reply. She watches as Rio’s eyes sweep over the carnage around them, assessing the damage, the brutality of it. A smirk ghosts over her lips as she exhales softly.
“Efficient.”
“Thanks,” Agatha huffs.
A beat of silence. Then—
“Why?” It slips out before she has time to stop it and it’s so much softer than she intends. It makes Rio’s breath catch.
“Fate is a stubborn mistress,” she says simply, her boots making no sound against the dirt she steps on.
“Fate,” Agatha parrots almost mockingly. The word has a bitter, unwanted aftertaste. Fate had torn them apart. Fate had stolen from them. This isn’t fate. “You may collect your bodies and leave, Death.” She’s looking at Rio now. Smirks at the frown that crosses the woman's features.
Rio exhales sharply, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Still dramatic as ever, I see.
“And you’re still lingering where you’re not wanted,” Agatha retorts with a snarl but the way her hands shake at her sides betrays her.
“Oh, come now, Agatha,” Rio says as she takes a slow step closer. “If I weren’t wanted, you wouldn’t have called me.”
Agatha avoids Rio’s gaze then. Her lips press into a thin line and her eyes run over the bodies around them. She had called. Not in words, but in actions. And Rio, predictable in the most infuriating of ways, had answered.
“I didn’t call you.” Lies.
“Okay, Agatha,” Rio hums, unconvinced and Agatha exhales slowly in an attempt to steady herself.
The wind picks up around them and it’s pressing against Agatha’s back like a phantom hand urging her forward. She stays rooted in place.
“Believe what you will,” she says finally. “It doesn’t change anything.” They let the silence stretch between them. Agatha feels it in her ribs; in all the spaces Rio’s presence used to fit.
“No, it doesn’t,” Rio agrees. She can’t stand this. This— distance. It isn’t them. Not who they’re meant to be. They were meant to take on the world together, Agatha had promised.
And yet—
“You’re bleeding.” Rio frowns as her eyes zero in on a spot on Agatha’s front.
Agatha tugs on her cloak. “It’s nothing,” she murmurs.
“Let me see.”
“It’s nothing.” Rio’s hand is suddenly wrapped around her arm, pulling softly. She snatches it away from the grasp as if burnt.
Rio isn’t one to relent, however. She’s all up in Agatha’s space now, fingers pulling the violet cloak open and running over the front of her dress. They come up red and sticky.
“I thought you were being careful,” she states, her voice stern as she works to undo Agatha’s corset.
“One of them got feisty.”
Rio tsks unimpressed, she’s pulling back the fabric of Agatha’s dress now, sticky and heavy from the blood that has seeped into it. “Sloppy,” she says. Keeps any further comments to herself. Agatha glares.
“I handled it,” she mutters, but it sounds weak even to her own ears.
“Clearly,” Rio chuckles humourlessly as she inspects the wound—deep, but not fatal; a blade, by the looks of it. “Sit,” she orders, already working to untie and remove her own cloak to make movement easier.
Agatha’s legs stay rooted. “I said it’s nothing.”
“And I said you’re bleeding all over your dress,” Rio counters, leveling her with a look. "Now sit before you fall over and make me carry you."
Agatha hates the way her body obeys, lowers onto a fallen log before her brain has a chance to stop it. Exhaustion washes over her all at once as she does so.
Rio kneels before her, hands practiced and precise as she lets green tendrils of energy run over the wound. The sting is immediate and sickeningly familiar and Agatha hisses through her teeth. Rio doesn’t falter at the sound. She never does.
“Still such a baby about pain,” she murmurs, tone soft, almost teasing.
“Still so bossy.” So little has changed and yet too much.
“You used to like that.” Rio doesn’t look up. Agatha says nothing.
Green energy flickers and pulses as the wound stitches itself together. A process that could have been over and done with with a flick of Rio’s wrist now almost purposefully prolonged. She always did enjoy the more… hands on approach when it came to Agatha. When she finally pulls away, her hands are covered in blood.
“There,” she sighs as she sits back. “You’ll scar.” Agatha rolls her eyes. Another purposeful move on Rio’s part. “Why did you stay?” The Green Witch asks after a moment, when the silence threatens to become overwhelming.
Agatha looks at her then, really looks, and it takes everything in her to not get up and leave right then and there.
“I… don’t know,” she mutters. “I think I wanted to see if you’d come.” The rare display of honesty almost knocks the air out of her lungs.
Rio doesn’t smile. But her eyes flicker, and that’s enough. She stands up then, offers Agatha a hand.
“Don’t get used to this,” Agatha warns; allows herself to be pulled to her feet nonetheless.
Rio grins, sharp and knowing. “Too late.”
With the forest quiet around them and the bodies cooling at their feet, for a brief, breathless moment it feels like old times.
I have supercorp fic thoughts inside my head, but in order to develop them I need to first figure out some stuff. One thing I cannot decide on, I need some help with.
Lena is married to a man. It’s loveless. He’s not a good man. Who is this man? (Kara needs an ex but that relationship was neutral at worst and more likely positive.)
James
Jack
Mon-El (Mike)
Morgan Edge
Clark
Maxwell Lord
Secret other option (please put in tags for me to see and take into account)
