Chapter Text
Rio has never been kind, sure. A trait reaffirmed over the past forty-odd years; a terrible habit of getting into fights, nose broken three times. An aggravating personality, according to an ex. You need to grow the fuck up.
Rio has never been kind. She is, currently, a hair's breadth away from killing a frycook; an acceptable decision, she thinks. Perfectly normal.
❇
Here’s how it happens, the first time. Rio knows of the Waffle House, yes. Has the joy of living right next to it She’s never visited out of principle, largely. The sign on the front is broken. In large, glaring, letters, it simply reads: affle House. The neon light seeps into her flat, a set of blackout curtains had to be bought. Her fault, maybe, for living where she does. A shitbox, it had been charmingly described as. Cheap as dirt though, possibly a prior crime scene. Maybe an active one, if the neighbours keep making the noise they do.
It’s a little past three in the morning, a nightmare shift. Twelve hours, not enough time to get a fucking coffee, even. There’s blood on her shoes and an unidentified substance in her hair. One of the interns had left the hospital halfway through it – Rio had been unable to provide any comfort, hands submerged in a chest cavity.
A streetlight flickers on, then off, then on. There’s no food in her apartment; there had seemed no point. The fridge has been broken for the past week, no time to fix it. Rot set in. Rio had found an avocado that was about four months old, bought when she had attempted to fix her life up. A streak that flamed out somewhere in a bar, Soho, it must have been; three tequila shots, one regrettable hook-up.
The Waffle House is, also, the only place that serves food past 12 am and god fucking dammit Rio wants eggs.
❇
There’s nobody behind the counter when she walks in, an omen, probably. One stereo that's playing American Pie, seemingly, on loop. The floor sticks to the soles of her boots. In about three places, it seems the walls have started to collapse. Rio thinks: I am a highly paid, Oxford-educated, surgeon. Rio thinks: I am forty-seven years old and the last meal of substance I ate was on Tuesday, possibly, and it was a sausage roll.
Rio says:
“Hello?”
A clamour from the back, possibly several large items falling at once. A door opens and shuts, somewhere.
Life emerges in the form of a woman - mid-forties, Rio’s mind supplies, fairly attractive. There’s a moment of silence.
Agatha Harkness stares at her, wide-eyed, slightly feral. There’s a spatula in her hand. She looks the same as she did five years ago, irritating but not impossible with a good skin-care routine. She just looks. The scarring on her neck has faded now. Rio remembers the last time they spoke; bruises in gentle shades of lavender, still tender to the touch.
“You fucker.”
“I didn’t-”
“You-”
“Can I have eggs? Scrambled”
Agatha blinks once, then twice. Rio says nothing, but relishes the blow for a moment. They were at their best when they were like this; mean, in one word. Conversational sparring. She never found a better partner for it.
Agatha doesn’t reply. Agatha turns her back.
“It’s a fireable offence, not serving a customer.”
A snarl. For a moment she stands there, stock-still, illuminated by the flickering yellow lights. Then, reaching into the fridge. Turning on the range. Rio wonders whether she still flinches at the sight of fire. Odd, to know someone. Odder, to find them a stranger to you.
“I missed you.”
The eggs hiss as they meet the pan. Broken shells, things spilling out.
“I hate you, Rio.”
❇
One plate, white. Two poached eggs. Agatha says nothing. Rio stares at the plate. Two poached eggs. She hasn’t sat down since–
Two fucking poached eggs. Her card had been swallowed up by the machine already; her bank account has lost nine pounds for the sake of– Poached, not scrambled. One request, simple, really. Then again, Agatha had used to be the one giving the commands, one night in Lisbon where–
The eggs continue to stare at her. They’re vaguely taunting. Highly aggravating. Offensive, even.
Agatha smirks. Rio thinks about possible justifications for murder.
❇
In her first year, things had been difficult. She had felt grown-up, regardless. Smoking out of windows, wine bottles lined up on kitchen shelves. One bicycle, lightning blue. Terribly ugly but her longest relationship over the course of university. That and Marlboro Reds, most likely. Eighteen years old and ready to know it all.
Five years later, blackened lungs. A two year foundation programme ahead, transferring into Chelsea and Westminster. A long way from home. Twenty-three and a step away from the edge.
Agatha Harkness: an American transfer student, third-year, likes her hair pulled. The two of them like gasoline to a fire. Rio had loved like a dog, all devotion. Rio, collared and tamed by the side of the bed for a few years.
❇
“I asked for scrambled.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Funny.”
“Hilarious. Get the fuck out.”
“You know I like when you-”
“Get out.”
Agatha punctuates this line by throwing the spatula down. It echoes around the space. Rio falls silent, watches her for a moment. The veins in her neck pulsing delicately. Her hands clenched into fists, white-knuckled.
There’s been dust on the other side of the closet in her apartment for years. Empty photo frames.
“When’s your next shift?”
Agatha screams, wordless frustration. Noise, again, from the back. A boy emerges from the kitchen, suddenly. Gay, though Rio knows you aren’t meant to judge these types of things anymore. HR had given her a lecture about it once.
Agatha pales very suddenly. The teen says:
“Are you okay?”
A sharp breath. She’s bitten through her lip, a small drop of blood blossoming at the corner of her mouth. Rio watches, delighted by this scene. How very funny.
“Yeah, just– go to the back, please?”
“Okay, I uh–”
“Go to the back, now.”
“What’s his name?”
“You don’t need to– go to the back. You don’t need to know. Rio. Don’t.”
“What, I didn’t get you pregnant, did I?”
The teen trips over his feet, slams into the door.
❇
The alley air, cold, crisp. Agatha holds her against the wall, brick. Rio thinks: this is going to bruise but makes no efforts to move away. She’d been dragged out by the hem of her shirt, a nice one too. It’ll have to be sent to the dry cleaners after this. Stained.
“You going to hit me? Come on. I thought we were past-”
Agatha puts a hand over her mouth. Her hair is wild. She tastes the same, Rio thinks, as she licks up her palm. This, of course, means nothing. Two women having a friendly conversation.
Her pupils dilate. Interesting.
“I don’t want to see you here again. You’re not– We agreed, we agreed when we-”
Her hand drops back down. She looks, suddenly, very tired. In the delicate space between them, history rears its ugly head.
Rio runs her tongue over her teeth, watches Agatha track the movement.
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“I–”
“He’s not your son, that boy. You can’t be playing house with him, Agatha.”
“You don’t understand-”
“I was there.”
Breath condensing, clouds of mist. Everything she means lost somewhere in them. Rio has spent thirty years unlearning cruelty, still finds it hard to speak sometimes. She had learnt to be kind on the 17th of September 2009, holding Agatha’s hand in the delivery room. He had been born healthy, a full head of hair. Rio had wept at the sight of him, the first time since she was fifteen.
“Rio.”
“Agatha.”
“You–”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
❇
The first time they’d met it was raining. Her accent had been strong enough it had taken Rio a second to decipher, cultural differences. She’d looked out of place, out of time. Her hair half-tied back, a mass of it. Uncontrollable, Agatha had lamented. Rio had been enraptured.
They’d gone out for drinks the day after. It’s rare to meet another woman here, Rio had said, nice, though.
Nice, meaning: I think I might just be in love.
❇
Returning home, her arm beginning to bruise. The other side of the bed: empty. Dead air, a stuffed ashtray by the windowsill. She hadn’t looked back as she left. Narrowly resisted the urge. It was awful for Agatha to still be beautiful. It was awful for her to be anything at all.
His height still marked out on the bedroom door frame. Rio had never painted it over, Rio had become used to it. An etching, a benevolent haunting. Picture books left by the side of the sofa.
The lights in the flat stay off. Rio sinking to the floor as she walks in. The past year, she’s been unable to sleep. Rest never comes.
Lie down, Vidal. Take a breath. It’s all coming at you now.
❇
8:01AM, one notification.
07953 87561: i work nights
07953 87561: tomorrow?