Work Text:
“Maybe I should stick around,” Rio muses, inspecting the Hallmark card that Billy’s currently filling out for his dad’s birthday. The surprise party’s set for later that afternoon; above them, Agatha floats around the first floor of the Kaplan's quaint home, hanging streamers from the ceiling. “Sounds like you’re gonna be talking about me, either way. Didn’t realize I’d be such a hot topic at Daddy Kaplan’s B-Day.”
“Please don’t say ‘daddy.’ Ever.” Billy finishes his loving message with a flourish of his pen, blowing on the ink to make it dry faster. The front of the card features a posse of cartoon ghosts wiggling spookily around the caption YOU’RE ONE YEAR CLOSER TO DEATH, LET’S PARTY! “My dad loves dark humor. That’s where I get it from, if you were wondering.”
“Oh my god, we’ve been dying to know,” Agatha says, securing her last streamer to the dining room’s chandelier. She drifts toward the fridge, flicking her wrist; the door swings open with a small poof of purple smoke. “Every day, I find myself just absolutely tormented by the same burning question: ‘How did Billy become the coolest funniest superboy in the whole wide world?’ And now I know. My unfinished business is finally complete; at last, my weary soul can peace out of this wet blanket of a world. Is the chicken salad up for grabs?”
“You know it’s not,” Billy says, slamming the door shut with his own poof of blue. He’s reiterated no fewer than five times that everything in the fridge is strictly reserved for the party's attendees.
“Can I give the card to Big Papa K?” Rio says, digging a spoon into a fresh tub of vanilla ice cream. (A tub that was supposed to be saved for dessert. Billy makes a mental note to buy some magical padlocks for his parents’ fridge and freezer.) “I can be, like – ‘This isn’t funny to you right now, Mr. Billy’s Dad, but in a couple decades, it’s gonna be hilarious.’”
“It’s not your card to give, Rio.”
“Then why is my wife on the front?” Rio says indignantly, pointing to the cartoon ghosts.
Billy snatches the ice cream, stuffing it back into the overflowing freezer. “Thanks for helping with the setup,” he says, which is generous. Apart from the streamers, Agatha and Rio have done little more than eat his parents’ food and insult their taste in decor. “People are gonna start arriving soon, so.”
“So.” Agatha throws an arm over Rio’s shoulder, glaring daggers at Billy as she finishes chewing whatever the hell she stole from the Kaplans’ fridge. “‘Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, ladies.’ That’s cold, Superboy. That’s real, real cold.”
“If you want to stay and make small talk with my grandma about her hip replacement, be my guest. She should get here in about ten minutes.”
“Let’s roll,” Agatha says, thumping Rio on the back.
Rio grins, tucking the tub of ice cream under her arm. (How the fuck did she – ) “Probably for the best that you’re so rudely keeping us off the guest list,” she says, raising her hood. “I’ve got a thirteen billion-year ‘no birthday parties’ streak going. I can’t break that now. Not when I’m so close to fourteen billion.”
Billy’s annoyance evaporates. “Wait – sorry. Wait. You’ve never been to a birthday party?”
“Let’s put on our thinking caps, here, Billy,” Agatha says. “Who’s inviting Lady Death to their ‘I made it another year without dying’ shindig?”
“I don’t know – you?”
“As far as I’m concerned, every day is a celebration of my birth.” Agatha tosses her hair regally, still inexplicably chewing. “Besides, parties mean people. Not sure if you’ve picked up on this with your sharpened hero senses, but I’m not a big fan of people.”
Rio strokes Agatha’s hair affectionately. “Which works out, because people fucking hate you, baby.”
“Oh my god,” Billy says, covering his mouth with his hands. “Rio – you’ve never had a birthday party.”
“Yeah,” Rio says, assessing him with genuine concern. “I wasn’t…born. You feeling okay? Do we need a refresher on my whole deal? I can do a PowerPoint, but fair warning, it’s probably just gonna be a bunch of stock images of skeletons.”
“Pick a day,” Billy says, opening the calendar app on his phone. “Any day. I’ll start planning tonight.”
Agatha and Rio exchange a look. “Hard pass,” Rio says. “But – thanks. I guess.”
“We can plan it together,” Billy says, turning to Agatha for support. Agatha suddenly becomes fascinated with a strand of her own hair, avoiding Billy’s gaze. “We don’t have to have, like – streamers, or cards, or whatever. It can be any kind of party you want.”
“Not sure how many ways I can say ‘no’ before it sticks, Billy-boy. I can try a few more, if you want. Non. Nein. Nyet – ”
“Please?” Billy says, directing the puppy dog eyes more to Agatha than to her immortal partner. In his experience, the former is a lot easier to melt. “The party can be my birthday present. You won’t have to get me anything this year. That sounds nice, right?”
“Bold to assume we were gonna get you something,” Agatha mutters, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward as she turns to Rio. (The puppy dog eyes were a success.) “What do you say, my love? You want me to pop out of your cake? Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you Marilyn Monroe-style?”
The question falls on deaf ears; Rio’s staring Billy down in that unsettling way of hers, unblinking and suspicious. “Why do you care so much?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the handle of her scythe-knife.
Why does he care so much? Billy thinks for a minute, trying to parse the feeling into words. “Because everyone needs to know what it’s like to have a day that’s all about being glad you’re here,” he says. “It’s just a basic part of being – not a human, I guess, but – a person.”
Rio flashes her gap-toothed grin. “I’m not a person, though.”
“Yes you are.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so aggressive. Agatha’s eyebrows skyrocket up her forehead. “You are,” Billy repeats, thinking of his first few weeks of life in Westview – years of growth condensed into wonderful and terrifying hours. “There’s a lot of ways to be a person. Some of us take the nontraditional route.”
“Well said, Professor Wiccan,” Agatha says. “Very philosophical. You’ve got cars lining up outside your house, by the way. Last chance to kick us out before I start possessing your relatives to make them do the Beetlejuice banana song.”
“Yeah, you guys should go.” Just in time, too – Billy can hear the key turning in the front door. His mom’s returning with the last of the groceries. “What day do you want to be born?” he calls to Rio as the two witches begin to flicker out of sight.
“Let’s make it June 2nd,” Rio says, which gives Billy about two weeks to plan. Not as much time as he’d like, considering the unique challenges of throwing a party that Death herself will enjoy, but Billy’s never met a problem that he couldn’t solve with a positive attitude and a lot of hard work.
Agatha must be stressed about the time constraints, too. Billy can’t think of another reason why his mentor would turn so sharply at the sound of Rio’s chosen date, her face a mask of shock as she disappears from sight.
“June 2nd, huh?” Agatha says as soon as the two of them reappear on the outskirts of Eastview. “Just a totally random date for your deathday party. No prior meaning there.”
“You’re one to talk, Agnes.” Agatha always forgets that Rio’s seen the snippets of WandaVision that made it to the outside world. “We’ll have a lot to celebrate, I guess. My not-birthday. Your anniversary with dear Ralph.”
“Among other things,” Agatha says.
Three centuries ago, below the star-speckled skies of colonial Salem, Rio had finally gathered the courage to debut her new human form before the homicidal witch that she’d been shyly stalking for months. As Rio would later sheepishly recall, she’d originally tried to launch into her grand introduction on the first day of June – but, seeing Agatha stop by a riverbank to wash the blood from her hair (her latest massacre had gotten a tad messy), Rio lost her nerve at the last minute. The next day brought better luck, and the rest was history.
“Couple base rules,” Rio says, pacing the length of the suburban street that they’d popped onto. In the window of a nearby McMansion, a small dog eyes them nervously. “I’m not hitting a piñata. I’m not blowing out candles.”
“Aw, shucks. You’re telling me I need to return thirteen billion candles?”
“I’m serious, Agatha, I don’t want – ”
“Next you’re gonna tell me you don’t want us to do the little song. ‘Are ya one, are ya two, are ya ancient as the concept of time itself – ’”
“Ugh.” Rio pulls her hood down over her eyes. “Just – don’t let him go crazy, okay? He’s a sweet kid, but if I walk into a fucking birthday trial, I’m reaping him early.”
Agatha clutches her chest, slipping into the wise-and-worldly voice she’d used while pretending to recount the ‘rules’ of the Road to her last coven of victims. “Quick, birthday girl! You must write thank-you cards for all these ugly sweaters you’re never going to wear! Make it sound like you love them or we’ll all get gift-wrapped to death!”
“Is that a ‘yes’ to not letting him go full set designer?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me,” Agatha says, kicking a pebble from the sidewalk into the street. The small dog begins yapping its alarm at the sharp movement. “Billy’s the party planner extraordinaire.”
“Sure, but he’s your – ”
Rio stops before a word forms. Agatha touches her broach, sending another pebble flying. While Rio and Billy have made significant progress since the days of hurling each other around Agatha’s backyard – Agatha would describe their current dynamic as distant aunt/overeager nephew – it’s clear that Agatha’s affinity for the boy still makes Rio a bit uneasy. The reason for that discomfort, while obvious, continues to go pointedly unsaid by either witch.
“He listens to you,” Rio says carefully. “God help him, but he does. So make him listen to this: no piñatas.”
“Five piñatas, got it.” Agatha hooks her hand into Rio’s belt, pulling her in for a kiss; the dog begins barking like the world is ending. Homophobic little shit. “Maybe I can set him straight about the other thing, too.”
Rio sends a zap of green energy toward the window, sending the dog scrambling in terror back into the depths of the house. “What other thing?”
“This ridiculous idea that you’re some kind of person,” Agatha says, pressing her lips to the tip of Rio’s nose.
At the very least, Agatha expects the comment to earn her a snort, if not a full laugh; she prepares herself for Rio to return fire with some version of And you’re the expert on personhood, Ms. Ghost of Dyke-mas Past?
But Rio doesn’t do much of anything besides scrunch up her nose, her eyes still partially obscured by the menacing black hood.
“Okay!” Billy says, clapping his hands together like a substitute teacher. (Fittingly, Rio has her boots up on the coffee table like a delinquent ninth grader.) “Can I get you anything before we dive in? Glass of water? If you’re hungry, I can grab some – ”
Rio rolls her neck in Billy’s direction, giving him a withering stare.
“...You don’t…get hungry,” Billy says, nodding. “Right. Not that that’s ever stopped you from cleaning out someone else’s fridge!”
The stare gets even more withering; Rio slow-blinks like a cat. Billy swallows.
“Agatha definitely can’t join?” he says, sinking into his thrifted armchair. Rio’s taking up the entirety of the couch, arms territorially splayed over the back. “I was kinda hoping for her input, since she’s our only other guest. For now! If there’s anyone else you want me to invite – ”
“Yeah, d’you have the concept of Eternity on speed dial?” Rio says, rubbing one boot with the other to dislodge some dirt. “What about Infinity? You want to give the spatial embodiment of the ever-expanding universe a quick call?”
“I was more thinking, like…Jen?” Billy says timidly, reaching over to swoop up the dirt with a Clorox wipe. While Agatha no longer shares his small apartment, Billy hasn’t ditched the habits he formed while cohabitating with the ghost – most importantly, keeping cleaning products on hand at all times.
“Jen,” Rio repeats. “The beauty product lady who called me a psycho.”
“I guess you guys didn’t get the chance to actually – ”
“Also a creepy lurker, if I’m recalling correctly. Damn. She really packed in the insults for those ten hours we knew each other.”
“Okay, forget the guest list,” Billy says, his heart palpitating like crazy. Has he ever been alone with Rio before? If he has, the interaction must’ve been limited to three or so sentences, tops. Agatha’s always acted as their buffer, smoothing over the inherent weirdness with her own brand of weirdness. But Agatha’s off taking a ‘mental health day’ (translation: swapping the regular and decaf coffee carafes at a local cafe so she can watch the caffeine fiends descend into madness), and Billy’s got an entire afternoon left to converse with Death. Somehow. “Let’s talk likes and dislikes.”
“Dislikes,” Rio says thoughtfully. “Let’s see: Puppies. Rainbows. Children’s laughter. You know that moment when the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping, and you think to yourself ‘Wow, maybe everything in this crazy world is gonna be just fine?’ Hate that.”
Billy tries to disguise his heavy sigh. “Any party-related dislikes?”
Rio pries a bit of stubborn dirt from her boot, letting it flutter to the floor. “Nope. As long as you keep the puppies away, we should be good.”
“Great,” Billy says, chasing after the falling grime with his Clorox wipe. “And the likes?”
“Don’t have any.”
“You like Agatha,” Billy offers.
A tiny smirk. “Yes, I like Agatha.”
“‘Likes Agatha,’” Billy says loudly, scribbling in his notebook. “Oh, hey! We’ve got that one in common.”
The smirk fades. “Uh huh,” Rio says.
The thing about the inherent weirdness between Billy and Rio: it’s not solely caused by the fact that Billy should, according to the ironclad laws of the natural world, already be a denizen of the afterlife. As demonstrated through Rio’s many unsettling stares whenever they’re in the same room, Rio doesn’t seem to believe that Billy actually cares about Agatha all that much. (“Oh, bullshit,” Agatha had scoffed the one time that Billy decided to share this theory during a training session. “You’re just not used to her yet. If she’s being a total bitch, that means she likes you.”) Billy can’t blame Rio for the apprehension; her first impression of him, after all, had been his series of Agatha-focused outbursts on the Road. If Billy had to watch some rando repeatedly scream at Eddie about how awful he was, it’d probably take quite a bit of time for him to think of that rando as anything other than a complete asshole.
But the Road was years ago, and Agatha is now one of Billy’s favorite people in the world. Aggravating, yes – morally questionable, without a doubt – but also fiercely caring and smart and funny. If Billy felt bold enough to tap Rio’s mind with his telepathy, he’d project the trove of happy memories he’s accrued with his spectral teacher, the building blocks that have piled into a deeply meaningful relationship. But the thought of asking Rio to mosey on into his mind scares the fuck out of him. Rio scares the fuck out of him. So he keeps his thoughts to himself.
“Look,” Billy says, unclicking his pen. (With a rush of affection, he thinks of Detective Agnes.) “I know I kinda strong-armed you into doing this – ”
“I’m doing this out of pity,” Rio corrects him. “You couldn’t strong-arm me if you were Popeye and I had no arms.”
“I know you’re doing this as a favor,” Billy amends. If the witch manspreading all over his couch were Agatha instead of her pitbull of a partner, he’d give her shit for how insanely dated of a reference Popeye is. “But I really do want this party to be fun for you. That’s the whole point: design your perfect day. So just tell me what that looks like, and I’ll make it happen.”
“Sorta your speciality, isn’t it,” Rio says, lacing her fingers behind her head.
“That’s me! I make people’s dreams come true.” His expertise has been more about manifesting people’s nightmares, but hey – that’s transferable job experience, right there.
Rio studies him; Billy forces himself to hold the intense probe of a gaze. “I’m not gonna say no to a cake,” Rio says eventually.
Billy perks up. “What flavor?”
“Chocolate’s fine.”
“Plain chocolate? We could do a filling, too. Do you like any fruit stuff?”
“You’re a fruit stuff.” Rio limps her wrist. “Ooh, if you have any nightshade berries around here, that shit’s delicious.”
A memory pings from a nearly-forgotten middle school science class. “Isn’t nightshade, like…poisonous?”
Another series of slow blinks. “Yes?”
“Right, right. Can’t die.” Billy re-clicks his pen, writing Poison cake??? across the top of his notebook page. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Ask your babysitter,” Rio says, flopping back across the length of the couch; her boots dig into one of Billy’s throw pillows. (At least she's already scraped most of the dirt off.) “Agatha used to make this insane nightshade jam – she couldn’t eat it, obviously, but I could. It was crazy good.”
“I’m sure she pretended to eat it, though, right?” Billy says. “To freak you out?”
“Fucking constantly. We’d have a fight and she’d be like, Fine, fuck you, guess I’ll just go have some toast and die. She also kept it right next to the normal, non-deadly jam. Two identical jars, side by side. You’d think she’d label the one that could kill her, but no.”
“Yeah, that tracks,” Billy says, risking a grin. “When she was crashing at my place, she’d take the labels off of all my stuff in the kitchen – I kept mixing up the sugar and the salt for like a month. She said that it was her God-given right as an American to not be forced to read in her own home.”
Rio laughs. “She sucks so much.”
“She really does,” Billy agrees, which is the wrong thing to say – Rio’s expression immediately hardens. “So!” Billy says quickly, rifling through his blank notebook pages. “Chocolate cake that’s also super toxic.”
“To match my super toxic embrace,” Rio says, her face briefly flickering to its skull version.
Billy cringes. He shouldn’t be surprised that Agatha spilled about their spat in her Westview basement, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be pissed, too. Does Agatha want her terrifying other half to hate Billy forever? “What about presents? Is there anything that you’d – ”
“I’d just love a nice gift card to Hobby Lobby. I’m all about those good Christian family values, you know?”
“Very funny,” Billy says, rubbing his forehead.
“I’m serious. I’ll pick up some beads and we’ll all sit around making friendship bracelets. Is that your idea of a good time?”
“No, not really, but that doesn’t matter, because this is about what you – ”
“Bullshit,” Rio says coldly. She sits up, the immature energy draining from her posture. Despite the youthfulness of her human form, she suddenly looks her full primordial age. “You can say it’s all about me ‘til your lips fall off, kiddo, but we both know that’s not true. This is about you. Just like everything else.”
Billy picks at his nails, trying to weigh his mounting frustration against his very real fear of being killed by Death. “I…don’t think that’s totally fair.”
“Fair.” Rio’s grim smile doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. “I don’t think you want to talk about fair, Billy.”
“Seems like you want to talk about it,” Billy says, allowing the frustration to win out.
“Yeah, you know what? I do.” Rio leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Itty-bitty Billy Maximoff wants a new body, and that’s what he gets. Billy Kaplan wants to skip down the Witches’ Road, and would you look at that – a door appears! The time has come to go! Billiam Maxi-Kaplan doesn’t wanna pay the cosmic price for hopping into a dead kid’s flesh suit, but don’t you worry your fancy hero brain: the witch he met five minutes ago will just end her spectacular life to save his ungrateful skin. A witch that Mr. Kaplan-Moff is gonna immediately try to banish to the great beyond, by the way.”
“And I feel terrible about that, Agatha knows that I – ”
“The Wonderful Wiccan of Oz doesn’t want to feel bad about trying to banish his best ghoul-friend,” Rio says, the whites of her eyes filling with black. “He gets sad when he hears that Lady Death’s never sat down to celebrate her nonexistent birth, and he doesn’t want to feel sad, either. Lucky for him, his good buddy Agatha is always around to make sure he doesn’t have to experience any of those icky emotions. She’d break herself in half to make him feel better. You’re a greedy one, Super-Fruit. Two sets of parents already in the bag, and you still decide to bat those puppy dog eyes at the woman who lost her son.”
Billy feels blue electricity spark in his palms. “That’s not – You think I could manipulate Agatha Harkness? You think I’d want to?”
“Agatha,” Rio says in a whiny imitation of Billy’s voice. “Is this how Nicky died?”
“Yes, fine, I know. I was sixteen and about to be murdered. But I care about her, too, alright? You’re not the only one who loves her.”
“Yes the fuck I am,” Rio snaps, slamming her hands down on Billy’s coffee table. “I always am. When you get your fill of the magic lessons and decide the Big Bad Witch is simply too chaotic-evil for your lawful-good ass – when you abandon her like everybody else does – I’ll be the one to pick up the pieces. You’re gonna absolutely destroy her, you selfish little fucker, and you’re not gonna face one goddamn consequence for it. Facing consequences is more my thing, I guess. You know what I want for my birthday? I want to listen to my wife’s heartbeat again. I want to hold the body I fell in love with. Can you wrap that up in a shiny blue bow, dream-weaver?”
The sparks sputter out. Billy stares at his palms.
“You can’t,” Rio says, standing. “Thanks to you, that body’s just a bunch of azaleas. Does that make you sad?”
“Yes,” Billy says quietly, still inspecting his hands.
“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” Rio says. “Better go get your fucking clown car of parents to make the boo-boo all better.”
With a puff of smoke that smells faintly of damp earth, Rio disappears. Billy’s left alone with a dirty table and a useless notebook, open to a page offering up the single idea of something sweet that also kills you.
“What the fuck did you do?” is how Agatha greets him when Billy opens the door.
It was nice of her to knock, at least. She usually just drifts into the living room unannounced, waiting until Billy wanders in with his AirPods at full volume before giving him a real-life jumpscare.
“‘Event coordinator’ might not be the best career path for me,” Billy says. He takes in Agatha’s eclectic outfit. “Why are you carrying – ”
“Because I got kicked to the curb, Billy,” Agatha says, floating into the apartment. Clad in rabbit-themed pajamas, she’s got her arms full of a pillow, a blanket, and a small plastic bag with a toothbrush inside. “The missus told me to take a hike. Care to fill me in on why?”
“You don’t sleep,” Billy says, nodding to the pillow. “Or brush your teeth.”
“They’re visual aids. Props, if you will. You’re dodging the question. Why did my darling wife come back from your apartment acting like she’s on her cosmic period?”
Billy takes a sip of his tea to stall. “Maybe she…is?”
“Don’t be sexist.” Agatha snatches Billy’s mug, taking a sip of her own. “Ugh. Gross. Why are you never drinking anything with liquor in it?”
“The party’s cancelled,” Billy says, retrieving his tea from Agatha’s overflowing hands. “I shouldn’t have tried to make her do it in the first place. It was stupid.”
“It was stupid,” Agatha agrees, reclining back across the couch. Her feet go straight onto Billy’s throw pillow. “But it was also cute. She really threw a fit about wearing a party hat and eating some shitty store-bought cupcakes?”
Billy sits on the edge of the one couch cushion that Agatha isn’t completely hogging. “You know that you’re really important to me, right?”
Agatha’s eyes narrow. “Again, gross. Have you been drinking? Does that shit have alcohol in it? If so, gimme.”
“I know that the way we met was weird,” Billy says. “And the way we got to know each other was even weirder, and now you’re teaching me all this magic stuff, but – I’d still want to hang out, even if we weren’t doing the magic stuff. You’re not just a teacher to me. You’re a friend. Maybe my best friend.”
“Why are you being so gay right now?” After a moment’s observation, Agatha points accusingly with her toothbrush. “This is coming from Rio. She gave you the shovel talk.”
“Sort of, yeah.” Billy takes another long draft of his tea. Adding liquor is starting to sound like a decent idea. “I obviously don’t know everything that went down when you were alive, but I know there was a lot of hurt. I know that Rio watched you get hurt.”
“You think you can hurt me,” Agatha says, bundling herself in her blanket. “That’s adorable.”
But Billy remembers what Agatha’s face looked like after he commanded her to stay away from Alice’s body. He remembers the broken yolks of Agatha’s eyes after he declared that she could never be anything but a covenless witch, the vulnerability sneaking out for a fraction of a second before she slapped the mask of indifference back on. Against his own will, Billy thinks that he’s actually quite well-equipped to hurt the witch who keeps a lock of brown hair in her broach that easily could’ve come from Billy’s head.
“Whether or not I can, I don’t want to,” Billy says. “And not just because Rio would skin me alive if I did.”
Agatha rolls her eyes. “She’s such a drama queen. You couldn’t hurt a fly, my guy. Literally. I’ve seen you try to kill the roaches that love camping out in your bathroom, and it ain’t pretty. If you want to have the stupid party, then we’ll have the stupid party. Rio can play nice for an afternoon.”
“But she shouldn’t have to play nice, Agatha.” Billy steals Agatha’s pillow, hugging it to his chest. “The party wasn’t supposed to be something she needs to grit her teeth to get through. It was supposed to be for her.”
“I mean…no,” Agatha says gently. “It was gonna be for you. You were thinking about the Westview birthdays you didn’t get to have when Wanda was making you grow like a weed, and you wanted to prove that it's not too late to make up for lost time. And that’s fine, I keep telling you that it’s not the end of the world to be selfish, sometimes. My girl’s used to adapting to what people need in a crisis. The dead are a very needy group.”
“Yeah, Exhibit A,” Billy says, gesturing to Agatha’s ghostly form. Agatha kicks him in the shoulder. “But that’s the thing. Rio changes her appearance to make the recently-deceased feel better, right? I know that Death gets a bad rap, but she’s always doing stuff to take care of someone else. She deserves to be the person getting taken care of, once in a while.”
In a rush, a torrent of Agatha’s memories invade Billy’s head:
You’re being such a baby, Agatha is telling Rio earlier that evening; Rio's storming around the Manhattan townhouse that the two of them stole from a paralyzingly superstitious real estate mogul with a persistent fear of haunted houses. How’re you gonna act like a baby when, as we’ve established, you were never born? As the kids say, make it make sense.
I’m not acting like anything, Rio says, swishing the length of her long black cape angrily. I’m not a person, remember? I don’t have things like feelings or opinions. All I have is my trusty knife. Stabby-stabby.
Right. No big feelings here. This tantrum’s just throwing itself. Maybe this place really is haunted.
Rio unsheaths said trusty knife. Do yourself a favor and go spend the night at your protégé’s place. If you stay here, I might do something I’m gonna regret.
Ooh, Agatha says, flicking the tip of Rio’s knife. I’m quaking in my ooky-spooky ghost boots.
Before the spigot of Agatha’s thoughts fully shuts off, Billy gets a flash of Rio grabbing the back of Agatha’s neck; she rams their mouths together, still brandishing the blade with a white-knuckled fist. “Seriously?” Billy says, shaking his head to clear the image. “What is it with you guys and knives?”
“How’re we supposed to have makeup sex if we don’t have breakup sex?” Agatha says, squinting like she’s trying to explain to a dimwitted child that the sky is blue. “Again, let’s put on our thinking caps.”
“Did you tell her that she doesn’t have feelings or something?” Billy asks, mulling over the overheard memory fragments.
“What? No.” Agatha taps the toothbrush against her chin contemplatively. “But I might’ve…hm.”
“Might’ve what?”
“I might’ve joked – joked – that she wasn’t a person.”
Billy puts his head in his hands. “Agatha.”
“In my defense, the literal definition of person – pull up dictionary dot com right now. Do it. Does it say anything about weird fuckin’ prehistoric god-ladies?”
“But she didn’t hear ‘you don’t fit the dictionary definition,’” Billy says through his hands. “She heard ‘you don’t have feelings.’”
A rarity: Agatha falls quiet. When Billy feels up to lifting his head, his mentor is worrying at her broach, her eyebrows knitted together.
Another tsunami of memories:
Heartless, an Agatha of centuries past is shouting, her hands bunched in a layered eighteenth-century dress. Unfeeling monster – stealing him in his sleep – you could not deign to grant me even the mercy of a last word, a last kiss to his forehead –
No, Rio says desperately, grabbing at Agatha’s hands. Before we left, he – I made sure he – you might not have felt it, darling, you sleep so soundly, but –
Don't touch me with this false shell of a body, Agatha snarls, ripping her hands out of Rio’s reach. This beautiful lie you insist on wearing like the snakeskin it is. The time for pretending at humanity has long since passed. I have seen your true self, Lady Death. You are nothing more than the bones of cruelty incarnate.
“You gotta get a handle on this home invasion thing, kid,” Agatha says, stemming the tide of thoughts with visible effort. “The next time you bust down the door to my mind palace, I’m calling the supercops.”
“The party’s back on,” Billy says, standing abruptly.
Agatha resumes her concerned squinting. “You dip into that particular memory and suddenly you’re in the mood to do the macarena?”
“Something like that.” Billy fetches his notebook, flipping back to his nearly-blank page of notes. “Do you have any idea where we can find some nightshade?”
With her hand on the doorknob of Billy’s apartment, Rio shuts her eyes and does the two things that have always helped her get through the hardest parts of her job: deep breathing and thinking about Agatha.
She’s doing this for Agatha, she tells herself. As wounded as she is by her beloved’s shameless preference for her surrogate son, this wound isn’t new. Far from it. For three hundred years, Agatha’s longed to be a mother, and Rio’s longed to make Agatha happy. Once in a while, they both find a way to kinda-sorta get what they want.
“I’m coming in,” Rio says loudly, turning the knob. “If you shout ‘surprise’ I’m yeeting your souls straight to hell.”
“Surprise,” Agatha says, blowing a party horn. “Yeet me. I double-dog dare you.”
Apart from Agatha, the apartment’s empty. Rio takes a tentative step inside, surveying the corners for signs of blue magic. “Am I fashionably early?”
“Nope, you’re twenty minutes late. Which is early for you, I know.” Agatha hands her a rainbow-colored pointy hat, strapping the elastic of her own hat under her chin. “Billy’s taking the boyfriend to the movies. His lack of presence is his present.”
Rio pulls the little hat on over her hood. “Two-person party? That’s loser behavior.”
“Guess you’re a loser, then.” Agatha drags her in for a kiss. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. You want some cake? No candles, so lower your expectations. I didn’t want to start a bonfire.”
“Sure,” Rio says, still scrutinizing the apartment for any indication of an unpleasant birthday-related surprise. “So the boy made the cake and then dipped? He didn’t even invite anyone? I was expecting a houseful of gay youths. You’re telling me I’m not gonna have to spend the night pretending to care about boygenius and being called a queer elder?”
“The queer eldest.” Agatha leads them to the kitchen, where a towering cake wobbles precariously on the counter. “In Billy’s words, birthdays are supposed to be spent with the people you like, and…”
There’s only one person that Rio likes. “Smells good,” Rio says, leaning in to get a better look at the cake’s blue-black frosting. “Wait – is that – ”
“Guess who’s finally gonna try the death cake!” Agatha cackles, carving them both a slice of the chocolate-nightshade monstrosity. “You thought you could gatekeep this shit from me forever. No dice, bitch.”
“Sorry for not wanting you to die,” Rio says, heaping cake into her mouth. “Fuck, that’s so good. God.”
“Hey,” Agatha says sternly, trying her first forkful. “You save that kinda talk for after dessert. …Holy shit, that’s – oh my god – ”
“Right?” Rio inhales the rest of her slice, immediately cutting a second. “Maybe birthdays don’t entirely suck. Same time next year?”
“Oh, we’re just getting started.” From thin air, Agatha produces a large card and a wrapped box that’s making a concerning skittering noise. Keeping a careful eye on the box, Rio dislodges the card from its envelope, half-expecting something to fly out at her face.
HERE’S HOPING DEATH IS GONNA STEER CLEAR THIS YEAR! the front of the card reads; Agatha’s crossed out the last four words, instead scrawling WEAR SOMETHIN SEXYYYYY.
“Classy,” Rio says, flipping the card open.
Dear Rio, the inside of the card says in Agatha’s illegible handwriting. Billy told me I had to get through this with no jokes or he was gonna make me get him something for his birthday after all. Please believe me when I say I would rather die again than try to go shopping for a twenty-year-old, so here goes.
I know you’ve never been a big fan of birthdays. Mine always meant being one year closer to me leaving you, and Nicky’s was (a handful of words are scratched out) just a marker of the time that (more words scratched out) you couldn’t keep giving him. But none of that matters now. We’re together, and a trip around the sun is just a trip around the sun. Time can’t do shit to us anymore.
As far as I’m concerned, June 2nd is my birthday, too, because I don’t think I really started living until I met you. When I saw this beautiful form of yours, I started believing that there might be a place for me in this world after all. You're that place.
You’re not just a person – you’re my favorite person. Here’s to thirteen billion more June 2nds with you, my love.
P.S. While you’ve been reading this, I’ve been eating the rest of the cake. Suuuuuckerrrrrrr.
“Fucking – ” Rio whips around to find Agatha with her cheeks ballooned with cake.
“I wuv oo,” Agatha says through her egregiously-full mouth.
“I hope the nightshade kills you again, asshole.” Rio runs her thumb over the card’s dried ink. “Let’s make it fourteen billion June 2nds. Then we get divorced for real.”
“Deal.” Agatha nudges the twitching box towards her. “Open your gift before it freaks the fuck out.”
“‘It – ?’”
Rio tears the paper off, lifting the box’s lid to reveal the biggest, hairiest tarantula she’s ever seen. Its eight eyes glare up at her menacingly, the pincers clicking a somber warning.
“Baby!” Rio squeals, nuzzling the tarantula against her cheek. It attempts to gore her with its pincers, hissing. “Oh, honey, I love him.”
“I thought you might,” Agatha says warmly, dislodging a glob of nightshade frosting from her hair. (She really did consume the entirety of their leftovers while Rio was reading the card.) “He doesn’t go on the furniture, okay?”
“Mm. We’ll see.” Rio clasps two of the tarantula’s legs, swinging him around in a circle. “I like birthdays now. So glad I decided to be born today.”
“You’ve got one present left,” Agatha says, fetching a small parcel of tissue paper from the depths of her coat. “This one’s from Billy, so don’t blame me if it’s lame. He wouldn't let me peek.”
Rio examines the delicate packaging. A small blue bow is tied around the tissue paper; there’s a note taped to the underside. Something to hold, the note reads in Billy’s pretty cursive.
When Rio folds the paper back, her breath catches in her unnecessary lungs.
Lying at the center of the small parcel is a necklace, not unlike Agatha’s in size and shape. The ovular object hanging from the silver chain is not, however, a depiction of the Triple Goddess – it’s a teardrop of clear resin, a pressed flower lying suspended inside. The clipped petals of a purple azalea.
A very familiar purple azalea.
“Is that me?” Agatha says incredulously, examining the cutting taken from Rio’s garden of mourning at 2804 Sherwood Drive.
“The kid’s a birthday expert after all,” Rio says softly, brushing the remaining traces of frosting from Agatha’s hair. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”
When Rio slips the chain over her head, the lump of resin lands on her chest, as uncomfortably cold as Agatha’s hands had been the first time that they’d touched in her ghost form. But Rio likes the necklace’s weight, the constant reminder of what she'll carry with her forever. Looking fondly at her wife in her dumbass party hat, Rio presses her fingers to the preserved petals – the chunk of their past that she’ll keep over her heart as they forge their joyful, endless future.