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aparticularbandit · 2 years ago

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Agathian Backstory Pt. 5

this is evanora’s part.

we do not hate her here.

trigger warnings for eating disorders and the discussion thereof, hospitals, transphobia, and a brief, minor physical altercation.

It takes about an hour for the anesthesia to wear off, and in that time, Cian doesn’t leave Agatha’s side. They do send Wong to their friend’s apartment with their spare key to find them a more suitable outfit (with very strict instructions that this is not a time to play a prank, Wong; we are stuck in a hospital, Wong; please don’t bring anything that will make this worse, Wong, despite knowing that, specifically because they said that he will definitely bring a joke of an outfit first. They are in a hospital. A very horrible thing has just happened. And even though, yes, it seems like Agatha might turn out fine, it will still be oddly relieving to have something to laugh about). Dr. Palmer, who eventually asks for Cian to call her Christine, pokes her head in once to see how Agatha is doing, but not much changes while the anesthetic grog lingers.

Eventually, though, Agatha’s brow furrows again, deeper this time, and her eyes start to flicker open. She winces. Where…? Grunt. Shift. Why…? She lifts her hand, stares at the IV, raises her fingertips to her nose, touches one of the tubes there, and starts to pull on it. Ow ow ow ow—

Cian reaches over and places a hand gentle on Agatha’s. You need to leave that, dear, they say softly. They’ll just put it back in if you pull it out.

But it hurts, and I’m breathing just fine on my own, and I didn’t want it, and— Agatha’s eyes widen. She blinks twice. Turns. Cian? Takes a second, struggles. What are you—

You had them call me, Cian says just as softly as before. Do you remember that?

Agatha shakes her head. No, I…. Her voice trails away. She slumps back against the bed. Fiddles with the feeding tube. Winces. Can you take this out for me?

No, dear. Cian takes her straying hand and clasps it warmly between both of theirs. You have to leave it in.

It hurts. And I don’t need it, and— Agatha’s gaze returns to Cian, meets their eyes. Blinks. You’re my emergency contact. I’m in the hospital. I fell. Brows knot with confusion. Did you see me fall?

Cian shakes their head. No, but I saw you dance. You were beautiful.

Agatha blushes bright, and a huge smile spreads across her face. I was, wasn’t I? Did you know that The Nutcracker is my absolute favorite ballet? I’ve always wanted to be in a real performance of it, and now I have been, and— She wraps her arms tightly around herself, winces again, hunches over. It hurts, Cian. I fell, and it hurts.

You got hurt pretty bad, little one. Cian reaches over again, brushes their hand gentle through her dark hair, tucks it behind one ear.

Everything hurts.

Cian nods as Agatha remains hunched over. Do you want me to get your doctor?

No! Agatha’s head snaps up, eyes wild and panicked. Don’t tell Mom, I don’t want her to know, she can’t know—

Sh, Cian murmurs as soothingly as they can, cupping Agatha’s cheek, brushing their thumb comfortingly along her skin. You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s a lie, because Agatha is very much not okay, but they can’t tell her that. They try to ignore how easily Agatha curves into their touch, but they can’t help but notice it. Your mother can’t not know, dear. You collapsed during a performance. You’re in the ICU—

She won’t know if you don’t tell her! Agatha’s eyes meet Cian’s, bright and blue and hazy and still panicked. I don’t want Mom to know, Cian, she can’t know about—

I can’t know what?

Agatha takes a sharp breath in, cloudy gaze sweeping over Cian’s shoulder, hands scrambling, reaching over, until Cian’s hand drops to take hers, and even then, Agatha clings tight to them, so tight it would hurt if Cian were paying any attention to that. Mama?

It is only then, with the full weight of Agatha’s drugged panic on their shoulders, that Cian turns to Evanora. She stands there, just in the doorway, in nothing more than a very, very thin faded lilac gown covered with hand-drawn daisies, a thick fluffy stained white robe, and fluffy pink house slippers. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a french braid, but strands have ripped out and hover, static-like, around her face. It’s hard to see them in the harsh hospital light, but there are a few small streaks of white and grey here and there. Her chest heaves, face splotchy from running; her grey eyes rest squarely on Cian. What are you doing? she growls.

Cian is suddenly aware of exactly how Evanora found them.

It would be wisest to take their hands from Agatha’s, to raise them in a defensive position in an attempt to calm her mother down, but Cian keeps their hands where they are, where Agatha still holds tight to them, squeezing tighter every time that Evanora speaks. It’s not what you think, Evanora—

Evanora steps forward, rage rippling from her. Have you been fucking my daughter? The first time, her voice is quiet, quivering.

Cian stares her down. Evanora. Be reasonable—

ARE YOU FUCKING MY DAUGHTER?

The second time, Evanora’s voice roars so loud that Agatha pulls her hands from Cian’s and covers her ears with them. Mama!

But Evanora isn’t even paying attention to Agatha, so embroiled in her own rage. She’s across in an instant, grabbing Cian by their bomber jacket, dragging them up, and it doesn’t matter that Cian is a full foot taller than Evanora is because Evanora has torn them to her face. I trusted you—

With a child who was not eating, Evanora. Do you really think I would fuck a child?

Does she look like a child to you? Evanora growls, other hand pointing to Agatha, who has curled up into a ball as much as she can, hands over her ears, rocking and muttering to herself.

Cian remains calm, doesn’t let their gaze leave Evanora. You are not listening to me, dear. I would never—

You’re LYING. Evanora slams Cian back against their chair so hard that the chair topples backwards with a loud clatter that is nevertheless not as loud as Evanora’s voice, shoving Cian onto the floor. I saw what you were doing, and I know what you and your kind are, and you will not have my—

As Evanora steps closer to Cian, the door opens again, and Wong, seeing what is happening but not understanding the half of it, grabs Evanora’s arm and pulls her back. Hey. Leave them alone. He tugs her away from Cian, new set of clothes in a bag that spills as he tries to separate her. I don’t know who you are, but—

Evanora’s eyes catch the set of clothes first. Is that LINGERIE? She screams.

Cian winces and glares up at Wong.

It was a joke! We needed a joke! Wong tries to explain.

I told you not to—

Mama, I’m fine, nothing happened, please stop screaming—

And then the door opens again and Christine is there, dragging Evanora – still screaming – out of the room, even as Evanora tries to lunge back in. That is my daughter—

I don’t care who you are, but this is a hospital. You are aggravating my patient, Christine continues, glaring straight into Evanora’s eyes and then turning angrily to meet Cian’s as they follow them out, and if you cannot calm down, you cannot go back in there. She meets Evanora’s eyes again. Do you understand me?

Evanora glares angrily at Cian, who stands there, just outside of the door, hands clasped easily in front of them. Not easily. None of this is easy. Yet they hold Evanora’s gaze steadily. They have done nothing wrong. They know this. Evanora knows this, or would if she wasn’t so overcome with everything.

Say whatever you want about me, Cian says, still, soft, practiced, but say it out here. Agatha needs to rest. She’s been through a lot—

Fuck you for trying to keep me from— Evanora starts to say, still struggling against Christine’s arms.

I’m the one who called you, Evanora, Cian continues, just as calm as before. If not for me, you wouldn’t be here at all. Please consider that when you say I’m keeping you from her, when you think I could possibly ever…. Their voice trails off. They won’t say it. They can’t.

Evanora takes a deep breath in. Lets it out. Steps back from Christine, out of her grasp, and finally, finally, takes a moment to look at her. Who are you?

Agatha’s doctor, Christine says, still aggravated. You’re her mother?

You didn’t call me.

I’m her emergency contact, Cian says, and in as calm yet still pointed a manner as they can, continues, and I think you’ve just demonstrated why.

Wong steps out of Agatha’s room hesitantly, holding the bag with Cian’s clothes in it out to them. I brought you some pants. Figured that would be warmer. You can change in…. He gives Evanora a look, grits his teeth together, and turns back to Cian, whispering, There’s a bathroom in—

I know. I’ve been in Agatha’s room for a while. I’ve seen it. Cian glances over to Evanora, sighs. For her sake, they should use the public one. They should pick a side. A little discomfort isn’t anything at all, if it will help calm her down.

I know what you and your kind are rings heavy in their head.

Cian takes the bag, shoves it down. I’ll be back. They place a hand on Christine’s shoulder. If you could…if you could catch her up to speed? I don’t have it in me. They don’t wait for the response. They’ll do it if Christine doesn’t. They’ve done it before.

This is nothing new.

Choosing a bathroom is the worst. They know they look more feminine now, so they can’t go in the men’s side without having to worry, but when they come out, they will look more masculine, so they can’t go into the women’s side without having to worry either. And neither feels particularly right. Unfortunately, women are allowed to have more masculine presentation, especially in a hospital, but going into a normal men’s bathroom like this? It shouldn’t matter.

(It is 1998. It matters. Cian has only been gone for a year, but they were here for the eleven before that. It matters.)

Cian stuffs their old outfit on top of the lingerie, really, Wong, in what realm was that a good idea, and don’t say the astral one, shoving it in even further as they get closer to Agatha’s room again and find Evanora still standing outside, arms crossed, staring through the great glass windows in on her daughter. Eventually, Cian can see Agatha sitting, arms clasped in her lap, listening to something that Christine is telling her. Wong is nowhere to be seen.

Why aren’t you in there with her?

I wanted, Evanora says, voice still gruff, to apologize. She glances to Cian, swallows once, and it’s only now that Cian can see how red Evanora’s eyes are, the tear tracks along her cheeks. You called me, and you did not deserve my reaction. Or that comment about…about your kind. That was misplaced, and I was wrong to say it.

Cian nods slow in agreement but not in entire acceptance. Sometimes we say in anger what we most fear to be truth, they murmur. Evanora, I have never once so much as made an inappropriate gesture to your daughter.

I know. Evanora sighs, wraps her arms tighter about herself. You have been nothing but good to her. Better than I’ve been.

The appropriate – polite – response in this situation would be something to make Evanora feel better, something like you were just too close to see it or don’t be so hard on yourself; you did the best you could. But Cian can’t make themself say it. Not any of it. I told you she wasn’t eating.

I kn—

I told you this was a bad idea.

I—

You refused to listen to me, and now she is—

I know. There’s no anger in Evanora’s voice this time, just hurt. I know. You don’t have to tell me all of that. She licks her lips. She didn’t want me to know.

Of course, she didn’t want you to know. You’re her mother. She doesn’t want to disappoint you. Cian says all of this still staring through the glass at Agatha, who, eventually, glances their way. Her gaze flicks to her mother, still half-panicked, but Evanora raises a couple of fingers in a gentle waggle of a wave, tries to offer her daughter a weary smile. Agatha does not relax until her gaze returns to Cian.

You should go in there, Cian says, firm.

Evanora shakes her head. She doesn’t want me. She wants you.

Finally, Cian looks over to her again. You are her mother. You already know. It will be worse if you don’t—

Give it some time. Evanora turns and walks down the hall, stuffing her hands into her robe’s pockets as she does.

Cian stares after her until she rounds the bend of the hallway. They shake their head then turn to Agatha, who stares at the empty space where her mother once stood. Then they enter the room again.

Where did she go? Agatha asks as soon as Cian walks in.

Bathroom, Cian lies. She should be back in a few minutes. They sit on the chair next to Agatha, take in how her eyes are growing red, and pulls one of her hands into theirs. She’s not mad at you, dear.

Agatha snorts. No, she’s mad at you. She smiles, but it looks out of place on her gaunt face. I’ve never seen her so mad in my entire life.

Cian almost – almost – smiles. Instead, they give a little nod. Better me than you, dear one. Then their gaze returns to Christine. What did I miss?

We need to keep Agatha here for a few days. The feeding tubes are giving her the nutrients she needs, but—

I can eat just fine, Agatha interrupts, and she reaches up, fiddles with one of the tubes again. This hurts.

Christine shoots Cian a look before her gaze returns to Agatha. It will hurt to take them out, too. We need to hold you overnight due to your surgery regardless. It’s the anorexia – the not eating that concerns us most.

Agatha just rolls her eyes. I’m a ballerina. I eat just fine for my job. Cian, you can tell her, can’t you?

Cian gives Agatha’s hand as gentle a squeeze as they can. Agatha, I’ve been trying to get you to eat ever since I met you, and every time, you have tried to weasel out of it. Ballerinas are athletes, dear, which means you need to eat more so that your body has enough fuel to do what you’re forcing it through. By not eating, you are only making yourself—

I’m fine, Agatha interrupts, and her gaze falls on Cian, glaring at them. Just because I don’t eat around you doesn’t mean I’m not—

Agatha, you fainted because your body couldn’t keep itself going, Christine says. It has literally been eating itself, taking what it needs out of your muscles – like your heart – to try and maintain itself. It is wearing out. If you keep going like this, you will die.

I won’t die. Agatha rolls her eyes, crosses her arms. Eventually, yes, but I would be good enough right now if I didn’t have these painful— She pulls on the feeding tubes with one hand, winces, but tries a little more until Cian reaches over to place their hand on hers. So I need to eat more. I’ll eat more. Great. Are we done here? Because all of you seem worried about something that isn’t a problem. If you would just let me out of here, I can be good—

No, Evanora says, voice soft, from just inside the door. You cannot.

Agatha’s eyes widen. Mom, I—

No, Agatha, Evanora repeats. She steps forward, the door shutting behind her, finally clicking shut. There had been no sound when she entered, or if there had, it had been so soft it could barely be heard over Agatha’s increasingly frustrated tone. Her voice is still soft, which is somehow worse than when it had been so loud before. You will end up in an early grave, just like your father did—

My.... What about Dad?

—and I will not be part of it. Evanora presses her lips together, shakes her head. Not again. She glances briefly towards Cian. You can see her die, if you want, but I won’t stay and see my daughter throw the rest of her life away just because she wants to—

You wanted this for me! Agatha yells out, sits up, tries to get out of the bed, but the feeding tubes rip through, hold her in place; she cries out with trying to force them out with her sudden movement, and Christine moves, holds her against the bed. Still, Agatha struggles against her. You told me it would be hard, and it was! You told me it would be work, and it was! And I’m here! Why can’t you be proud of me?

Of this? Evanora gestures, holding a hand out to her daughter. Of you stuck in a hospital bed because you won’t eat? Dying? How could I be proud of that, Ata? She steps forward, stops herself. You are worth so much more than—

Don’t talk to me about how much I’m worth. Agatha grits her teeth together, slumps against the bed. You only think I’m worth something because I’m good at something, because I’m exactly who you want me to be. Or I would be, if I weren’t here.

Evanora swallows once. You’re not good, Ata. This isn’t good. And if you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to them. She nods to Cian. They saw it when I couldn’t, and they’ll be here for you when I’m not. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Her voice tightens. I’m not…I can’t just stay by while you die. She glances to Cian again. Take care of her, if she changes her mind. Then she turns away.

Mama—

Evanora hesitates, one hand flat on the door. Then she shakes her head. Leaves.

Agatha gets discharged on Christmas Day.

Cian waits for her, grips her hand tight as the snow begins to fall. Is this what you want, dear?

Agatha raises one shoulder as though to shrug, drops it, nods, doesn’t raise her head.

A gust of air hits them both, and Agatha shivers like a piece of loose leaf paper in front of a wind turbine. Cian wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her against them. It’s really windy today.

I can tell.

Cian guides her to their car, but Agatha just stares at it. What in the— She looks up. Cian, what is this?

A DeLorean. Cian lifts the door on Agatha’s side, pats the hood of the car. My baby. I’ve been getting her fixed up for a while, and…. Their voice trails off. You’re not moving.

Agatha just continues to stare at the car. This is absolutely the worst car I have ever seen. This thing is a death trap. I finally decide to try this thing you think is going to help me, and you want me to get into a car that is actually going to kill me.

She’s not that bad. Cian runs a hand gentle over the roof of the car before opening their own door and slipping inside. They hold out a hand to Agatha. This is the only way back, dear.

Back where?

Cian takes a deep breath. That’s the hard part of all of this, isn’t it? The company may have told Agatha she has time to leave and get well – as much as she needs – that there will always be a spot open for her, but that isn’t quite true, is it? They’ll have to fill her spot with an understudy, and they’ll keep that understudy on over her for as long as they want. Eventually, the new ballerina will fill the role, will have the role, in whatever comes next. They won’t expect Agatha to audition again; they’ll just expect her to stay gone forever, just as they would have with Cian, if they hadn’t decided on an early retirement instead.

They say she’s going back, but they’re taking her somewhere she’s never been before.

Still, one corner of their lips curves upward in the barest hint of hope.

Home.

Agatha glances up, red eyes meeting Cian’s, and she nods once. Then she takes their hand, slips into the car, and shuts the door with enough force to cause them to flinch. Cian, if I die in this thing—

You honestly think I would let you die? Cian asks, one brow raising.

Agatha flushes, turns away, bites her lower lip. No, she says finally, I don’t think you will.

Cian takes her hand in theirs again, gives it a squeeze. On an impulse, they want to raise it to their lips, kiss her knuckles. But they don’t. Let’s go, they say instead, running a thumb across the back of her hand.

Let’s go home.

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aparticularbandit · 2 years ago

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Agatha and Stephen Go on a Trip: In Which Agatha Investigates and Stephen Has a Surprise

Summary: At Wanda’s request, Agatha questions Stephen about too-long absent members of their family. When she recasts an old spell, they end up going on a journey that neither of them really wanted.

Sequel to Finding Family.

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: T.

AO3

next chapter

She told herself she would never actually go in the New York Sanctum again, after that last time, but the problem with telling herself that is knowing that, well. As long as she literally had an apartment right next door. Inevitably.

But honestly, she had a rent controlled apartment in New York City. Sure, sure, she could use magic to override her landlord’s mind and make it completely free (and, sure, she might have already done that once or twice over the past few decades, when whoever inherited the building tried to fuck around with her (How can you be the same resident from over a century ago? That’s not possible! – Dear, you live on a planet of superheroes that gets visited by aliens, and you think you have some normal human being just hanging out in this apartment? That you can boss around? This is why New York gets attacked by every new wannabe villain; it’s not the Worf Effect or a symbol or anything – it’s entitled landlords not remembering that people with powers exist and can punch the ever-loving shit out of them when they get pissed off. Almost as bad as working in customer service. Yeesh)) – but what would be the fun in that? She’s not Wanda, after all. She doesn’t need everything to go her way all of the time.

Admittedly, Wanda is the reason she’s here in the first place. Something about America and Wendy being part of this new Baby Vengeance team or something like that (she knows the real name, but she enjoys seeing the frustration in Wanda’s expression when she refuses to use the right term, loves seeing her pinch the bridge of her nose, delights when, eventually, Wanda says, “I’m not even going to correct you anymore, Agatha; I know you’re doing this on purpose” and still sighing with exasperation anyway); something about how they’ve been gone for far too long this time. That thin tremor under her voice that suggests just how worried she’s trying not to be.

For a witch able to control the very fabric of reality in this universe, Wanda has gotten surprisingly good at not sticking her nose into everybody else’s business.

Why would she need to do that when she has Agatha to do it for her?

(In most cases, Agnes would be better, but they can’t get Agnes without having America open a portal to that universe she and Ash are shacking up in, so she’s the next best thing. Besides. She has centuries of being the New York Sanctum’s nosy neighbor. It’s just a shame that Cian is no longer here to see it.)

Agatha mutters a spell just under her breath, one hand flicking through a sequence of specific gestures, and reaches her mind into the sanctum. Someone with an unguarded mind doesn’t need this high of a spell to be simply touched, but the sanctum itself provides an impressive barrier to anyone who doesn’t have the right password. Fortunately for her, the new master hadn’t changed it when he arrived. Honestly, he probably doesn’t even know how, isn’t even aware of the threads of witchcraft woven into the sorcery that protects his “domain”.

All her spells, so even if he did try to change things, it wouldn’t really work. He’d need another witch to help him.

Of course, he could always ask Wanda, but the poor dear doesn’t have the level of sophisticated knowledge to craft a spell as intricate as this one. Power, sure. But it’s always the knowledge that will get in her way. She’d teach her, if Wanda asked, but she’s never felt the need.

Or maybe it’s just her.

That’s fine. She won’t take it personally.

(Wanda did learn that nifty spell Agatha used to create a sound barrier around the room they share whenever she visits. That had been a nice surprise.)

Agatha sighs loudly as she strides into the sanctum, one arm crossed against her chest, the elbow of the other in her hand, pointer finger pulling on her lower lip. “Oh, Stephen, dear?” she calls, hearing her voice echo most pleasantly around the hollow room. “You have a visitor who does not like to be kept waiting.”

And yet – despite the fact that she knows he is here – she’d reached out and touched his mind so softly that he probably never felt her presence – there’s a long wait before anything happens at all.

One should never leave a bored Agatha Harkness waiting.

Stephen isn’t even the one who goes to see her. For all his posturing, he isn’t the Sorcerer Supreme, and yet he keeps his broken fingers in whatever intricate work he is doing and sends his Supreme to go speak with her. Wong strides down the only remotely impressive staircase (it’s impressive if you’ve never traveled the world, and it’s impressive because when Cian brought her here to build the sanctum with them, she’d want a staircase such as this, and they hadn’t denied it to her, so Agatha is certain that if anyone is allowed to make fun of the staircase, it’s her) and stops before he reaches the last step. “What did you do?”

“I got bored.”

Agatha stands on the edge of the last step and smiles down at the tidal pool she’s crafted along the open floor. She kneels down as a bright orange koi fish draws near to her, brushes a finger along its spine, and then holds out some fish food for him to nibble on. “Beautiful creatures, aren’t they?”

When Wong doesn’t say anything, Agatha straightens. “Don’t worry. You can still walk on them. See, look—” She makes to step into the pond, and Wong grabs her arm. It’s a nice gesture, one she’s certain Strange wouldn’t have made at all, but unnecessary. She shakes his hand off and sets her foot down; the pool ripples as it would as if she stepped into it, and yet her foot doesn’t sink beneath the waves. “Magic.”

“Agatha—”

“It will be fun, don’t you think, hon?” Agatha asks, turning to him with a soft smile. “For Strange to stumble around before realizing he can’t get wet?” It is only then that she moves up the last two stairs to him and touches his face gently with one hand. “Good to see you, Wong, but my fight is not with you.”

“We just cleaned the place.” Wong gives her a firm look. “Don’t be the reason we have to do it again.”

Agatha snorts. “You’re the Sorcerer Supreme, Wong. You should never have to clean up after anyone.” She reaches over to pat his shoulder before passing him by.

“The Ancient One did,” Wong says, just as she passes.

For a moment, Agatha pauses. “They aren’t here anymore,” she says, finally, “and I told them to stop doing that a long time ago.” She gives Wong’s shoulder another pat. “Quit letting Strange walk all over you, hon. You are the Sorcerer Supreme. Not him. He’s just a grunt, and you—” She cuts herself off with a deep sigh. “Never mind. He’s in that brooding room again, isn’t he? Doing the deep magical angsty brooding?” Turns just enough to waggle her fingers. “Being all Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way?”

Wong chuckles. “He’s not that bad.”

“He probably hasn’t even read that fic.”

“I haven’t.” Wong shoots her a look as she continues to climb the stairs. “You haven’t.”

“Don’t have to read something I had a hand in writing,” Agatha calls back in a singsong voice from the top of the stairs. She waves a hand dismissively, takes the first immediate right, and heads off for the room she always finds Strange in. When he doesn’t, you know, come storming down the staircase as soon as she arrives just to try and shoo her out the front door. (Which never works, by the way, although he just keeps trying.)

“Agatha,” Strange begins in his grumbling, annoyed bass of a voice as soon as she cracks the door open, “I do not have time for your pestering—”

“Oh, I’m not here for pestering, Stevie boy—” Agatha leaves the door cracked open, even as the sorcerer’s feeble attempts at magic crackle around her. “—and honestly, you should keep to your sorcery shtick. The magic you’re running in here is bad code.” She tucks one pinky into it, straightens some of the fraying edges, and plops down cross-legged on the ground across from him. “I’m here on business.”

Strange doesn’t even look up from the orb he’s pondering. “I don’t remember having any business with you.”

Agatha’s grin turns wolfish. “I didn’t say it was my business, hon.”

“And don’t call me Stevie boy.”

“Stevie Wonder, then.” Agatha’s grin grows as Strange’s discomfort does, and she leans forward. “I’m here on behalf of my god-daughter and my apprentice—”

“Your what?” Stephen’s head snaps up, and the orb in front of him sparks dangerously orange. His eyes widen. “Shit—” His gaze returns to the orb. “This really isn’t the best time—”

Agatha ignores him. “See, that’s the thing, hon. It’s been more than enough time since Wendy and America should come back to visit—”

One of Stephen’s eyebrows raises. “Since when has Wendy become your god-daughter—”

“Wendy is my apprentice, and America is—”

“When did you even meet her parents?”

“You know, in another universe, the Chavez family and I are quite close.” Agatha begins to examine the orb curiously. “You’re doing that wrong. You want to—”

Stephen grits his teeth together. “I know what I’m doing Agatha—”

Again, Agatha ignores him. “You want to do this—” She draws a complicated sorcerer’s diagram on the ground beneath the orb, and it glows a golden orange – lighter than the blazing fire red orange of that contained in the orb – before snapping once. Then the diagram disappears, as does the angry spiking glow within the orb. “Told you.”

“I wanted that—” Stephen swallows down his frustration and glares at her with ice blue eyes. On a weaker person, that might have meant something, but Agatha’s seen worse. Dealt with worse. She’s not intimidated by this egotistic asshat. He brushes his hands along his hoodie and then sticks them into the front pocket. “What. do. you. want?” he asks, each word a sentence on its own, emphasized by his continuing frustration with her.

Agatha holds up one finger. “America.” She flicks up a second. “Wendy.” She smiles in a way that is much more baring her teeth than smiling. “Where are they?”

“On a mission—”

“Where—”

“I can’t just take you—”

“You normally send them out of this room, don’t you, wonder boy?” Agatha asks. She breathes in the dust of magical after-effects, runs the taste of crusty old sorcery along her tongue, grimaces because Strange’s attempts are nowhere near as tasty as Cian’s had been, and then lets out a breath. “I can follow them just fine.” She stands and gives him a wink. “Thanks for the—”

“Wait—”

Strange grabs Agatha’s wrist just as she snaps her fingers, just as she follows the traces of a teleportation spell that reeked of decomposed age, cementing it around the moment that America and Wendy disappeared, and when her cloud of violently violet smoke surrounds her, it surrounds him, too. The cape around his neck tries desperately to keep him from leaving – almost hard enough to keep her there, too, except that Agatha’s magic is older and sterner and more cantankerous than Stephen’s attempts at sorcery are, and when she digs in her metaphorical heels a little harder, the cape loses its grip, and they fly away.

When the smoke clears, Agatha finds herself in a not unfamiliar place.

One she should not have been able to get to simply by using magic.

Her eyes narrow as she turns to Stephen. “You sent them back to Neverland. Using sorcery.” She glares at him. “How? And more importantly, why?”

Stephen straightens himself, and as he does, his cloak fixes itself about his neck more properly. He pulls a sparkling blue stone out of his hoodie pocket and dangles it on a thick, dark steel chain. “This was supposed to be destroyed. And yet, I have one. Why do you think that—”

“The universe naturally wants to reconstruct those atoms into a complete whole again, and—” Agatha cuts herself off and pinches the bridge of her nose. “That would take thousands of years. Tens of thousands of years. How did you get a Space Stone, hon?”

Stephen sighs. “It’s a long story.”

Agatha gestures to the world around them and then crosses her arms. “I think we’ve got all the time in the universe, wonder boy. Get to talking.”

#bandit fic #finding family with wanda and america #going on a journey with agatha and stephen #agatha harkness #stephen strange #wong mcu #mcu wong #mcu #dsmom #queue

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