#westview

You were worried. It wasn’t often that you said that about Agatha, because she was a three hundred fifty year old witch who turned covens to shrivelled corpses and left behind chaos and destruction in her wake, but you were worried.

It was winter. Cold, dreary, typical winter weather, and Westview was alight in Christmas decorations and glowing Santa Clauses in people’s front yards. Candy Canes sold on stands in the town square. There were rumours about possible snow in the upcoming week. You even managed to get Agatha to (very reluctantly) agree to get a tree to decorate, even if she did think it was a nonsense mortal tradition, and ‘only idiots wait for some fat old guy to bring them presents through a chimney, the holidays are for the weak.’

That was typical Agatha. Teasing, icy, smirking. What had you worried however, was that the last two days where she was everything but.

It took you by surprise the day before when she passed the opportunity to mock carol singers when they rung your doorbell, and her overall mood seemed to go from confident and snarky to just quiet and brisk. It took you a while to figure out what was going on, but between her unusual silence around the house and the glaring daggers she sent towards the calendar on the wall you pieced it together, then wished you hadn’t.

It was December 6th. St. Nicholas Day, eagerly awaited by kids for chocolate and tangerines in Christmas stockings, and a big slap in the face with grief, for Agatha.

You knew about Nicky. Of course you knew, she told you, said you’d rather hear the truth than read horrible lies from witch history books, but none of that made it any easier for either of you. You knew she was sad, angry even, guilty or desperate or just sad, but you felt it too.

The guilt, that was. The quiet that lingered as you walked into the kitchen this morning, you in your Christmas pyjamas, playing house with a centuries old witch who allowed you to call yourself her family. But as much as you tried, as much as all your efforts to do well and be good and stay loyal-- always, you knew you’d never live up to him. Her Nicky. And you didn’t mean to. You never meant to, of course you wouldn’t. He was her child, and you were a child, some random kid she’d met and grown fond of.

Yes she liked you, loved you even, considered you a part of this two person coven with the two of you and a bunny in a suburban house, but you’d never really be hers.

Not like him. Not like that.

You hated the feeling. You didn’t want to compete with her dead child, didn’t mean to take his place, and yet sometimes it felt like you were doing just that.

She made you food. She brewed you tea. Taught you spells. Ruffled your hair and called your defense hexes a pathetic mess while gently fixing your posture. You knew this would pass, not the grief, never that, her being quiet and withdrawn, but you hated every minute of it.

The house felt gloomy somehow, hollowed and empty like the bodies of all the witches she’d killed. You got up from the couch, fuzzy socks against fuzzy carpet, carefully peeling Senor Scratchy off of your lap and lowering him onto the floor. He hopped off into the kitchen, skidding across the dark wood and onto the tiles, then out of your sight.

You stood up, fixed your sweater, and made your way into the kitchen too. You made a cup of tea. Placed a single tea bag in her favourite mug and poured steaming water over it, then added in some honey. Stirred with a spoon you then left in the sink, and went over to her room.

You knocked but got no answer, and when you carefully opened the door you found she was in the middle of a spell, or at the end of it at least, as the purple glow beneath her hands just flickered out of existence, leaving a single strand of long hair falling to the floor like a feather in slow motion.

You recognized the spell.

Repete Memoria

It was one she’d taught you quite recently, earlier in the year, but you couldn’t yet manage it on your own. You’d seen her use it once or twice, showing you the ropes, and she cast it for you a few times, just to let you see what it could do. A single strand of hair, she said, and you get a doorway into past memories, every scene inside a person’s head, so long as they remember it clearly.

She watched it fall away from between her hands, slipping down down down, and the turned, back stiff.

“What?” she asked curtly, “What do you want, pet?”

You swallowed, hesitant yet slightly tentative.

“I- um. I made tea.” you said, a little awkwardly. “Brought you a cup… if you want it.”

She turned around to look at you.

You saw tears in her eyes, ones she quickly blinked away, not letting them spill, and studied your face.

“Right.” she murmured. “Thanks. Just-- leave it there.”

You looked to where she was pointing, the corner of her dresser, and did as she asked. You set the mug down, a soft thump against china on wood, and lingered. Her locket, the gold pendant she always wore, was laid neatly in a heap by her mirror, closed and perfect as ever.

She rarely took it off, so this didn’t quite fill you up with hope.

You studied the three figures on it, white against dark blue. Maiden. Mother. Crone. There were times where you imagined Agatha in her earlier stages of life, her story twisted into those three titles, one after another after another. But then to you, she was always somehow just this.

Your Agatha Harkness, mentor and not-mother, friend and never foe.

“Is that it, or do you have a reason to dawdle?” she asked, tone slightly clipped. She was looking up at you now, still on her bed, on top of the deep purple covers.

“I just wanted—” you paused. You didn’t know what you wanted. For her not to be sad? No. He was her son, of course she could-- but it was painful even witnessing this, it made you want to--

“Well?” she snapped. “Stop being vague and quiet and just tell me what you want.”

It was selfish, wanting her to spend time with you while she had a reason to be sad, selfish, but you thought maybe if she wasn’t alone, if she spent half an hour with you doing something maybe you could help her somehow-- somehow--

“I’m-- sorry.” you said quietly. “I just missed you.”

Finally some truth. Something you could be certain about. It was pathetic, you knew, saying that to a grieving mother when you weren’t really her child, but you missed her during these last few days. Every minute at home felt like a minute in passing, going from one moment to the next and just waiting, waiting for something to happen, waiting for her to pull you into your next big adventure, to start another lesson, other than the three-minute rant she’d given you the other day. You were in the basement waiting when she came down, threw a dusty book on the table in front of you, told you chapter eleven and thirteen, and left. You read one and a half before giving up.

She shook her head now, sitting in front of you like a statue, waiting for you, the intruder to exit her room, but you didn’t. You wanted to but you couldn’t, because a minute more in that gloomy living room silence and you would’ve been crying in your own room, the same as she was probably doing in hers.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” she said, briskly, “I’ve been here the whole time, just—” she waved a hand towards the hallway, “go and organize something. Feed the damn rabbit. Shoo.”

But you didn’t move.

“I’m sorry.” you said again. You wanted to make it better, but you couldn’t, and--

“Why are you sorry.” she murmured finally, her tone still clipped,

“You’re not the one who—”

And she fell silent. Looked away.

For a moment when she turned back to you you wanted to burst into tears, because there was so much open sadness in her expression, a look that clearly told you there’s nothing we can do’. You saw the decision weighing in her head, the moment she gave in and patted the bed beside her.

You joined her quietly, tucking yourself against her side like a baby kitten, and she pulled you closer with a sigh.

You felt her chin rest neatly on top of your head, cheek pressed against you hair.

“Sorry, pet.” she said quietly. “It’s not your fault, what happened, it just… I…”

“I know.” you mumbled back softly, feeling a weight fall of your chest as you knew she wasn’t angry with you. “Don’t apologize, I’m-- I just wish I could- I don’t know what to-”

“Shhh.” she pressed her lips against your hair, holding you a little tighter. “Just stay here and let me hold you.”

Somehow you got the feeling that maybe she needed this as much as you did.

So you did.

You let her hold you, tight to her chest with your head beneath her chin, arms wrapped around you like she was scared you’d disappear.

You were both quiet.

The sky outside had cleared a little, a few shy streaks of sun gleaming through clouds, through the curtains and Agatha’s window.

And you didn’t move.

After a while, she said quietly.

“He would’ve liked you, you know.”

You stilled.

“He would?” you asked tentatively, reverently hopeful.

You felt her nod, a small tilt of her head.

“Yes.” she said, her voice a little raspy with emotion. “He would’ve loved you.”

You stayed quiet. Then you asked, softly,

“What was he like?”

You felt the smile in her words as well as in your hair when he spoke,

“Oh, he was a right little menace, just like you. Always curious, so smart and clever, so...kind…” her voice dipped slightly, wavering the line between affection and regret, “I don’t know where he got it from, that kindness, I still wonder…”

You should’ve said something to her then. That she was kind too, that he’d gotten in from his mother, who cared and loved him and did everything she could to protect him and that he knew, but you knew that words weren’t quite what she needed right now.

You just hugged her tighter.

Held on, like you could somehow hide from the world and take all her sadness if you held on tight enough. Perhaps she was doing the same. Perhaps she just needed someone to hold.

“I wish I could’ve met him” you murmured into her sleeve. You really did. You wondered often what he was like, her whole world, so happy and carefree and just-- hers.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had both you here.” she said, thouhgful. “I think you both would drive me insane. I barely deal with one menace as is.”

“Plus the rabbit.”

“Plus the rabbit.” she smiled again. Just a little.

“You know, we had a goat.”

You looked up.

“A goat?”

She nodded, faintly amused, “Yes, a goat. The goat was supposed to be food, but I had to leave for a bit and when I came home he was all—” she shook her head fondly, “smiling and petting it and I just—” she sighed. “let him keep it. Alive. Well. I don’t even know what happened to it after.”

She stayed silent for a moment. “He was always doing that,” she murmured, “wanting to keep things alive for longer.”

There was a bitterness in her tone, quiet but present, and you wondered if she ever thought about all the witches she left on the ground in those woods, the ones who walked perfectly into that melodious trap.

Then you thought about yourself, and why it was that you felt so safe in the arms of someone who’d taken so much, and still you wanted to give her more.

The world was unjust, but at least you had each other.

And she would have you for as long as she let you stay.

You tucked your face into her shoulder and said, “I’m not trying to replace him. I would never do that, I just want you to know. I promise.”

She stilled slightly, as if the thought had just now presented itself to her.

“I know, hun.” she said softly, fingers deftly drifting through your hair. “I know. You’re just…”

You waited. Held your breath.

“A stray I picked up.” she said, tone even. “One that I let stick around for too long, and you imprinted on me like a baby duckling.”

She laughed dryly at the embarrassed sound you made.

“Yes, yes, laugh all you want.” she said, a hint of that usual tease in her tone, “Just look at how you’re clinging to me, duckling.”

“Do not call me that.”

“No? Don’t call you what? I didn’t hear you-”

You giggled. “Shut up.”

“Me?”

“Yes!”

“But you’re the one clinging, pet, I mean just look at this, it’s undignified—”

You snorted, smiling now, and when you finally let go and looked up she wouldn’t let you, tugging you back into her with a smirk.

“Oop-- no, where do you think you’re going, pet?” her arms wrapped around you a little better, not tight, but secure. She rocked you both slightly.

“This is silly.”

“No… silly? Are you sure? Come here, darling,” she pressed a kiss to your temple, and you fell silent at once.

Affection was a rare thing from Agatha, coming in waves disguised as jabs that weren’t too mean, or mocking someone else and not you. You stayed quiet, feeling warm, quite literally, in her arms, and now you knew she needed this too.

Someone to hold tight, someone who wouldn’t be scared of her magic. Maybe she needed you just as much as you needed her, because life was too cold to be alone, even if you weren’t really her blood.

“Ugh, I can’t not imagine it now, the chaos the two of you would make,” she said, a small smile on her lips as she spoke, “the tree, and the snow, and ugh-- I bet you’d both want hot chocolate.”

You looked up. “Can we go?”

“Where?”

“For hot chocolate. There’s a—”

She groaned.

“My first mistake, mentioning sugar next to a baby witch.”

“I’m not a—”

“You definitely are, witchling, and I am not about to go across town to get you sugared cocoa that burns your tongue.”

“Pleeeease?”

“No.”

“You can just magic us there-- and go straight back—”

She looked down at you, and you could’ve sworn there was a hint of pride in the midst of her annoyance.

She shook her head at you, muttering, “Disgusting. I used to be feared, and now I’m taking my star pupil for a hot treat.”

You smiled at her.

She scoffed. “And to use magic too? Absolutely despicable—”

“C’mon.” she said, letting go of you and fixing her hair. “Let’s get this pudding miracle you’re so enamored by.”

You tried to tug her down the same way she did you when she moved to get up, but she noticed, and actually disappeared, reappearing in the doorway and reaching for her tea while you ungraciously flopped face-first onto her bed.

“That’s cheating.” you huffed, voice muffled by the pillows.

She chuckled as you got up, shaking her head as she innocently swirled a twinge of purple around he left wrist.

“It isn’t cheating, pet.” she smiled. “It’s called using your full potential. Like you’re gonna have to do now, to get up and get into a coat, because your dear ol’ mentor here isn’t going to keep you warm with a heat charm while you prance around some stupid, colorful, decorated place of mortal cheer.” she took another sip, finishing her tea and pushing the empty mug into your hand just as you got up to join her.

“Thanks for the tea.” she said. “It was perfectly lukewarm but I don’t mind. You can leave that in the sink. I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

And she poofed away into a puff of purple, leaving you once again alone in the room.

You looked down at the mug in your hands, drank the half sip of tea that she left, and went into the hallway. Yes, you couldn’t bring back the dead or fix her grief, but you’d be there for her as long as you could.

You'd fight tooth and nail if anyone tried to take you away from her, from this life you now had, that both of you had.

You left the mug in the sink, gave Senor Scratchy a pat on his fluffy head, knelt down to tie your boots and grabbed your jacket and scarf, and went to join her outside. Agatha was waiting for you at the end of the driveway, perfectly poised and composed as ever, but you caught a glint of gold when she reached up to fix her collar.

So she’d slipped it on again, when you weren’t looking. Good. That was good.

You stepped out, closing the door behind you and locking it, fixed your scarf, felt the first brush of cold air and speckled snow on your face, and went to join her.

A/n: this was not proofread, i'm sorryyy. i got this idea on actual december 6th (2024) and held onto it thinking i'd write this for next holiday season. sike i could not wait. if it comes you write it down. anyway, title is from Adrianne Lenker's Half Return, the lyrics gave me similar vibes as this fic in my head, hope y'all like it. have a wonderful day and thanks for reading!!!

p.s. whoever has some agatha headcanons pleeeease send them i want to know.