Chapter Text
The room smells like antiseptic and cinammon. Someone… probably Wanda, has placed a small oil diffuser near the windowsill, and the scent clings to the air like gentleness that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.
Agatha sits beside Rio’s bed, hands folded tightly in her lap.
She hasn’t spoken much. Has barely moved. She’s afraid that if she lets herself feel anything too strongly, she’ll shatter again, this time in a way that can’t be reassembled.
Rio is upright today. Alert. She’s wearing the soft grey sweatshirt Agatha brought from home, the one with the frayed collar and the faint scent of cedar. Her hair is different now, half shaved, the other half pulled loosely behind her ear, but her fingers keep returning to the scar. Again and again.
It’s unconscious, that touch. A loop. Like her body is trying to find its way back by tracing the wound it left behind.
Agatha watches the motion—thumb brushing the ridge just above her ear, forefinger ghosting the stubbled edge. It makes her ache.
She used to kiss that spot.
“Rio,” Dr. Danvers says softly from the foot of the bed. “We’re preparing for discharge. Tomorrow morning, if all goes well.”
Agatha startles slightly. She hadn’t noticed her come in. Hadn’t realised Wanda had followed.
Danvers is calm as ever. Clipboard in hand. Posture straight. The kind of composure Agatha envies.
“We’ve reviewed your labs. You’re stable. No signs of infection, no swelling. It’s time to go home.”
Agatha stiffens.
Home.
It’s the word Rio used to say like a promise. Now it just sounds like a place Agatha doesn’t know if she’s allowed to go anymore.
“Of course, you’ll need care,” Danvers continues, glancing over her glasses. “Mobility support, medication supervision, daily assistance. We recommend someone consistent. Ideally someone you trust.”
Agatha holds her breath.
Rio shifts slightly in bed. Her left shoulder droops, still weaker, but she’s trying to sit up straighter. Her fingers go to her head again. Thumb over the scar. She winces this time, but doesn’t stop.
Agatha wants to reach out, wants to pull that hand away gently, to kiss the pain out of it. But she stays still. Afraid of being too much again.
Then Rio speaks.
“I want… Agatha,” she says, hoarse, but clear. “To stay. With me.”
Agatha forgets how to breathe.
The words land softly—but inside her, they explode like a summer storm. Her pulse rushes. Her eyes sting.
Rio keeps looking at her. Not away. Not through her. At her.
“I want her home,” she adds.
Home.
Agatha’s throat tightens. She almost flinches at the word this time, but not because it hurts.
Because she hears it for what it is now, a choice. A reach. A seed trying to bloom through scar tissue.
Dr. Danvers nods briskly, as if this were any other logistical decision. She makes notes. Gives instructions. Talks about medication refills and physical limits and routine monitoring.
But Agatha can’t focus. Not on any of that.
All she can hear is: I want Agatha.
And the quiet: I want her home.
Her fingers tremble slightly in her lap.
She’s been invisible to Rio. Forgotten. Rejected. And now, without prompting, without pressure…
She’s being asked for.
Agatha forces herself to speak. “Are you sure?” she says gently, careful not to put too much weight in the question. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Rio fidgets again. Her hand trails up the side of her head, pausing at the ridge of the scar. She winces. Her lip tightens, like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it.
“I feel… safe,” she says slowly. “With you near.”
That does it.
Agatha drops her gaze, blinking fast, tears welling before she can stop them.
She hears Wanda shift behind her, the soft brush of a coat sleeve as she steps forward.
Dr. Danvers closes her chart. “You’ll continue weekly physical therapy with Natasha,” she says. “First session starts two days after discharge. We’ll monitor your progress closely.”
Rio nods. She’s already tired again. Her fingers curl into the blanket now, fidgeting.
But she leans slightly—just slightly, toward Agatha.
Wanda watches them with something quiet in her eyes. Not jealousy. Not pain.
Just gravity.
When Danvers and Wanda leave, the silence folds in.
Agatha still hasn’t moved. She’s afraid the moment will break if she does. She doesn’t know what to do with this closeness, now that it’s returned. However fragile. However small.
Rio shifts again. Her hand, trembling, moves toward Agatha’s.
Agatha meets it halfway.
Their fingers don’t tangle. Just rest beside each other.
Agatha studies her girlfriend’s face, still pale, still tired, still not fully her.
But getting closer.
“I’ll stay,” Agatha whispers, voice cracking. “Of course I’ll stay.”
Rio closes her eyes. Her fingers twitch gently against Agatha’s.
Agatha watches her with a grief-tinged reverence. She thinks of all the nights she whispered promises to an unconscious body. All the hours she watched Rio’s hands twitch in dreams she couldn’t reach.
And now —now, Rio is reaching back.
Her voice is faint.
But her will is clear.
And as Rio fidgets again, fingers brushing the curve of her scar like a compass trying to remember north, Agatha leans forward, just slightly.
“Don’t pick at it,” she says gently, brushing Rio’s hand down with hers. “It’s healing.”
Rio’s eyes open.
“Am I?” she asks, tired.
Agatha smiles. And this time, it reaches her eyes.
“You are.”
————
The room is dark now, except for the soft yellow glow of a bedside lamp, its light catching faintly on the metal IV pole and the gentle slope of the plastic monitor screen. Outside, the city hums, but in here the air feels suspended, like time has curled up quietly at the edge of the bed and gone still.
Agatha sits in the same chair she’s claimed for days now, creased cushion, back angled just right for keeping watch without drifting off. She has her legs crossed at the ankle, one hand curled around a now-cold cup of coffee. Her other hand rests in her lap, still, waiting.
Rio lies propped on the bed, elevated just enough to keep her lungs clear. The shadows cradle her face gently, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in that soft post-medication haze. She’s been drifting in and out of sleep for hours, but now she’s fully awake.
Not restless.
Just… raw.
Her fingers have been worrying the edge of her scar again, over and over. Agatha noticed it an hour ago, but didn’t say anything. Not yet. Sometimes Rio flinches if she’s interrupted too soon.
Now, in the quiet, the movement starts again—her fingers dragging slowly from temple to scalp, brushing the ragged patch where the hair hasn’t grown back yet. Her face doesn’t register pain, but the rhythm is too precise to be aimless.
“Does it hurt?” Agatha asks softly.
Rio doesn’t answer right away. She’s staring up at the ceiling, eyes tracing nothing.
“No,” she says finally. Her voice is rough with sleep. “Not really.”
Her hand falls away from her head and curls into the blanket instead.
“It’s not the scar that hurts.”
Agatha leans in slightly, her heart steadying itself for whatever comes next. “What does?”
Rio swallows hard. Her throat works around the words like they’re sharp-edged.
“I keep dreaming about your face.”
Agatha stills.
Rio blinks slowly. “I don’t see all of it. Not clearly. It’s like… a shape in fog. But I know it’s you. It feels like you.”
She presses her palm flat over her chest, fingers spread. “Here. It feels like you.”
Agatha’s breath stutters. Her fingers curl tighter around the cup without meaning to.
Rio glances at her, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp. “I hear your voice, too. It’s not talking. It’s just there. Like a sound I used to know. Like music I can’t remember the lyrics to.”
She closes her eyes for a moment. Her jaw clenches. “And when I try to hold on to it, it slips away.”
Agatha sets the cup down on the windowsill. Quietly. Carefully.
Rio opens her eyes again. “It’s like my mind is screaming at me—Remember her. Find her. And my brain just—” She taps her temple weakly. “Won’t. Let. Me.”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
She turns her head toward the wall, but not before Agatha sees the tears start.
Agatha rises, slowly. Moves to the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd.
She places one hand on the blanket, just beside Rio’s.
“You don’t have to force it,” she says gently. “You’re not failing.”
“I feel like I’m failing,” Rio says, voice tight. “Like something inside me is trying to claw its way out, like I’m right there on the edge of remembering you—and I can’t. I just… can’t.”
Agatha doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry.
She leans in slowly, lowering herself until they’re eye level.
“You’re not broken,” she whispers. “You’re just healing. And healing isn’t a straight line.”
Rio looks at her. Her eyes are bloodshot, full of grief and exhaustion.
Then, quieter—sharper:
“Why is it you?”
Agatha blinks. “What?”
Rio’s face contorts, frustrated, desperate. “Why is it you I can’t remember? Why only you?”
Her voice trembles now, bitter and broken. “I remember Wanda. Lilia. Hector. I remember the cat who used to scratch at my porch. I remember my favourite shirt from college. But you—” her breath catches, “the person I chose, the person I loved… I can’t find you anywhere in my head.”
Agatha’s throat closes. Her hand curls tighter into the blanket beside Rio’s.
“I don’t understand,” Rio whispers. “Why would my brain erase you?”
Agatha swallows. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and careful. “Maybe because I live in a deeper part of you.”
Rio stares at her.
Agatha continues, slow and steady. “The part that doesn’t use words. That doesn’t catalog facts. The part that only knows feeling.”
Rio looks away again, tears slipping hot down her cheeks.
Agatha leans in closer, brushing the back of her knuckles along Rio’s arm. “You didn’t forget me,” she says. “Not really. You just lost the map. And we’ll build a new one. Together.”
Rio breathes out shakily.
“I want to remember loving you,” she chokes. “I want to remember why. When. What you smelled like when you came home from the store. What your laugh sounds like when you’re really laughing.”
Agatha’s eyes shine. Her voice is low, almost unsteady now.
“You’ll remember what matters,” she says. “And until you do, I’ll keep telling you.”
Rio blinks up at her, defeated. “What if I never do?”
Agatha leans forward, pressing her forehead softly against Rio’s.
“Then I’ll teach you again,” she breathes. “Like a language. Like something we were always meant to speak.”
Rio closes her eyes.
And for the first time in days, her hand curls up slowly and rests over Agatha’s.
Not out of confusion.
Not instinct.
But choice.
Agatha stays there, still, forehead against Rio’s, hand under hers, until the monitors slow and Rio’s breath deepens into sleep again.
And when she pulls back—just enough to watch her sleep-Agatha is crying.
But it’s not just grief this time.
It’s love, unbearable and whole, still waiting.
Still here.
⸻
The following morning the hospital room is quieter—except for the unmistakable sound of someone losing a very small battle with a pair of sweatpants.
Rio grunts.
Agatha looks up from the small overnight bag she’s been repacking for the third time.
On the edge of the bed, Rio is hunched forward, jaw clenched, sweatpants halfway over her right leg and utterly not cooperating with her left.
“I’m fine,” Rio says preemptively, already anticipating the incoming commentary.
“Mmhm,” Agatha replies, deadpan. “Yes. It’s going beautifully.”
“I can do it.”
“Of course you can. It’s only taken you eleven minutes and the full wrath of your eyebrows.”
Rio shoots her a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not not enjoying it,” Agatha murmurs, folding a sweatshirt with surgical precision. “But mostly I’m enjoying the part where you’re being an idiot.”
Rio mutters something under her breath and tries again. The sweatpants slip off her left foot with dramatic betrayal. She lets out a sigh, flopping back on the bed with her arms sprawled.
Agatha gives it two seconds.
Then she stands, walks over, and raises an eyebrow like a mother surveying a failed science experiment.
“Okay,” she says. “Scoot.”
“I don’t need—”
“Scoot,” Agatha repeats, already reaching for the pants. “You’re one bad hip shift away from flashing the nurse station.”
Rio sighs through her nose. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” Agatha corrects, crouching beside the bed. “And also correct. Which is the most important thing.”
Rio lifts her leg begrudgingly. Agatha slides the sweatpants on with brisk, practiced motions. She’s gentle, but not overly precious about it.
“See?” she mutters. “No need to wrestle cotton like it insulted you.”
Rio bites back a smile. “It was giving me attitude.”
“It’s sweatpants. It doesn’t even have buttons. Get a grip.”
Rio laughs softly, which makes her wince, she’s still sore, healing, weaker than she wants to be.
When Agatha reaches for the long-sleeved shirt next, Rio lifts her arms without protest.
“Ah,” Agatha says, arching a brow. “Look at that. Obedience.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Rio grumbles, but there’s a grin in it.
Agatha helps her slide the shirt on, fingers brushing lightly over the healing line at Rio’s temple. She doesn’t comment on the scar. Just smooths her hair gently out of her face, her touch lingering a moment longer than necessary.
“You okay?” Agatha asks quietly.
Rio exhales. “I’m… tired.”
Agatha nods. “You’re also dressed. Which is a miracle.”
There’s a knock at the door, Wanda’s voice floating through, chipper and unfazed.
“Discharge nurse just gave the green light. We’ve got wheels and papers.”
Agatha calls back, “Tell her we’ll be out when the patient stops being dramatic.”
Rio gives her a look.
Agatha shrugs. “What? You are. Don’t argue while I’m helping you into socks.”
“I hate being taken care of,” Rio mutters, more to herself.
Agatha looks up sharply. “You don’t hate it. You hate not being in control. Different beasts.”
Rio considers that.
“…Okay, yeah.”
“You’re allowed to need help, Rio.” Agatha straightens up, hands on her hips, no nonsense. “You had brain surgery. You’re not weak. You’re human.”
Rio’s face softens a little.
Agatha pauses, leans down and presses a kiss—soft, not quite to the mouth, just the side of Rio’s head, near the scar.
“You’re not failing,” she murmurs. “You’re still here. That’s enough.”
Rio breathes in.
And then, quietly: “You’re still coming home with me, right?”
Agatha pulls back just far enough to meet her eyes.
“Obviously,” she says. “You can’t be trusted with sweatpants.”
Rio grins.
And Agatha, relieved beyond reason to see it, grins right back.
———
The hospital lobby doors slide open with a hiss that sounds entirely too dramatic for a Tuesday morning.
Rio sighs heavily. “I feel like I’m being released from prison. Do I at least get a certificate? A sticker? A parade?”
“You get a wheelchair,” Wanda says from behind her, steering casually. “That’s your prize.”
“I hate this.”
“You say that every five minutes,” Wanda replies, completely unfazed. “And yet, here we are. Still in the chair. Still alive. Still ungrateful.”
Agatha walks ahead of them, purse slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched firmly on her nose like she’s escorting a high-value target. Which, to be fair, she kind of is.
“You are not getting up until we’re at the car,” Agatha calls over her shoulder without even looking. “If I see one attempt to dramatically throw yourself out of that chair, I swear I will carry you like a Victorian fainting bride and embarrass us both.”
“I’m already embarrassed,” Rio mutters.
“Good,” Agatha says. “Means you still have a functioning sense of shame. That’ll come in handy when you’re throwing up crushed Tylenol at 2 a.m. tonight.”
Wanda steers the chair with annoying grace, making little swerving motions as if driving a race car. “I should get one of those little orange flags for this thing.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Agatha warns.
“I’m just saying,” Wanda shrugs. “We could really lean into it. Add a horn. Fuzzy dice. Maybe a spoiler.”
Rio laughs—just a little—but winces halfway through. “Okay, no laughing. It still pulls on my everything.”
“Then don’t laugh,” Agatha says, pausing to glance back at her with a raised brow. “You’re not here to be charming. You’re here to survive.”
Rio gives her a lopsided grin. “Too late. I’m always charming.”
Wanda snorts.
They reach the edge of the hospital’s covered drop-off area. The sun is out, Rio blinks against the brightness, raising one hand to shield her eyes. Her other drifts unconsciously to the edge of her head again, fingers brushing the edge of her scar through her curls.
Agatha sees it.
She’s beside her in two strides.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “Leave it.”
“I’m not touching the wound,” Rio mutters.
“You’re circling it like a shark,” Agatha replies. “I get it. It itches. It’s weird. You hate it. Me too. But you’re healing, and if you reopen it, I will write ‘I told you so’ on your forehead in permanent marker while you’re unconscious.”
Rio lowers her hand. “You’re a tyrant.”
“Only when I’m right.”
“Which is always,” Wanda adds, helpfully.
“Correct,” Agatha says with a satisfied sniff.
Wanda steers Rio to the passenger side of the car while Agatha opens the door. There’s a cushion already set on the seat, a blanket tucked to the side, a water bottle in the cupholder. Every detail, every need, handled.
Rio looks at it, then up at Agatha, her face unreadable for a moment.
“You planned all this?”
Agatha shrugs, suddenly a bit awkward. “Of course.”
Wanda parks the wheelchair and steps back. “You good to get in?”
Rio doesn’t answer right away. She plants her feet, shifts her weight slowly, and rises with effort. Her balance is off. Her muscles tremble. Agatha instinctively steps forward, one hand hovering.
“I’ve got it,” Rio mutters.
“You’re doing it,” Agatha corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Rio lowers herself into the seat slowly, carefully, and exhales when she’s finally settled.
Agatha buckles her seatbelt before she can argue.
“Bossy,” Rio murmurs.
“You’re still breathing, so yes.”
Wanda closes the car door gently and comes around to the trunk with the small suitcase.
“I’ll follow behind you in my car,” she says to Agatha, passing her the handle. “Text me if she starts crying, swearing, or faking amnesia again.”
“I’m not faking anything!” Rio yells through the closed window.
Wanda grins. “See? She’s healing already.”
Agatha turns to her. “Thank you.”
Wanda nods. “You’re welcome. She’s ready. You are too.”
Their eyes meet. Something unspoken passes between them. Not competition. Not regret.
Just care, in all its complicated, layered forms.
Agatha gets into the driver’s seat. Rio’s already leaning her head back against the cushion, staring up at the ceiling.
“I forgot what the sky looks like,” she says softly. “It’s bluer than I remembered.”
Agatha glances at her.
“Welcome back,” she says.
Rio turns her head slowly.
“You’re still coming home with me, right?”
Agatha looks at her like the answer should be obvious.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She starts the car.
Wanda waves them off from the curb.
And for the first time in weeks, they pull away.
Not whole.
Not healed.
But together.
—————
Agatha drives one-handed, the other resting near the gear shift, where Rio’s fingers occasionally drift close but never quite touch. She’s watching the road, but her attention splits every few seconds, flicking toward Rio in the passenger seat like she’s making sure she’s still real.
Rio is quiet. Sunglasses tilted just slightly down her nose, head leaning against the window.
They’ve been driving in silence for a while now. Not the tense kind. Just… thoughtful.
Then—
The radio, which had been playing softly in the background, shifts into something unmistakable.
Kiss me… beneath the milky twilight…
Rio’s head turns slowly.
Agatha stiffens, eyes narrowing in recognition as the soft, nostalgic melody washes through the speakers.
She doesn’t say anything. Not yet.
But beside her, Rio sits up just slightly. Her fingers twitch against her thigh. Her lips part like they’re trying to shape something that’s still forming.
“I know this song,” Rio murmurs.
Agatha glances over, heart ticking a little faster. “Yeah. It was everywhere for a while.”
“No…” Rio says slowly, voice thicker now. “I mean—I know us with it.”
Agatha’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel.
Rio presses her palm to her forehead, frustrated. “It’s not clear. But it’s… there. It’s fuzzy and loud and there’s this- this light, and your boots on the barstool—God, and the microphone—”
She gasps. A small, bright sound.
“We were singing it.”
Agatha looks over quickly. “What?”
Rio’s eyes are shining, wide with disbelief. “In college. At that awful bar, ‘Clutch’s’? No—Clancy’s. The one with the sticky floor and those green pitchers of whatever that drink was.”
“Swamp Juice,” Agatha says, half-laughing, half-crying. “Oh my God.”
Rio smiles now, a real one. Soft, shocked, a little dazed. “We were doing karaoke. You made me go up. You said if I didn’t sing with you, you’d serenade the bartender instead.”
“I did serenade the bartender,” Agatha grins, voice wobbling. “He left during the second verse.”
Rio chuckles, small, rusty, but real. “And I dropped the mic halfway through because I was laughing too hard.”
“And we both sang off-key anyway.”
Rio looks at her, eyes filling, and whispers: “I remember you…”
Agatha can’t answer. She’s biting her lip too hard to speak.
Kiss me… down by the broken treehouse…
The chorus swells, achingly sweet and stupid and perfect.
And then, softly—tentatively—Rio starts to sing.
Her voice is rough, uncertain, barely there.
Agatha doesn’t hesitate.
She joins in immediately, voice breaking but clear, steadying the melody like a hand on Rio’s back.
Swing me… upon its hanging tire…
They don’t harmonise. They don’t hit every note.
But they’re together.
Rio leans her head back against the seat. Her eyes are closed now, and the smallest smile tugs at her lips.
She’s not remembering the whole night. Not yet.
But the feeling is there.
Warmth. Joy. Something reckless and soft and theirs.
And Agatha, driving one-handed with tears running silently down her cheeks, sings every word like she’s casting a spell to keep this moment alive.
By the time the song fades, neither of them speaks.
But Rio reaches out, her fingers brushing over Agatha’s on the gear shift.
Agatha doesn’t say a word.
She just turns her hand over and holds on.
The city falls behind them. The apartment waits. The real work is just beginning.
But for this stretch of road, this little song, this one breathless memory…
They are exactly where they’re supposed to be.