Title: hope to die.
Fandom: MCU—WandaVision.
Characters: Agatha, Wanda.
Prompt: Wonder.
Rating: Mature.
Length: 600~.
Content warnings: Mentions of death and magic.
Author’s notes: Set post-WandaVision. Also written for getyourwordsout’s "aromatic" prompt. Title from Adam Jones’ "You Can Run".
Summary: Wrongs need to be corrected, even if that means undoing death.


The way she gets Wanda to fold like a stereotypical and boring house of cards should be studied. Put beneath the microscope and applauded. Written about in books to teach in universities and on the perches of beds. Hell, she thinks even a song should be written about it, launching some talentless hack into superstardom.

Agatha stands on the precipice of a new beginning, her immaculate and newly bought black heels stained with hard clumps of mud and the limbs of weak blades of grass. She stands behind Wanda, her hands clasped at the base of her own spine. Her nails quietly click together like claws. Wanda remains motionless in front of her; dead, paralysed, afraid.

Sokovia is different to what she had imagined of a floating city. Perhaps she should’ve studied the city’s recent history, but none of the texts and articles pervading the Internet would tell her what she needed to know. The Avengers had swooped in like a tornado and hadn’t left any witches crushed beneath houses. They’d just left the rubble of corpses.

She can smell it, that thick, ugly scent of death. It fingers the threads of her slacks and the dark, trailing coat that drowns the Scarlet Witch. Death clings to the world around them. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised by that. They are, after all, in a graveyard.

Eyes dropping down to Wanda’s tired sneakers, Agatha can’t help but sigh. Even when she could opt for the ruby red slippers and the light blue checkered dress, Wanda still dresses like she hadn’t turned on the light. Still, she refuses to light up with hope. Her hair’s matted and lifeless and her face is too gaunt to be that of a mythical being.

But that doesn’t matter. None of it does to Agatha Harkness when she knows she’s standing at the very beginning of a new tale that’ll be told for centuries as a bedtime story.

"Wanda," she says gently, clearing her throat softly. Her protege is so easy to spook these days, a little foal unsure of how to walk. Leaning forward, Agatha keeps her feet planted stubbornly in the ground, respectful of the people beneath it. "You can do this."

Wanda makes a noise in the back of her throat. A strangled sob. It’s one Agatha has come to know too well. Insecure. Not confident. Lacking. Too afraid. Over her years of mentoring, Agatha has taught herself one thing: patience.

And so, she taps into it now, spelling it around herself and her dark purple blouse and black blazer. She wiggles a toe against the wet grass and grimaces as blades slither between the heel of her foot and her shoe and stick to her skin.

"You are Wanda Maximoff," she says quietly, passionately. "And you can do this. Bring him back."

Wanda peers down at the lopsided square gravestone of Pietro Maximoff with her hands balled into tight, pale white fists. It’s almost as if she holds two mirrors of the moon in her palms, her skin so white and lifeless that she looks like a walking corpse.

But when Wanda pulls her black hoodie down to let her bright flaming hair finally breathe, Agatha can’t help but smile as the pink returns to the skin at the back of Wanda’s neck and her hands unfurl like wings. Red obliterates the dark endless nothingness and the earth rumbles beneath their feet.

Agatha can taste history and victory on her tongue. No one ever writes stories about the boring witches who drown. No, they write them about the women who have been scorned by the earth.

And the sisters who resurrected their dead brothers.