Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

*

Rio sat cross-legged on the couch, the glow from the television illuminating the darkened living room. The low hum of the city seeped through the cracked-open window, but she barely registered it.

The TV was flickering with the live broadcast of the Hollywood Gala.

Then there she was, Agatha Harkness, radiant and poised, surrounded by flashing lights and the glint of crystal champagne glasses— her Agatha. She's a vision of elegance in a black velvet gown. Cameras flash, voices shout her name. She’s untouchable. Radiant.

The Hollywood gala was in full swing, and Agatha Harkness was the center of it all.

The cameras adored her. A fitted black gown traced her curves, sophistication dripping from every inch of her presence. That signature smirk curled her lips, the one that Rio used to believe was reserved only for her. It also belonged to the world. To the reporters hanging onto her every word. To the fans cheering her name. To the photographers who would undoubtedly plaster her face across headlines by morning.

Rio had texted her earlier, “Have fun. Be safe.” She didn’t want to seem cold or distant. She wanted to be a supportive girlfriend. Agatha deserved that much. 

The contrast is stark. Rio, dressed in Agatha’s oversized sweater, sitting on the couch of their shared home, alone, remains hidden. The soft scent of Agatha lingers on the fabric, a cruel reminder of the distance between them.

Agatha had sent her a quick text message before the gala.

"Miss you. Wish you were here."

It was a simple message. Thoughtful, even. But Rio’s chest clenched. It’s meant to be comforting, but instead, it digs into her ribs like a dull knife.

Wish you were here.

Would it have made a difference? Could she have stood by Agatha's side without feeling like an accessory, a shadow in a world she had no claim to? Agatha’s arm would be around her waist, her hand possessively resting on Rio’s hip, but what good was that when no one would know who she was? The media would ignore her. She would be dismissed as a friend and not acknowledged at all.

Rio didn’t reply. She knew there is no use, Agatha won’t see it anyway. With the Gala and everything, she’ll be very busy to even look at her phone.

The commentators on the screen fawn over Agatha’s effortless presence. Her smile never falters, her confident stride, and the sparkling diamonds draped around her neck. She looks like she belongs — because she does. 

But where does that leave Rio? Alone. She could not fit into that world. Into Agatha’s world. 

The faint hum of the heater did little to warm the cold pit that had formed in her chest. It was becoming harder to ignore—that gnawing ache clawed at her, whispering insecurities she desperately tried to bury.

Agatha Harkness. The name alone had once brought Rio comfort—the woman she loved, the woman who, despite the flashing cameras and relentless tabloids, had chosen her. But lately, Rio couldn’t shake the feeling that she existed on the fringes of Agatha’s dazzling world.

Their relationship was a well-guarded secret. Agatha said it was for her protection—to shield her from the relentless scrutiny that came with fame. She had said it with those stormy blue eyes full of sincerity, cradling Rio’s face in her hands.

"I love you too much to put you through that," she had whispered.

But the protection had become a prison. And the more Agatha thrived in her world, the more Rio withered in hers.

The first seed of doubt happened months earlier, when Rio attended an exclusive event with Agatha.

The venue shimmered under chandeliers, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the sharp fizz of champagne. Voices hummed in waves, conversations overlapping in a cacophony of power and wealth. Rio stood close to Agatha, fingers grazing the stem of an untouched flute of champagne. When Agatha mingled, Rio stood awkwardly at her side. She didn’t belong here, not among Hollywood’s elite, not in a world where everyone’s smiles were polished and their words laced with something she could never quite decipher.

But Agatha belonged.

Dressed in a midnight silk dress, she was a vision of effortless elegance. She moved through the room like she owned it. Every step, every tilt of her head, every curve of her lips—commanding. Rio watched as people turned when she passed, their gazes lingering, admiration woven into every stolen glance.

“Agatha, darling, it’s so nice to see you,” a woman purred, touching Agatha’s arm. A well-known producer, someone Rio had only ever seen in magazines. Then she turned to Rio, who was standing on Agatha’s side like a statue. “And who is this?”

For a moment, Agatha hesitated. A flicker, quick and fleeting. Then, a smile—graceful, practiced.

“This is Rio. A friend of mine.”

Rio’s breath hitched.

A friend.

Right.

It was barely a beat in the conversation. The producer nodded, eyes barely skimming over Rio before returning to Agatha, engaging her in a discussion about an upcoming project. Just like that, Rio faded into the background.

She felt the shift instantly—the way her presence had been erased with two simple words. The way it settled in her chest, heavy and dull. She had no claim here, not in Agatha’s world. Not when it counted.

The cameras flashed, capturing Agatha at every angle. The beauty, the charm, the star.

Not Rio.

Never Rio.

To be honest, she didn’t mind not being acknowledged by the media, but what she did mind was being acknowledged by her girlfriend. Who, apparently, at this moment, is just her friend.

The rest of the night blurred into a dull hum, her responses reduced to polite nods, her throat tight with unsaid words.

When they finally slipped into the car, silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Agatha reached for her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You’re quiet,” she murmured.

Rio stared outside the window, not even sparing Agatha a glance, the city lights casting fleeting patterns across the tinted glass. “I guess I didn’t have much to say.”

A pause. A breath. Then, Agatha sighed, scooting closer towards her. “Rio…” Her voice softened, coaxing. “Baby, you know why I’m doing this, don’t you?”

Rio swallowed.

“It’s just to protect you,” Agatha whispered, fingers sliding into Rio’s hair, tilting her face toward her own. “The media would tear us apart.” A kiss, light against her temple. Then against her cheek. Then her lips. “I just want to keep you safe.”

Rio closed her eyes.

And like always, she believed her.

Rio had understood. She had. But understanding didn’t ease the loneliness. It didn’t stop the questions that echoed through her mind when Agatha left for another event, her laughter captured by strangers, her arm linked with people far more polished and worthy. 

A voice inside her head kept telling her, "She should be with someone like those people. Not her. Not with an ordinary person like Rio Vidal."

The voices from the TV dragged her back. A reporter was laughing, asking Agatha something that made her tilt her head with practiced charm. Rio’s hands clutch her phone tightly. Every smile, every lingering glance, becomes fuel for her gnawing insecurity.

Then came the question that sent a spike of ice through Rio’s veins.

"You’re glowing, Agatha. Anyone special to thank for that smile?"

There was a pause—a heartbeat too long.

Agatha’s lips parted, her smile unwavering. "I'm just surrounded by wonderful people tonight. Truly, I'm grateful."

No mention of her.

Rio's stomach twisted. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Of course, she had expected Agatha’s answer to the question, but it didn’t mean it hurt less. 

Of course, Agatha hadn't mentioned her. She never really did. That was the arrangement. The deal. Rio had nodded, agreed, and even said she understood.

But understanding didn’t stop the ache.

One night, in the dark quiet of their bedroom, Rio was lying on Agatha’s chest after a passionate night spent.

Agatha held her close, pressing soft kisses against her forehead. Her fingertips traced slow, lazy circles on Rio’s back, lulling, comforting. 

“Soon,” Agatha whispered against her skin. “We’ll tell them soon.”

The words were a promise wrapped in silk, sweet and smooth, but they dripped with delay.

Rio swallowed the lump in her throat, burying her face against Agatha’s chest. She could feel Agatha’s warmth against her, could hear the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. This was the part where she was supposed to believe her.

But the ache didn’t fade. The doubt didn’t quiet.

Why am I not enough?

She didn’t ask. She already knew she wouldn’t like the answer. So she kept quiet, she kept it inside, and now it’s slowly eating her alive.

The broadcast carried on, but Rio no longer heard it. The doubts whispered louder.

Was she protecting you? Or was she protecting herself?

If she wanted the world to know she loved you, wouldn’t she have found a way?

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. She wouldn't cry. Not for this. Not when she knew that Agatha would come home with that same dazzling smile, kiss her on the forehead, and say everything was fine.

But it wasn't fine.

And Rio wasn't sure how much longer she could pretend it was.

Focusing her eyes back on the TV, radiant Agatha, arm-in-arm with an esteemed director at a gala. The media had been quick to comment on how striking they looked together, their smiles wide and practiced.

The pit in her chest grew heavier.

She wanted to believe in Agatha’s words. “It’s all for show, my love.” But how much of it was for show? And how much of it was real? Rio's stomach twisted.

The nights apart. The hurried phone calls. The brief, strained kisses before Agatha disappeared behind tinted car windows. Rio had clung to the tenderness Agatha offered when they were alone—the whispered promises and the warmth of her touch. But doubt was a ruthless parasite. It fed on the silences between them, growing with each unanswered question.

Tonight would be no different. Agatha was attending another high-profile event. Rio hadn’t asked if she could come. She already knew the answer.

“You’re safer here,” Agatha had said with a soft kiss on Rio’s forehead that morning. “The press will be relentless.”

Safe. The word tasted bitter on her tongue.

Rio stood up from the couch and went to the kitchen, deciding it was best for her to have a cup of tea.

She hated this—the festering jealousy, the irrational thoughts she struggled to contain. But how could she not question everything when the world saw Agatha as someone so unattainable? Someone who deserved the spotlight, the grandeur, not a nameless artist who hid in the shadows.

Cup of tea in hand, she went back to the living room and plopped on the couch. But what she saw made her freeze.

There she was, her girlfriend, her woman, her Agatha. But what caught Rio’s attention wasn’t Agatha’s undeniable beauty.

It was the woman standing too close. An ex. The one whose name Rio dared not utter aloud.

Lana Gillies

The tabloids had wasted no time. Her phone pinged with a new headline. "Rekindled Flames? Harkness and Former Flame Gillies Spotted Together." The words screamed from the screen, sinking sharp and deep.

Despite Rio’s silent pleas, Agatha doesn’t step away. Instead, she smiles for the cameras. Lana’s touch is too familiar. 

One time, when she was at her studio, two of her students started talking about Agatha and Lana’s past.

Rio hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the murmurs reached her anyway, slithering through the air like smoke, impossible to ignore.

"They were such a power couple. Too bad they broke up." 

“But Agatha’s single, right? I mean, she didn’t confirm if she was in a relationship or not, but there’s a good possibility that she’s single.” 

"Maybe they’re reconnecting." 

Her fingers tightened around the paintbrush she was holding. The voices weren’t cruel, they weren’t even malicious—just idle speculation, effortless and thoughtless.

But speculation had a way of taking root, growing thorns that dug deep beneath the skin.

That night, Rio sat beside Agatha on their couch, her head resting against the familiar curve of her shoulder. The city lights filtered through the windows of their home.

"I heard people talking about you and Lana today," she said, keeping her voice even, casual.

Agatha exhaled slowly. "You know how people are. They love a good story."

Rio hesitated. "Is it just a story?"

A beat of silence. Then Agatha’s fingers traced the inside of Rio’s wrist, a soft, absentminded touch. "She’s just a part of my past."

The words were right, but the flicker in Agatha’s eyes was all wrong. It was gone in an instant, smoothed over like a wrinkle pressed away. But Rio had seen it. And once seen, it couldn’t be unseen.

The flicker stayed with her. It haunted her.

Rio can’t breathe. She watches the screen as Lana leans in, her hand brushing against Agatha’s arm. The crowd roars with delight, the cameras flash rapidly, no doubt eating up the whole display. Rio’s chest constricts.

Her breath hitched. She told herself to stay calm, to wait for Agatha’s side of the story.

Rio decided it’s best to turn off the TV. The screen goes black, but the damage is already done.

She grips the remote like a lifeline, her knuckles pale with the force of it. The image—the one she swore she wouldn’t let get to her—has already burned itself into the back of her mind, refusing to let go. Agatha.

The flashing cameras. The poised smile. And Lana, too close, too familiar, caught in the same frame as if she belonged there. As if she would always belong there, beside Agatha. 

Her stomach twists.

She tells herself it’s nothing. A coincidence. A trick of the media, the same way they spin everything into something it’s not. But the doubt lingers, thick and suffocating, curling around her ribs like a vice.

Rio stands abruptly, needing to move, to do something, anything. She stumbles into the bathroom, turning the faucet on with shaky fingers. Cold water splashes against her face, shocking against overheated skin. She grips the edge of the sink, inhaling sharply, willing the sick feeling in her gut to disappear.

It doesn’t.

She lifts her head, meets her gaze in the mirror.

The reflection staring back is one she barely recognizes. The dark circles under her eyes are deeper than before, carved by restless nights spent alone in bed, wondering. The weight of unspoken fears clings to her features, hollowing them out, draining the warmth from her eyes.

She loves Agatha.

She loves her so much it hurts.

But love shouldn’t feel like this—shouldn’t feel like waiting for the other shoe to drop, like bracing for a storm that may or may not come.

And yet, here she is.

“It's probably best if I go to bed,” she murmured to herself. She followed her nightly routine and changed into more comfortable clothes.

Just as she settled into bed, her phone dinged. The glow of the screen cuts through the darkness of the bedroom, illuminating the hollowness in her chest before she even reads the words.

Breaking News: Rekindled Flames? Agatha Harkness and Lana Gillies Share a Kiss at the Gala.

Her breath catches. She forces herself to open the article with trembling fingers, and there it is—the picture.

Her heart slams against her ribs, a sharp, painful thud. No. No, this isn’t real. It can’t be. She forces herself to look at the photo. 

Lana’s lips against Agatha’s. Agatha’s stunned expression, her body frozen in place. A moment, a second, a flash of time captured and spun into a story the world has already swallowed whole. The way Agatha’s body tenses in shock, the way her hands hover between pushing away and pulling closer.

Rio feels like she’s drowning.

She wants to trust Agatha. She really, truly does. Agatha loves her. She knows this. She has felt it in the way Agatha kisses her, holds her, whispers her name in the dark. Agatha promised. "She’s just a part of my past."

But the past has a way of creeping back in, doesn’t it? 

Rio didn’t realize she was shaking until she nearly dropped the phone. She wants to throw it, smash it, erase the image burning into her mind. But the pain doesn’t come from the picture alone—it comes from everything that came before it.

The secrecy. The introductions that reduced her to a "friend."

The whispers.

The doubts she tried so hard to ignore.

"Soon. We’ll tell them soon." Agatha once promised her. 

But soon never came. And right now, it looks like it never will.

She grips the sheets, trying to ground herself, trying to breathe past the tightness in her throat. She doesn’t want to lose this. Doesn’t want to lose Agatha .

But she also doesn’t want to lose herself.

And right now, she doesn’t know which is slipping away faster.

The room tilts. Her pulse pounds in her ears, a slow, deafening throb.

She knows—knows—Agatha would never. She trusts her. She does.

But that doesn’t stop the nausea curling in her gut, doesn’t stop the weight pressing down on her chest until it feels like she might suffocate.

Because it doesn’t matter what she knows.

What matters is what everyone else thinks.

The headlines are already writing their truth. The comments, the whispers, the inevitable conversations behind closed doors. Did you hear? They were such a power couple. Maybe they’re getting back together.

Rio presses her hands to her face, trying to breathe past the tightness in her throat. The hurt is instant and visceral. It doesn’t even give her time to process. To think. To react beyond the way her body instinctively caves in on itself.

She stares at the screen again, her vision blurring, her fingers hovering over Agatha’s contact. A futile reflex. What would she even say? What words could fix the damage already done?

In the end, she didn’t call.

Instead, she sat there, letting her tears fall silently, trapped in the silence, as the world— Agatha’s world —decides what to believe.

She clutched her chest, placing her palms where her heart was, rubbing it, as if it might ease the pain she was feeling. Her body was wracked with sobs. Everything hurts. 

The insecurities that had long simmered beneath the surface erupted in full force. The fragile trust she held tightly slipped through her trembling fingers.

The numbness came not long after. It sweeps through Rio like an anesthetic, dulling the sharpest edges of her heartbreak just enough to keep her standing. But beneath it, the pain roars, violent and unrelenting, clawing at her chest, shredding through muscle and bone until she’s left hollow.

Her hands moved without thought, pulling the large suitcase from the closet, the weight of it hitting the floor with a dull thud. Clothes. Shoes. The small things she swore she’d always leave here because this was home. But now, this place—their place—feels like a stranger’s house, and the walls are suffocating her.

She doesn’t want to go. God, she doesn’t. Every cell in her body begged her to stay, to believe in Agatha, to trust what they’ve built. But how can she, when her worst fear has already been printed in headlines, burned into photographs, whispered about in places she will never reach?

Her fingers curl around the edge of the suitcase, knuckles whitening. The room blurs— no, don’t cry, not again, not yet, at least, there’s plenty of time to cry later.

She swallows the lump in her throat and forces herself to breathe. This is not cowardice. This is survival.

But she won’t run. She would say goodbye. Agatha deserves that much.

Four years deserve a goodbye.

So she waits. The ache in her chest was hollow and infinite. The suitcase sat by the door. The clock ticked. Her pulse hammering in sync. Every second stretches unbearably long, the silence thick, suffocating.

And when she hears the front door click open, the breath she’s been holding shatters inside her chest.

It’s time.

*

When the night was full of terrors

And your eyes were filled with tears

When you had not touched me yet

Oh, take me back to the night we met

*