Chapter Text
Rio Vidal was not in the mood to be perceived.
It was 8:27 AM. Her second Americano was lukewarm and bitter, her bangs wouldn’t stay pinned, and the too-tight feeling of an incoming tension headache had already set up shop behind her left eye. The university courtyard was slick with last night’s rain, which meant her sneakers were soaked and squeaking in time with every begrudging step.
She hadn’t wanted to take Ethics in Research & Practice. It was one of those required crossover classes where science majors were forced to play nice with the future lawyers of the world. Rio had tried, briefly, to get out of it. But there were only so many third-year bio courses that fit her schedule, and her advisor had laughed when she suggested taking Crime Scene Reconstruction instead. Apparently wanting to specialize in post-mortem trauma analysis didn’t mean she got to skip the moral debates.
“I want to do autopsies,” she had said. “Not argue about the ethics of funding bodies.”
And now here she was—stuck in the back row of a windowless lecture hall with a syllabus that reeked of pretentiousness and someone’s forgotten cologne.
The professor—Doctor Stephen Strange, no relation to the magician, though Rio wasn’t entirely convinced—stood at the front of the room with the kind of disdain only tenured faculty could muster.
“Let me be clear,” he said, eyes sweeping the class like he was scanning for weakness. “This course is not about feelings. If you’re here to share personal anecdotes, there’s a wellness seminar two floors down.”
Rio rolled her eyes and flipped her tiny notebook opened, and propped up her 7 year old laptop, and willed it to turn on. She glanced down the row and saw a familiar face paying close attention to the prof at the front of the auditorium.
She didn’t even know Agatha. Not really.
She knew of her—knew that she was a law student with a talent for demolishing other people’s arguments like she was born with a gavel in her hand. Knew she had sharp eyeliner and sharper cheekbones. Knew she always wore black and purple, always had tea instead of coffee, and never once looked unprepared for anything.
They’d only been in two classes together before this semester, and even then, Rio had spent most of that time seeing how long it would take to get Agatha to look up from her notes.
(Answer: exactly three whispers of “Witch.” )
So when Strange called out, “Final partner pairings have been updated. Check the D2L. They’re locked in through Week 13, including the joint debate and final ethics paper,” Rio felt the slow, creeping certainty of doom crawl up her spine.
She didn’t have to check. She already knew.
She looked anyway.
Vidal, Rosario M. — Harkness, Agatha E.
Of course.
She didn’t even get to sigh dramatically before someone slid into the seat beside her.
Agatha.
“Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” she said, too casual.
Rio raised an eyebrow. “Tragic.”
Agatha pulled out a pen and opened her own notebook—neat, color-coded, offensive. Without a word, she reached across and wrote in the margin of Rio’s syllabus:
Your penmanship is a war crime.
Rio blinked. Then grinned.
“Bold of you to assume I take notes for anyone but myself.”
Agatha leaned her chin into her palm. “I’m guessing your final project citations will be as incomprehensible as your handwriting.”
“Don’t worry,” Rio said, flipping to a new page and doodling a skull in the corner. “All my sources will be autopsy reports and trauma journals. Very light reading.”
Agatha faltered—just slightly. “You… want to do autopsies?”
“Crime scene pathology.” Rio shrugged. “Dead people don’t lie.”
“Huh.”
Rio glanced over. “What, surprised I want to cut people open instead of argue about why it’s morally okay to?”
Agatha opened her mouth, closed it. Then: “I want to be a defense lawyer.”
“Of course you do,” Rio said.
Agatha tilted her head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rio smiled sweetly. “You have main character energy and a God complex. You were never going to settle for prosecution.”
Agatha blinked once, then let out a tiny, breathless laugh.
Rio was about to write something snarky under Week 6 when Agatha pulled out her phone.
“So,” she said, not quite meeting Rio’s eyes, “can I get your number?”
Rio blinked. “You nervous, Harkness?”
“No,” Agatha said quickly. “Just—if we’re working together. It’s logical.”
Rio took the phone. Entered her number. Added: Rio 💀 and handed it back.
Agatha stared at the contact name and smiled.
Not much. But just enough to make Rio’s chest feel like static.
This was going to be a disaster.
She was going to love every second of it.