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The fireplace crackled softly, casting golden light over the worn wood floors of the cottage. Agatha sat curled into the corner of a patched-up armchair, a heavy shawl draped over her shoulders and a book open in her lap. Her fingers, stained faintly with ink and herbs, idly traced the corner of a page she’d read three times already.
Outside, snow had begun to fall. Thick, slow flakes drifted past the window, dusting the bare trees and clinging to the mossy roof like powdered sugar.
“Agatha,” came a voice, muffled with awe and pressed far too close to the glass. “It’s happening again.”
Agatha didn’t look up. “It’s called winter, darling.”
“No, but look—it’s snowing. Really snowing.” Rio’s voice was practically vibrating.
Now Agatha glanced over the rim of her glasses. Rio had her entire face pressed to the windowpane, fogging up the glass with every breath. Her hair was mussed from being in the bed for a while, and she wore one of Agatha’s oversized sweaters over black boxers.
“You’ve seen snow before,” Agatha reminded her, tone flat.
“Yes, but not like this. Not when I had skin. Not when I could feel it between my fingers, or get it in my nose, or fall into it.” She turned, wide-eyed. “Do you think it’ll taste like air? Or more like sugar?”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. “If you eat the snow, I’m not taking you to a healer.”
Rio practically glowed. “So that’s not a no.”
“Rio.”
Too late.
The door flung open with a groan of protest, and a swirl of cold air burst inside as Rio dashed barefoot into the snow-covered yard, arms thrown wide like she meant to hug the sky.
Agatha sighed, marked her page, and muttered to herself, “This is what I get for falling in love with a deity who skipped the part where she learned basic sense.”
She stood and wandered to the window, watching Rio flop onto her back in a heap, arms and legs splayed like a starfish. Snowflakes stuck to her lashes. She let out a delighted giggle that made something in Agatha’s chest ache.
Rio had seen snow a hundred times before—through mist, through memory, through centuries of drifting in her skeleton form through the seasons. But now, she was in a body that could feel it. Could burn with the cold. Could laugh.
Agatha watched as Rio began to experiment like a particularly enthusiastic toddler. She rolled into the fluff like a burrito, then immediately yelped when snow found its way under her sweater. She built a snow witch that looked suspiciously like Agatha—down to a little pebble scowl and a stick wand. She tried catching snowflakes on her tongue, then sneezed herself off balance and into another snowbank.
A moment later, she reappeared holding something long and absurd.
“Oh no,” Agatha muttered.
Rio proudly hoisted an enormous, stiff leaf from the woodpile. “Look! It’s perfect. Like... a nature snowboard!”
She climbed halfway up the old oak by the shed, declared, “Witches of the world, behold my triumph!” and launched herself off a low branch with the leaf tucked under her feet.
Time slowed.
Agatha blinked.
Rio hit the snow with a tremendous WHUMP, bounced, then landed flat on her back like a ragdoll tossed by a toddler god.
A stunned silence.
Then Rio's voice, muffled: “I’m fine!”
Agatha knocked once on the window, deadpan.
Rio lifted her arm like a snow-covered corpse resurrecting. “Totally planned. You should’ve seen the airtime. I was soaring.”
Agatha rolled her eyes smiling: “You’re lucky I love you more than I love peace and quiet.” she muttered, dragging on her cloak and boots. “She had one afternoon unsupervised…”
She stomped into the snow and found Rio splayed out at the bottom of a hill, half-buried in powder, arms crooked and a snapped pine leaf beside her like some tragic sledding casualty.
“Oh, brilliant,” Agatha groaned.
Rio blinked up at her, beaming through snowflakes in her hair. “Did you see the part where I flew?”
“Flew or fell?” Agatha knelt beside her. “Don’t answer. Can you move?”
“I think so?” Rio tried sitting up and winced trembling fiercely at the cold. “Okay. No. Maybe? My side’s doing something unpleasant, and my ankle’s throwing a tantrum.”
Agatha tested things gently—shoulders, legs, fingers—all still attached. But Rio flinched when she touched her ribs and couldn't put weight on one foot.
“Well, nothing looks broken,” Agatha muttered, brushing snow off her sleeve. “Let’s just get you back inside before you freeze your immortal butt off.”
Agatha carried Rio piggy back style and deposited her on the couch, then proceeded to unwrap her from her damp layers. A fire cracked cheerfully behind them. Agatha fetched warm water and a cloth, muttering the entire way.
“Leaf-sledding? Really? In what universe was that a good idea?”
“I’d seen people do it!” Rio protested. “It looked festive!”
“You're not people.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Agatha rolled her eyes and dabbed carefully at the scratches along Rio’s arms and collarbone. “You fell through half the woods. Twigs everywhere. You’re lucky you didn’t spear yourself on a branch.”
Rio watched her work for a beat. Then, with exaggerated casualness, leaned down and gave one of the deeper cuts a slow lick.
Agatha froze.
The gash shimmered faintly… then closed.
Rio looked up proudly. “See? Effective.”
“You did not just lick your own arm,” Agatha said flatly.
Rio blinked. “You’ve seen me do it before.”
“Yes, on me!” Agatha nearly dropped the cloth. “Not on yourself! It’s—it’s feral behavior!”
“It’s green witchcraft,” Rio said primly. “It’s natural.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not disgusting!” Agatha swatted at her shoulder with the clean end of the cloth. “You are not a cat, Rio.”
Rio just smirked. “Yet still surprisingly graceful.”
“You fell out of a tree!”
“I glided,” she insisted.
Agatha didn't dignify that with a response. She focused on tending to what was left of the gashes—Rio had, annoyingly, managed to heal at least two before being scolded. The ankle was swollen, but she wrapped it tightly and propped it up. The ribs would need more time and rest but they had plenty of time to let it heal.
“I told you snow was dangerous,” Agatha muttered, pressing a mug of hot tea into Rio’s hands. “You’re lucky you didn’t try to eat it.”
Rio’s eyes twinkled. “...Wait, can you not?”
Agatha let out the deepest sigh of her life and dropped her head into her hands.
The cottage had gone quiet again. Outside, snow whispered against the windows, fat flakes piling up on the sills. Inside, the fire glowed golden and steady, casting warm flickers across the wooden floor.
Agatha sat in her favorite chair, legs curled under her, a book open but mostly ignored in her lap. Across from her on the couch, Rio was a blanket burrito, nursing a second cup of tea and looking like she’d been hit by a very whimsical truck.
“Remind me what you were trying to do again?” Agatha asked without looking up.
Rio tilted her head dramatically. “Experience the joy of snow.”
“You fell out of a tree.”
“I was chasing a bird,” Rio said, deadpan.
Agatha blinked. “You what—”
“I wanted to see how close I could get before it noticed me.” She shrugged. “Snow makes everything so quiet. I was stealthy. For a while.”
“You chased a bird.”
“I thought it was a dove. It was not.”
Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are a cosmic entity. You command life and death. And you chased a bird.”
Rio gave her a sleepy grin. “I’m complex.”
Agatha didn’t answer. She stared at her book, not reading it. The fire crackled softly between them.
A moment passed.
Then: “Are you still hurting?”
Rio flexed her foot beneath the blanket. “Only when I move. So I’ve decided not to.”
Agatha rolled her eyes but got up anyway. She crossed the room and set the book aside, kneeling beside the couch. “Let me see your ankle again.”
Rio obediently stuck out her leg like a petulant cat.
Agatha unwrapped the bandage gently. The swelling had gone down some, but the skin was an angry purple-blue. She brushed her fingers just beside the bruising, and Rio flinched.
“Sorry,” Agatha murmured.
“It’s alright. Your hands are warm.”
“Don’t flirt while I’m tending your dumb injuries.”
“Your hands are still warm.”
Agatha said nothing to that. She wrapped the ankle again, tighter this time, her movements careful but brisk. Then her fingers paused—just for a second—resting on Rio’s shin.
“You scared me a little,” she admitted, quietly.
Rio looked at her.
“You don’t get hurt,” Agatha went on. “Not really. You’re… you. You are Death herself, an eternal being without beginning nor end.”
Rio looked down at the tea cradled in her hands. “I know it, Agatha. I don’t bleed. I don’t bruise. I don’t breathe. Not unless I’m wearing a body like this. And I’ve had bodies before—borrowed forms, illusions. But they were all just... costumes. Shells.” She looked up, smiling gently. “This is the only one that feels like me. Because you made me want to be someone who could sit on a couch and drink tea and laugh like an idiot while I slide down a hill on a leaf.”
Agatha’s fingers curled slightly against her leg.
“I like the cottage,” Rio said, suddenly. “I like the snow. I like pretending I’m human for a little while. Even if it means I fall on my face sometimes.”
Agatha didn’t answer right away. She stood and sat down on the edge of the couch instead, close enough for their shoulders to touch beneath the blanket.
“You’re still an idiot,” she said gently.
“An idiot you keep patching up.”
Agatha reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Rio’s ear. “Only because I’m not ready to break in a new Death. You’re barely house-trained as it is.”
“You gave me a heart, Aggie,” Rio said with a little shrug. “I’m just figuring out what it’s for.”
They sat like that for a while, letting the fire warm their bones and the silence say everything else for them, the storm hemming them in, their lives—briefly—simple.
The storm had finally quieted, leaving the world outside blanketed in soft white. Inside, the cottage glowed with golden firelight. Rio was bundled in a cocoon of blankets on the couch, her foot resting on a stack of cushions. She had a mug of something warm and absurdly sugary balanced on her chest. It smelled like cinnamon and danger.
Agatha sat beside her, feet tucked under her, flipping through a worn spellbook with one hand and absentmindedly rubbing Rio’s ankle with the other.
“You know,” Rio said, voice slow and sleepy, “in retrospect… maybe the birch leaf wasn’t the best choice for a snow vehicle.”
Agatha didn’t even look up. “It cracked in half the moment you landed on it.”
“I think I might’ve felt the tree wince,” Rio mused.
“You definitely made me wince. And scream.”
“Aww,” Rio turned her head, grinning lazily. “You were worried about me.”
“I was worried about having to explain to the forest spirits why Death broke her ribs doing extreme leaf sports.”
Rio snorted, then immediately groaned and winced. “Ow. Okay. No laughing. Internal organs: still not sorted.”
“Serves you right,” Agatha said, setting the book aside and shifting to check on her. “Next time you want to experience snow, maybe don’t try to become one with it.”
Rio blinked innocently. “But I was communing with nature.”
“You were face-first in a drift screaming, ‘watch this!’ like a drunken elf.”
Rio smiled, entirely unrepentant. “It was spiritual.”
“You’re spiritual like a raccoon in a candy store.”
There was a pause, the quiet crackle of the fire filling the space. Then Rio spoke again, this time softer.
“…It was worth it, though.”
Agatha turned to look at her.
Rio met her gaze. “All of it. The snow. The bruises. The leaf. You.”
Agatha’s mouth twitched. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours,” Rio said, and bumped her head gently against Agatha’s shoulder.
Agatha sighed, but there was no real heat in it. “I’m never taking you outside again.”
“I’ll be good,” Rio promised, solemn as a storm cloud. “I’ll just… lie in the snow. Quietly."
Agatha shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips.
The fire popped, and for a moment, everything was quiet—the kind of stillness that only came in the aftermath of chaos, softened by affection.
There was a quiet beat. Then, Rio tilted her head toward the mantle where Agatha had set out a bowl of decorative glass ornaments and deliberately picked one and started to sniff it.
Agatha didn’t even look up. “If you eat the Christmas lights again, I’m killing you myself.”
“Rude,” Rio murmured, smiling as she tucked herself deeper into the blankets. “I’m festive.”
Agatha rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Lucky?” Rio said, already half asleep. “I thought I was eternal.”
Agatha just leaned back, letting the fire warm her, and shook her head fondly.
“Eternal pain in my ass,” she whispered.