Notes: I've been rewatching Sabrina and the relationship between Hilda and Salem is one of my favourites. I find the idea of her ending up in Salem's kind of movement interesting, too, so this is really just an endeavour into exploring that. I got nothin'.
Pairings: Maybe the makings of Salem/Hilda if you squint.
Warnings: Nothing particular, but read at own risk anyway.
1970
Of course, Hilda had heard of this Saberhagen guy before meeting him. Whenever there's a grand political shift in the Mortal Realm, his name tends to grace the pages of Other Realm coverage—usually because his conduct amounted to some petty misdemeanour. Inciting a few Polish aristocrats here. Resurrecting a few hundred dead voters there.
But all that is behind him now, he'd told her, splaying his arms open in a display she'll generously describe as welcoming. Sure, the dingy warehouse serving as his movement's base could do with the keen eye of a gay interior designer, but Hilda can't complain. If she's here for the catering, all she needs is a kitchen that adheres to the health code.
And maybe a boss who isn't constantly poring over maps once everyone is gone. She finds him again in the meeting room, privy to him tracing the coast of Africa with a finger by candlelight. Leaning against the doorway, Hilda only indulges in the fractional arch of a brow—because she's used to this sight by now.
"Salem?"
He jumps.
Just slightly, but enough for it to be noticeable—because for a witch of near-unparalleled ability, he can't half be a fraidy-cat. Once he turns to her, she's treated to one of his more unimpressed grimaces, thin lips draw into a sharp downward curve. Thick black hair is pushed back in neat waves above thick black brows, which tend to make him look either condescendingly annoyed... or emotionally pained. (She's heard him weep over particularly good samosas often enough for the second option to be viable.)
"Didn't you ever learn to knock before entering the barn you grew up in? And that's Mister Saberhagen to you."
Annoyed, Hilda folds her arms, because two can play at this game. She thinks, she'll call him Mister Saberhagen when isn't paying her minimum wage—but for now, she simply flashes him a sickly-sweet smile. Her bemusement is evident enough in her keen gaze.
"Oh—this?" Salem points at the map hung behind him (floating unsuspended, she realises), his eyes following close behind. "Just thinking about where to take my next vacation. You know, if you ignore the civil war, Nigeria is nice this time of year."
Those eyes shift onto Hilda again: slowly, if not suspiciously. They're eyes that don't miss anything, the most authoritative part of him—because the rest of him is kind of... soft.
She'll concede he's cute, in the boy-next-door kind of way, but he's five hundred years old and still looks uneasy in a tie. His hair is too clean-cut to have the wild, Heathcliff thing going on, and while he does boast the moody, pointed features of the Byronic hero he wants to be... there's still something very punchable about his face when he smiles.
Just like now.
"Sure," is all she says, when she realises Salem's waiting for her to say something. She doesn't care enough about what he was really doing to ask. "I just came by to tell you I'm locking up now. I think everyone's gone."
"Already?"
"The meeting did end half an hour ago."
"Huh." Apparently, he's surprised enough to pause, pressing a hand to his cheek in contemplation. He's quiet for long enough that he wonders if he's waiting for her to go, but then he begins yammering again. "Well, maybe I can ask you for your opinion on something."
Hilda resents the way he says that—like he had someone else in mind to talk to. Just because she's newer than his other associates doesn't make her contribution any less valuable. Doesn't he realise zapping up perfect pitchers of iced tea is really an art?
Still, she can acknowledge a good thing when it arises, even if he apparently can't. She doesn't remember the last time she spoke to Salem one-on-one since her interview (what kind of philosophy group needs a gruelling screening process, anyway?)—and getting on the boss's good side can't be bad.
Plus, did she mention he's kind of cute when he doesn't talk?
"Ask away," she finally utters—and no sooner has she done so than Salem's map vanishes. She hadn't even seen him move his hands, entwined before him as he stands rigidly to attention. That's just the kind of witch he is, though; there's power in him and he barely has to try.
Fresh canvases unravel from thin air instead, ink bleeding through them in tandem to forge their contents. It takes Hilda a moment to work out what she's looking at, but she finds herself tilting her head in surprise when she realises these are exhaustive design diagrams of...
"Great War uniforms?"
"Just an idea, but a uniform policy might be good for us." He spares a fond glance the diagram's way. "I'm thinking it would boost our society's morale... I mean, interest."
"Um."
Like he'd been expecting a round of applause, Salem's blank stare is unimpressed, so Hilda elaborates.
"Isn't that a little... militaristic?"
"It's a commentary." Salem throws his hands into the air, poised either side of him in the most graceful display of irritation Hilda's ever seen—and as he does so, the boards disappear without any sign he'd cast a spell at all. "We're a peaceful group in a time of aggression, so it's about time our movement reclaims the bandolier! Besides, I really think tunics are making a comeback."
"I guess... If you're open to a little customisation, maybe they could look cute." Hilda smiles weakly with the suggestion, but it's wiped off her face by the next thing to cross her mind. "We wouldn't have to pay for them ourselves, would we?"
"You wouldn't." Here comes that effortlessly infuriating smile: easy and large, spreading in smooth increments. "Future mortal comrades, on the other hand..."
Huh. Pushing off from the door-frame with an elbow, Hilda tips her head forward to smile back, partly baffled and nowhere near as patronising. She's still amused, though. Inter-witchy solidarity is really one of the perks of finding Other Realm alumni on Earth—but that raises questions of its own, doesn't it?
It's rare that mortal perspectives are considered when witches decide to tackle the big questions. Mortals are good people... mostly, but that doesn't change the fact they're distinctly terrible at governing themselves. Sometimes magical guidance is necessary, so Hilda has to wonder why Salem thinks he can combine two groups that will almost never mesh, fragmentation aside.
She wonders aloud, in fact. Maybe she won't win her boss over, but she can seize a chance to peek inside his workaholic head.
"What's really going on here, Salem?"
"I don't follow."
"Maps, uniforms, accumulating numbers by any means necessary... This isn't the book club it started as. I'm not stupid."
Even if she isn't Zelda. She purses her lips then, though Salem must think she's directing that sour look at him because he recoils. His shoulders rise just enough for his perfect posture to wither.
"C'mon, Spellman. I'm just giving my membership what they're so desperately crying out for—direction. Lost souls flock to my charismatic nature and I guide them, because that's what I do. I'm a giver."
"Uh-huh," Hilda says, simply, because now she truly is getting Zelda vibes. "I don't need guidance."
"But you do need someone who wants to fight for you."
Hilda prepares to deliver some kind of devastating retort, or to ask him where he was last week when she could've used some help repelling that persistent goblin who just can't accept a break-up... but she's too intrigued. This is an almost selfless statement from a man who's way too fond of talking to his reflection.
"And how would you fight for me, exactly?"
Salem does little to disguise his relief. His hands are lifted again, palms upturned to the ceiling in some kind of messiah-like call to listen—and Hilda would roll her eyes, if it wasn't such a weirdly reassuring sight. That unwavering self-confidence of his is bothersome most of the time... but at times like this, she gets it.
"You know the answer to that."
"Humour me anyway."
"All right. Let me ask you something. Would you call this world fair, Spellman?"
Such a query takes her aback. That's a big question, not least of all because the world itself is big. She knows Salem has a special interest in the upper echelons of society, quoting Machiavelli in the same breath as a demand for more potato chips, but she can't just analyse the patchwork of humanity like that. She needs a moment, and a moment is precisely what he's not going to give her.
"Think about it." He begins crossing the floor to her as he speaks, approaching the steps she stands on with abrupt conviction in his stride. "You and I, we've lived through capitalism, socialism, feudalism—can we really say anything had the distinction of working? You think those bureaucrats on the Witch's Council care what we call this Realm's song so long as it's their tune?"
If there was ever a time for Hilda not to be speechless, it's when Salem is standing before her expectantly, all bright green eyes and small neat teeth, slightly exposed as though he really is indignant. Her resolve floundering, staring at him is the only thing she can do for a stretch, expression contorted into something incredulous.
"I guess... the Council can be a little dismissive," she finally offers, even if it feels like sacrilege leaving her tongue. But wasn't she just thinking the same thing? The Council's reserved right to interfere in the Mortal Realm's affairs has just been accepted as gospel, when all this world really needs is...
"A leader. That's what the rabble wants, and I know the game. Hell, I know the score! Admittedly, having a group of loyal followers willing to die for me is a gruelling task... but I'm prepared to make that sacrifice for the greater good."
Hilda's jaw drops with alarm before she can stop it, because there's no way this is going back to being a book club any time soon.
Yet her mouth twitches with the suppression of a natural urge to challenge him. She lifts a finger: not to cast any spell, but to emphasise the point she makes instead of dissenting.
"Say I'm interested. What is it you think they're after from a leader? Because as a proud member of the rabble, I'm dying to know."
"We all want the same thing, don't we? A planet ruled by one forward-thinking entity who only seeks the best for everyone all the time—not just when it's convenient. A man with a plan."And geez, this guy is expressive when he talks: Hilda could make a game of counting individual hand gestures, Salem's wiry body conducive to looking both energetic and shifty. "A humanitarian régime that doesn't believe in the hypocritical old elite—because there is no elite. Just intelligent leadership that rules consistently despite the stressful position... Again, I'm really taking one for the team, here."
That does sound nice, Hilda thinks, lowering her hand while tipping her head in thought. Mortal and magical councils alike all suffer from the same ailment: divisions, leaving the little guy to be nothing more than a pawn in ongoing battles between egos. Salem might have one hell of an ego himself, but he seems to know what he's talking about... doesn't he?
Why hasn't anyone else ever tried forging a benevolent global régime before, anyway?
Hilda's still mulling that one over when Salem stoops slightly. Before she can thank him for no longer looming ominously, he extends a hand like he's asking her to dance. Maybe it's slipped his mind that there's no actual soundtrack to this B-movie basement, but she still accepts the offer, resting her palm tentatively atop his. It's plain curiosity that drives her.
Yet curiosity killed... some kind of creature. She doesn't have time to remember the end of the idiom because Salem is pulling her down in one (unexpectedly firm) swoop, and her feet aren't touching the ground for longer than just an instant. Gravity doesn't even factor into the way she circles him by floating around him, her mouth an 'o' of surprise while he spins her hovering body into the room.
When she finally lands on her feet, marginally disorientated, it's with the foreboding click of boot heels; certainly not the dull thwack of the flats she'd had before. A reflexive glance down at herself reveals she's now dressed differently—who gave Salem the right to interfere with her meticulously cute wardrobe?—and what's more, she recognises this green nightmare as the military digs of the Cuban army.
She crinkles her nose with mild disgust. A fashion crisis is only one of the many Cuba's been having lately.
Directing that look to Salem only invokes a surprised expression of his own.
"What? It's lighter than the other option." Whatever confidence he'd had to twirl her around like that seems to dissipate, because now he lets out a petulant sniff. "I gotta say, you didn't seem too enthusiastic about it."
"But this one is worse! It screams revolutionist chic."
"Does it, now?" Salem presses a hand to his jaw while the other cups his elbow. A technically flawless, but utterly unconvincing show of astonishment. "Here I just thought it was practical."
"Salem." Hilda extends her arms—partly because it makes her feel a little more detached from these garish digs if her limbs don't touch it, but also because she remembers this from a nature documentary. People are meant to puff themselves up around predators... or something. All she knows is, there's something dangerous in the way he's analysing her. "Fix this right now!"
"Women," Salem says. "There's no pleasing them."
Though he acquiesces with a dismissive wave of a hand. Hilda thinks the glare she gives him is a suitable reward, tugging the creases out of her shirt. The word jackass comes to mind—but so does another problem.
"I can see something really wrong with your idea, you know."
The half-lidded sneer Salem adopts makes him sound completely dishonest when he says, "I'm dying to hear it."
"People have tried this... uprising thing before," she begins, pausing to inject hand gestures of her own. Appropriate jazz hands for a lofty concept. "But all it does is create a new elite. I mean, wouldn't all that power just go to your head?"
"Moi? You wouldn't have to worry about that." Salem goes so far as to scoff. "There'd naturally be a place for everyone's voice, but don't you remember the moral of Orwell's 1984? Some people are just more goshdarn equal than others."
"I've never read that book."
"And I never finished it, though I liked the way it was going." A vague air of irritation accompanies Salem's shrug. "But what do you say, Spellman? Interested in learning more? You do make a mean iced tea."
Hilda merely narrows her eyes, absent-mindedly bending the fingers of one hand back slightly. There's still something fishy about Salem Saberhagen: he's smiling at her in a way that's half-charming and half-unsettling, which is not the sort of expression she wants to see on an employer. Still, it reaches his eyes with some kind of boyish warmth. He's cute. When was the last time a would-be dictator was cute?
Those reservations remain, though, gnawing away inside her chest. A conflicted heart is never good for a witch, not least of all because hearts can be real quitters when the going gets tough, and...
"You know," Salem says, interrupting her train of thought. He takes to airily examining his knuckles for a moment–only to flex out his fingers, offering her a sideways glance. "If it means anything, I always thought you'd be better for a movement like this than your sister."
With a spontaneously wide smile, hands stilling in a reverential clasp, Hilda perks up.
What reservations?