Chapter Text
Their joined hands swing between them as they walk to the Metro station.
The streets of Madrid are fairly crowded for an arbitrary Thursday night, but Beatrice guesses that tourists—much like Ava—just can’t get enough of the city. They’d spent close to three hours dancing, hopping from a bar, to a club, on to a different bar, and she just managed to coerce Ava to leave (after being cajoled into one last song).
Beatrice hasn't gotten used to this.
The fact that Ava is alive, and well, and here...it still makes her chest feel like it's about to burst. Two months had passed since she'd let go of her at the Arc. A month without her and a month with her. She was deep in the throes of rearranging her life around the loss of her when she got the call, and jumped on the first plane out of France she could find. And then, there she was, an easy smile and a "Hey, Bea" on her lips. If hearts and minds could get whiplash, Beatrice thinks hers would certainly qualify for the condition.
When she adds to that that this is who they are now—interlocked fingers, shared smiles, and kisses—well, Beatrice is thankful she's always had a strong constitution.
Ava pulls her along a cobblestone street, and Beatrice follows as easily as a flowing river.
She spent so long holding her breath around Ava, trying to control how she felt, how she looked at her, trying to avoid even the slightest accidental touch... She remembers sitting on their couch back in Switzerland while they had dinner, hyper aware of how their thighs were almost touching, and trying hard not to think about it. She remembers the way her fingers curled into fists when they accidentally made contact with Ava’s skin. She’d tried very hard to be respectful, to be conscious of the way she acted, all the while knowing that overthinking every single interaction between them wasn't normal, wasn't what a friend would do.
That’s all in the past, and Beatrice is still more than a little amazed by that.
Ava wants Beatrice to touch her, seeks out her touch, in fact, to the point it makes the tips of her ears feel hot. Ava thinks about her as much as Beatrice thinks about her. Always had. Ava loves her too.
Beatrice squeezes her hand a little with the knowledge. Ava looks up.
“What?”
Beatrice shakes her head. “Nothing.” She’s not sure how to tell her that just strolling down this road tonight, hand in hand with her, feels like a miracle.
They keep walking until suddenly, Ava perks up.
“Do we have to go back already?” she asks.
“Aren't you tired?”
Ava smiles at her, a cheeky pull of her lips.
“Of dancing. But I could go for some churros.” She pokes Beatrice’s stomach gently with their joined hands. “Vamos. Chocolate y churros.”
Beatrice smiles at Ava’s Spanish accent. It’s better than hers. Two weeks ago, she made the mistake of letting Ava know how adorable she found her when she spoke spanish or what little portuguese she remembered from her childhood. Ava has been using it against her ever since.
“Will any place be open?” Beatrice asks her, knowing it’s pretty much conceding defeat.
“Of course. It’s not even ten yet, because someone decided to leave early.”
“We have a three kilometer walk back,” Beatrice says. The church and grounds the Madrid chapter of the OCS is using as headquarters are well hidden in the outskirts of the city. It’s optimal for their security, but a hassle when Ava convinces her to get away for a night out.
“Don't remind me,” Ava says, and then raises an eyebrow. “But hey, that’s another reason to get fuel, no?”
Beatrice sighs theatrically. Ava doesn't even have to ask, she’s already won.
They sit by the door of the small coffee shop, side by side on tall metal chairs. Beatrice’s knees bump against the wall in front of them.
“I like this place, it’s cozy,” Ava says, as she pseudo-washes her hands with the condensation from her water bottle.
Beatrice's chest warms. The way Ava looks at the world is one of her favorite things about her.
“It’s nice,” she concedes, although it’s not any different than the other hundreds of coffee shops in this city. But it is nice to be here.
Ava groans. “Smells amazing,” she says. A cup of thick chocolate sits between them, along with a basket of hot, crispy churros covered in sugar. Ava dries her hands on her jeans and then digs in. Beatrice is content to watch. She had the single beer at the bar, but she's not very hungry.
“Have some with chocolate,” Ava tells her.
“No, thanks,” Beatrice replies. “It’s too sweet.”
She never had much of a taste for sugar.
“Here,” Ava says, raising a piece of churro slathered with chocolate up to her lips.
Beatrice gives her a look. Ava just raises her eyebrows, and a moment later Beatrice dutifully opens her mouth. She doesn’t like sugar all that much, but she does like Ava’s smile when she gets her way.
Her lips accidentally close around Ava's thumb, and Beatrice jolts like she touched a hot wire.
Ava pulls back and sucks her thumb into her mouth seemingly by pure reflex, and that action only makes the heat suddenly flooding Beatrice’s cheeks burn even hotter.
“Um—It’s good, right?” Ava asks.
“Mmhm.” She nods.
Ava keeps eating. Beatrice’s mind takes a sharp turn towards the gutter.
Things like this keep happening.
They’ve kissed many times, since Ava came back. They’ve done more than kiss: hot, feverish hands sneaking under clothing and pressing into soft skin to pull each other closer. That’s as far as they've gotten.
She isn't sure if she is ready for more, yet. She’s not a nun anymore, her vows of chastity are no longer holding her back, and she’s even begun to partake in…self exploratory endeavors. But the thought of being intimate with Ava, of crossing that line for the first time in her life…it sends her into overdrive, and it borders too much on panic for her to be comfortable pushing through it. And she doesn't need to. It’s not a Kokyuho exercise she has yet to master or a strategic problem she can't work through.
For the first time in her life, Beatrice is being patient with herself.
She’d started when she left the OCS, after Ava was lost. Every time her instincts told her to work herself to the bone, to punish herself, she remembered the tenderness with which Ava had held her face in her hands, how gentle her eyes had been when she asked her to live her life and the softness of her kiss.
And it had felt like a slight against her, to not take care of herself.
There’s something about the nature of love hidden in those feelings, but Beatrice, for all her extensive vocabulary and mastery of multiple languages…she just can't put it into words.
Ava groans, and Beatrice looks up, realizing she’d been lost in thought.
“What’s wrong?”
Ava gives her a pathetic look.
“I'm so full already. But there’s still so much left.”
She looks down at the basket. Ava had inhaled three churros while Beatrice internally debated her virginity. She hops down from the wobbly chair, and flags down the only waitress. At least this is an easily solved matter.
“Disculpa, ¿nos lo podéis poner para llevar? ”
They make it to the Metro station without further distractions.
Beatrice holds the doggy bag with Ava's chocolate and remaining churros. She’ll probably devour them for breakfast in the morning. The food back at the convent is good and calorie dense, but it has nowhere near the amount of sugar Ava finds desirable.
A group of young men whistle at them as they get into their train, and Beatrice flinches. Ava doesn’t drop her hand.
“Let them,” Ava says defiantly.
Beatrice breathes through the discomfort as they sit down. She’s not afraid of what any man may do, they could take them easily in a fight, but years of ingrained shame and human self preservation fight against her desire to hold Ava’s hand in public.
“They're just jealous,” Ava tells her, an encouraging smile on her face.
“Of course they are,” Beatrice agrees. Ava is lovely without even trying. Beatrice knows how lucky she is, at a baseline level, that Ava, well, is interested in her.
But Ava shakes her head.
“Jealous of me,” she clarifies. “That I get to be with you .”
Beatrice gulps. It's unbecoming.
“Oh. I—”
“You're so beautiful.”
“Ava.” Beatrice’s cheeks feel warm.
She’s used to being admired—for her strength, for her form, for her posture. She fashioned herself into a weapon and she accepted the praise that came with it, although she worked hard to avoid the sin of pride. But before Ava, no one had called her beautiful.
Even as a young child, before her parents noticed anything they deemed wrong with her, her mother made comments about her figure, her stomach. There were Ballet teachers who pointed out she wasn’t dainty enough, and boys who pulled at the edges of their eyes to tease her in primary school. Beatrice grew a thick skin and found value in other parts of herself, had never needed to feel pretty. She’d scoffed at it, actually, had much rather preferred to be measured by her brains than her appearance.
It had been the easiest part of her life as a nun. The veil which covered her hair when she wore the habit was supposed to protect sisters from vanity, but Beatrice never had such concerns. She wasn’t what anyone would call beautiful.
Until now, that is. She can't do anything but accept the qualifier when Ava looks at her like this, her eyes dark and wide, her jaw a little slack, her brows upturned. She’s looking at her how Yasmine looks at pastries through bakery windows. She’s looking at her how Camila looks at paintings at the museum.
Ava is looking at her the same way Beatrice has seen her look at the sunrise of a new morning, in awe of its beauty, in disbelief that she gets to see it. Like she’s not just beautiful, but breathtaking.
Oh God, have mercy.
“And you're cute when you get flustered,” Ava says.
“I don't get flustered,” she says. Lying is the least of her sins these days.
“Of course not,” Ava agrees, looking unbelievably pleased with herself. She leans her head against Beatrice’s shoulder, their fingers still tangled.
They get off at the last station, and begin the trek back to headquarters.
Beatrice is most comfortable here, in the darkness, in the solitude. Ava’s shoulder bumps against her as they walk, talking about anything and nothing at all.
They’re still holding hands. Ava only lets go of her hand to dry her sweaty palm against her jeans, and then goes right back to holding on to her. It’s the kind of thing that Beatrice had never thought about, the mundanity of being with someone that she’s enchanted by.
“...and I saw her staring at me all throughout lunch. You should’ve been there. Camila said she’s starstruck but it’s all very children of the corn to me.”
“Sister Melanie admires you,” Beatrice tells Ava. “And she's exceptionally disciplined for her age.”
“She has you as a teacher,” Ava tells her. “I’m getting kind of jealous. I had you all to myself in Switzerland and now you’re just teaching everyone. A Bea-killer-moves buffet. Free for all.”
“I’m hardly…you make it sound so indecent .”
Ava pokes her tongue between her teeth in a way that lets Beatrice know that’s exactly how she wanted it to sound.
The night is balmy and dark. A faint breeze blows through the trees lining the road. Ava is teasing her, and Beatrice is in a good mood. She remembers a sermon from when she was still in secondary school, where the priest had said that if we looked closely with the eyes of faith, we could find God in the small things. She tries not to think too hard about the particulars of God these days, unsure of who Reya is and what she means to her faith. But she remembers that sermon, and knowing what God means to her, Beatrice understands.
She can find God in the smattering of stars above them, in the trees bending with the wind, and in the way Ava’s nose scrunches when she smiles.
“Thank you for coming out with me today,” Ava says, her tone no longer joking, almost like she guessed her train of thought.
“Of course” she tells her. “Always.”
She’d had a lot of regrets, after sending Ava through the arc. One of them was Ava not getting to explore Madrid how she wanted. The fight was always going to arrive. It would have made no difference if they’d held back for an hour or two. She’s doing that now. Trying to live between all of this. Carving out that hour or two for Ava to be happy.
“Always?” Ava teases, bumping her shoulder against Beatrice’s.
“Maybe not always.”
When the church’s bell tower is visible in the distance, Beatrice gently lets go of Ava’s hand.
They walk in through the main entrance. Due to the late hour, the courtyard is deserted. They make their way through the grounds, to the living quarters.
They see one of the new recruits, who bows her head at them in greeting as she walks by.
Beatrice feels slightly embarrassed. It's strange to live with the other sisters, while not being bound to the same rules they are bound to anymore. She’s not sure to what extent the other sister warriors know of her and Ava's relationship, either. They’re not hiding, per se, they’re always together and everyone seems to think of them as a unit, but she supposes that could be interpreted by anyone as a very close friendship.
It’s odd, all of it, to live like a nun again—except for the days Ava drags her out to go drinking and dancing. To sleep at the convent and attend mass—and hold Ava’s hand at lunch when the topic turns to Mary and Beatrice’s eyes fill with tears. Mother Superion knows what she and Ava are to each other, and so does Camila, Yasmine and Dora, and yet nothing has changed.
It’s like she gets to have it all, this family she found, this purpose she believes in…and this love .
It’s almost too good to be true. She’s conflicted.
Ava feels no such way, by the way she happily waves at the girl.
They make their way to the living quarters, past the large double doors of the dormitories where the newest recruits sleep, and down the hallway that houses the smaller individual rooms. They come to a stop in front of Beatrice’s.
Ava looks up at her from beneath her eyelashes.
“So…” she drags out. “Can I get a goodnight kiss?”
Beatrice glances around once before pressing her lips to Ava’s. It’s brief, and warm, and somehow calms Beatrice at the same time it makes her heart speed up.
She pulls back. Ava nudges her nose with her own.
“Another?”
She doesn’t have to ask. Once isn’t enough. Beatrice surges forward again, her hands falling to Ava’s hips. Ava opens her mouth beneath her. Beatrice is helpless as she sinks into it, the wetness and the warmth, the touch of her tongue, the faint taste of chocolate that’s probably her imagination.
Ava sinks her hand into her hair and scratches, and a groan leaves Beatrice's lips. She’s still reeling from the feel of blunt nails when Ava pulls away, panting. Their foreheads touch, hot exhales of air shared between their open mouths.
Beatrice remembers they’re in the hallway of a convent.
She can step back, and Ava will hug her and go back to her own room for the night. She can step forward, and take as much as she wants, receiving in return as much as she can handle.
Beatrice knows the ball is in her court.
She opens the door behind her and pulls Ava in.