Chapter Text
Beatrice’s first act as her illegal guardian (“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me that,” Beatrice says) is to take her shopping. As much as she’d like to live in Beatrice’s oversized sweaters and comfortable boxer-briefs, she’s never had the chance to develop her own style, try on clothes and get a friend to verify how great her tits look.
(“Please,” Beatrice says, now sounding quite pained, “do not ask me that.”)
However, shopping in the apocalypse is a little different than she’d seen in all those movies. For one, there’s no longer any value in old currency, as there’s no possible way to regulate it, Beatrice explains as they head towards La Luz - which is what the locals refer to the city’s center as, due to its overwhelming cascade of neon - and all the shops are the product of necessity, from clothing to food to weapons to art. If something exists, Beatrice says, it’s because the person selling it felt the void was too great to continue living without it.
“How do you buy things, then?” Ava asks curiously, doing her best to window-shop as she’s guided to wherever Beatrice has decided to take her. They’ve passed a couple restaurants, several bars, and more electronics shops than she’d expected, considering nothing works long-range; but there are gadgets she’s noticed in the hands of the people they walk by, chunky and curved devices with dull screens and clunky buttons.
“Blood,” Beatrice says, which makes perfect sense and somehow deeply unnerves Ava at the same time. She continues, “Don’t worry. I’ll pay,” as if aware of the conceptual impact the statement has, especially uttered so casually.
The streets are all cobblestone or a similar shade of dry brick, as though any holes had been patched up with whatever’d been lying around. People mill about along the storefronts, smoking and drinking, chattering quietly despite the loudness of the signage around them. It isn’t actively hostile, Ava thinks, but it isn’t particularly friendly, either; Beatrice had talked about wars and mistrust and prejudice before both sides noted that - were any of them to survive at all - cooperation had to become a dire necessity.
This must be the result of that truce: keeping their friends so close they’re sharing blood, and starving their enemies.
She’s fallen a bit behind; she takes a few larger strides to catch up, nestling against Beatrice’s side as they walk. “Are there, like, new laws?” Ava murmurs, arms crossed over her body and avoiding any interested eyes. “Is there anything about actually living in society I should know?”
“Oh,” Beatrice says, as if she hadn’t considered that aspect; society is likely a looser term, anyway. “Nothing that concerns you…most laws implemented have been in relation to us.” She digs her teeth into the inside of her bottom lip. “Vampires.”
“Like what?”
“Such as non-consensual blood-drinking,” she replies, also keeping her voice low. “Blood is the most valuable thing in existence for us - all of us, humans included. It’s a delicate balance. They need our blood to avoid possession and cure injury or disease; we need their blood to survive. But we’re also much more physically capable than they are; they needed additional protections.”
“Crazy,” Ava exhales, struggling to wrap her mind around a world in which blood is the central focus connoting life, rather than the old one, where blood was spoken about in terms of how much had spilled. “And I’m guessing murder is still pretty bad.”
That’s a comment with an inviting hand towards Beatrice’s smile, which reluctantly accepts, unfurling across her mouth. Pride wells within Ava, overflows, pours through her body like a river. Beatrice says, “Yes, Ava. Murder is still heavily frowned upon.”
They turn down a side street mostly composed of small clothing shops. Some are already closed for the day, while others are seemingly just opening up; they’re small brick buildings, wall-to-wall, and though their storefronts have obviously been painted, much of their original color has eroded over time. Beatrice might not be worried about the atmosphere, but it’s a violently different shade of yellow than she remembers, and Ava’s sure it’s due to some chemical reaction that’s giving them all radiation poisoning or something.
It takes her a second to realize they’ve stopped walking. Beatrice says, “Pick any of the shops with fangs below their signs.”
“Why?”
“It denotes if they accept vampire blood as payment,” she explains softly. “They’re usually human-owned.”
“This is so fucking weird,” Ava says, finding herself mesmerized by the tubes of light bent into the shapes of fangs, red dripping from their points. An uncomfortable feeling tugs at the nape of her neck, pulses in her wrist. “They’re gonna drink from you? And I have to watch?”
What’s actually fucking weird is why Ava places so much emphasis on the last word, as if one taste had signed Beatrice’s blood a new contract with Ava’s name on the dotted line. But Beatrice is wearing amusement again, half-smile taking up the right side of her mouth.
“No,” she says. “That’s…not something one does in public. There’s a device for it.”
“Oh,” Ava says, feeling inexplicably better about the whole thing. “Okay. That’s slightly less weird.”
“You get used to it,” Beatrice says. “You get used to a lot of things you never thought you could when you’re out of other options.”
After lying in a bed for twelve years, unmoving, Ava understands that all too well. She picks a store with a soft-looking hoodie in the window and leads Beatrice in by the hand, because Beatrice’s hand is the first thing Ava's ever touched of her own accord, because Beatrice’s hand is gentle and soft when it wraps around her own, because she’s keeping her friends so close she wants to find another word for it entirely.
“Good choice,” is all Beatrice says, her free hand shoved deep into her pocket.
–
Beatrice probably should have expected this.
In hindsight, bringing a recently-resurrected girl with full-body autonomy for the first time in her life to a clothing store was never going to be a short, simple trip.
She greets the owner with an incline of her head - the woman nods back, unconcerned, but raises an eyebrow to Ava as if to ask, yours? like Ava’s an overexcitable puppy who may accidentally knock over everything she wags her tail against.
Beatrice nods again, barring down against the flush of implication. Ava is hers, though not in the way the owner’s inferring; it’s too complicated to correct, and Beatrice allows the narrative to exist.
“This is wild,” Ava says, running her fingers against the material of a shirt before taking it off the rack; she doesn’t seem bothered by how small the store is or how no two items are the same - production chains aren’t exactly possible at the moment, which gives everything a homemade touch - and she’s picked several things and flung them over her arm within ten minutes, delighted.
“There’s no such thing as a return, anymore,” Beatrice says, watching her tilt her head at a long, red-and-black patterned floral skirt, as if mentally trying to picture herself in it. “If you get something you don’t end up liking, we can give it to one of our friends. Everything finds a use.”
“Don’t overthink it, right?” Ava asks, and plucks the skirt off the rack. “Do you think I’d look good in this?”
It has an extremely high slit all the way up the side, and Beatrice can perfectly envision the flash of Ava’s thigh as she walks in it, or the bare expanse of skin it’d reveal if she were to sit a certain way, one leg crossed over the other, mouth in a dirty, delicious grin–
“No,” she says, clearly panicking. Ava laughs so loudly the owner jumps.
“Oh, Beatrice,” Ava purrs. “You’re easy, aren’t you?”
“I believe you’re the only person who’s ever described me as such,” Beatrice says, wondering if - after all this time of adjusting to life after death, to the end of the world and all its strange, new beginnings - she is now destined to start again, to reconceive her notion of life as life with Ava, which is a life full of complicated questions and even more complex emotions and things that used to be commonplace such as laughter, and beauty, and joy, and lo–
“Let’s try that again,” Ava says, and holds up the skirt. “Beatrice, would I look good in this?”
Beatrice would like to pour cement over her head and let it dry there. She would like to mummify, or desiccate, or drink from a wraith until she is too paralyzed to move from its poison. Somehow, all of these seem like excellent options in comparison to simply telling the truth.
She does it anyway. “Yes,” she says, turning her chin away and staring resolutely at the wall. She can feel Ava’s smirk as though it’s inside of her, burning everything it touches.
When they’re finally ready - no dressing rooms, Beatrice murmurs; you’ll notice how much of our city has been reconstructed without the opportunity for vulnerability - Ava brings her items to the counter, nearly wiggling with excitement, continuously bouncing back and forth between feet.
The owner can’t ignore her any longer. “New in town?” she asks, her curiosity somewhat piqued.
“Yes,” Beatrice answers smoothly for her, and nothing else. Ava takes the cue, smiles prettily and keeps her mouth shut.
“Well,” the owner says, inputting numbers on a box that looks kind of like a calculator, except that it seems to measure in mL and there are symbols Ava doesn’t recognize across the top. “Your total.” She turns the box towards Beatrice, who only nods, and begins to roll up her sleeve.
And then the owner produces one of the oddest things Ava’s ever seen: a machine like a cross between a tattoo gun and one of those futuristic tracking-device syringes she’d always seen in sci-fi movies. It fits snugly in the owner’s hand, and she adjusts a gear on the side before placing the small nozzle against a vein in the crook of Beatrice’s elbow.
Milileters, Ava realizes. The new measurement of currency.
It’s almost over before Ava can even comprehend it’s happening. The owner presses the trigger, and then one of the tubes fills with a warm, red liquid, and the transaction is complete.
“To another day,” Beatrice says, taking the scratchy tote bag full of Ava’s purchases.
“To another day,” the woman echoes, and Beatrice leads Ava out of the store.
–
They do shoes next, and that goes much quicker; Beatrice has far more input here (“For training,” she says, holding up a pair of black sneakers with a vividly pink design, and Ava nods obediently) but still allows Ava a certain amount of freedom to experiment with her sense of aesthetics. A pair of combat boots, a strappy pair of sandals, black-and-red heels.
“Something for every occasion,” Ava says, piling them in Beatrice’s arms one at a time.
“I’m curious,” Beatrice says, “as to what occasion you think you’ll be wearing heels in.”
Instantaneous mistake. Ava grins wickedly up at her from where she’s crouched on the floor, slipping the band over the back of her heel, and says blithely, “Well, I thought they’d go well with my new skirt. The one you think I’ll look hideous in.”
“I didn’t say that,” Beatrice responds, hoping the hot flush she feels beneath her neckline stays there. “You’ve seen the city.”
“I have,” Ava agrees. “There are clubs, and bars, and restaurants.”
Two of those things have never quite existed to Beatrice, and the third one ceased as soon as her only craving became blood. As such, she herself hasn’t seen the city - not in the way Ava wants to, at the very least. “You’d like to go out?”
“Eventually,” Ava says, circling her ankle as she examines the shoe. “I like these, but I’ll have to learn how to walk in them.”
“Please wait until we’re home to practice,” Beatrice says, having already given into the idea that her willpower is nothing in the face of Ava’s enthusiasm. “You’re not very good at walking in regular shoes to begin with.”
“Well, it’s not like I had a lot of practice,” Ava points out, and slips it off, handing both heels to Beatrice. “I’m good. This is enough. I don’t want them taking all your blood.”
It’s much the same process as the other store, except that the owner - an older man who seems to be doing some kind of number-puzzle in a small booklet - barely says a word to them, even when he takes Beatrice’s blood in payment, and only grunts as he nods them off.
“Now?” Ava asks.
“Home,” Beatrice says, carrying Ava’s bags in one hand casually. “We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to you just yet. And I’d rather be certain you’re able to control - yourself–” she places deliberate emphasis on the word, hoping Ava catches her meaning, “–before you’re around larger crowds.”
“Ahhh,” Ava says, nodding sagely. “Okay. Sure. And that’s all?”
Beatrice frowns at her, sparing her a sideways glance as they break onto one of the busier main streets. “What else would it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ava says, tucking herself closely against Beatrice’s side; Beatrice automatically curls her arm around Ava’s shoulders. “I thought maybe you wanted to keep me all to yourself.” She smiles devilishly, one eyebrow raised at her bags clutched in Beatrice’s free hand to where she’s holding Ava with the other. “You look kinda like my boyfriend right now.”
“Boyfriend,” Beatrice repeats flatly, which Ava interprets as an insult she’s immediately ready to rectify.
“Girlfriend, then,” Ava corrects, her eyes slipping past buildings steadily until something interests her, and then she narrows in as if trying to commit it to memory. “Who wears button-up shirts she half-tucks into her straight-legged pants with combat boots, and carries my stuff for me.”
Beatrice’s frown shifts, directed down to her own attire. “I feel as if you’re implying something,” she says, moving past the original remark. She’s been with Ava long enough by now - around five hours - to know that if Ava sees her flustered, she’ll only take it as encouragement.
“I am,” Ava says, their hips bumping as they walk. Ava does a tiny little skip to match Beatrice’s stride, and Beatrice has to shove away her brief adoration in favor of the stoicism she usually wears. “You’re a little butch, you know that?”
What is Beatrice possibly supposed to say to that? She was a nun for most of her life, and now she’s been cursed with a cruel and inhuman immortality for the rest of it. It’s not as if she’s ever spent time unpacking her identity beyond lesbian, not that she particularly cares to, anyway. “No,” she says after a moment. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“It’s hot,” Ava supplies helpfully. “Like, super hot. I love the way you dress.”
There’s only one way to get off the subject, and that’s to reverse its focus. “What are you, then?” Beatrice poses, guiding Ava away from La Luz and dipping down a side street.
“Not sure yet!” Ava says cheerfully. “Isn’t that part of the fun of life, though? Figuring it out?”
“I suppose,” Beatrice says. “For some people.”
“I don’t know that I care too much about, like, what I’m wearing,” Ava says casually, “as long as it makes me look hot.” Her hand reaches up, tangles Beatrice’s loose fingers with hers, as though she’d been waiting for Beatrice to let her guard down in their closeness. “I’ll need you to help me validate what’s hot, of course.”
“Of course,” Beatrice says, a rope knotting around her throat.
Logically, she knows she’s being toyed with - knows Ava’s reaching out and grasping at boundaries, figuring out which ones bend and which ones break and which seem to vanish beneath her touch entirely - but the rationale doesn’t stop her from reacting to it. Beatrice has spent decades drawing perfectly-spaced circles around herself that represent her vows - this is a punishment and you must accept it; this is Hell and it has chosen you; this is pleasure and you will turn your mouth away from it - only to meet a girl who seems to take a sickly sort of amusement from erasing every line, taking a step closer, and re-drawing it behind her as though it’d never applied to her to begin with.
Can’t cross a line that doesn’t try very hard to keep you out, Beatrice can hear in Ava’s voice, and then wonders if this imaginary conversation she’s having with herself is, perhaps, exactly the kind of illogical reaction she’s been musing about.
“In through the window again?” Ava asks suddenly, ripping Beatrice away from her increasingly ridiculous internal spiral.
“Yes,” Beatrice murmurs. “Until Mother Superion pushes the official paperwork, I’d rather my neighbors not see you.”
“And when should we expect that?”
“Tomorrow,” she says, and reaches for the rung of the ladder. “She’s owed a few favors. I imagine she’ll be cashing one of them in.”
“Cool,” Ava breathes out, and steps forward, hands grasping the cold metal in preparation. “After that, you’re taking me out.”
“Oh, am I?” Beatrice’s voice is crisp as she lifts Ava again, helping her find her footing.
“This isn’t an argument,” Ava says, glancing down, only to find Beatrice straight-lipped with a shine in her eyes, crinkled at the corners. “Freshly alive, remember? You can train me, but I also want to, like, experience things.”
“And what experiences are on your list?” Beatrice says, suddenly directly above her with a hand on her wrist - which turns out to be life-saving, as Ava gasps in shock and slips - or she would have, had Beatrice not immediately pulled her up to the platform, entirely unconcerned.
“Jesus, Christ,” Ava says, heart hammering so hard she won’t be surprised if it splinters her bones. “Warn me, next time?”
“Sorry.” Beatrice softens, genuinely apologetic. “I forgot myself for a moment.”
She turns to the stairs, but it’s a sentiment that Ava captures in her mind as if on record and plays it again and again, the whole three-flight walk to Beatrice’s apartment. And then - once inside - it clicks, like a button unsticking, a tape popping from its case. She spins around, lets her hand fall and curl around whatever it touches first (Beatrice’s elbow) before saying, “I want you to be you, Beatrice.” Entirely too earnest and wide-eyed; Beatrice stares down at her, utterly bemused. “I don’t care that you’re a vampire. I don’t care that you move fast and drink blood and are super strong, or whatever the fuck else. I want you to be you around me.”
She isn’t familiar with giving speeches that aren’t meant to convey her own bravado - she’d hardly had time to practice her empathy, as she’d always been the worst one off in the orphanage - but Beatrice spreads open her ribcage, sifts through bone and muscle and blood, finds her heart and repositions it before closing her back up with steady, even stitches. As if giving it room to breathe and beat without the constant threat of crushing loneliness.
It is the act of touching, she thinks. Like Beatrice has left fingerprints on the chamber walls, and every pulse flutters with her imprint.
Beatrice offers, “You…want me to be a vampire around you?”
“Yeah!” Ava says, nearly euphoric with understanding; it’s the first time she’s placed someone else’s suffering far above her own. “Like, I - I don’t want you to…suppress parts of yourself or something, just because of me. Like Camila said - I’ll get used to it.”
But her lack of practice shows, and she flinches in response to her own words. They’re too tailored to her selfishly narrow worldview, dotted with I’s and me’s - and Beatrice’s face closes in, a tiny crease settling between her eyebrows.
“Ava,” she says slowly, gently, “I’m not repressing those aspects of myself because of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Beatrice’s window is still open; her curtain flutters in the breeze, and for a moment Ava remembers another day: Spring instead of apocalyptic, the window in her room shoved away from the windowsill and inhaling sunlight; that blue-sky blanket, the soulful-sweet sound of birds; somewhere, people laughing and kissing and rubbing their thighs together in the grass, and–
Ava can do none of it. Not then, and certainly not now, not ever.
“Do you think it’s worth it?” Ava whispers, almost accidentally. “Hating yourself?”
A sharp inhale, like sucking on glass; Beatrice’s jaw firms up as she swallows her instinct. And then, tersely: “I wouldn’t exactly call it a choice.”
It dangles between them uncertainly, somewhere between a noose and a lifeline. Ava’s grip tightens around her elbow, almost desperately, and although it’s new to her, she’s so much better at touch than she is at talking; she wants Beatrice to feel it, her defiance, her desire to cup Beatrice’s self-hatred in her hands and crush it into dust.
“Beatrice,” Ava says; one step closer, firmly breaching her space.
She doesn’t know what she plans to say next. Her first speech was a bust, and she highly doubts a second would magically go better: Beatrice is smart, and collected, and sensible; her friends have probably spent a century having the exact same arguments with her to no avail.
She doesn’t know what she plans to say, right up until the moment she says it. “Are you insulting me?”
It works; Beatrice blinks, head tilting automatically to the side, thick tension now fraying at the edges. “What?”
“I know I’ve barely done anything with my life,” Ava says, and her other hand lifts to rest on Beatrice’s shoulder, “but I’d always considered myself someone who’d have excellent taste, if given the opportunity.”
“Alright,” Beatrice replies carefully, more perplexed by the direction the conversation’s taken than Ava’s fingers on her shirtsleeves.
“I like you,” Ava says, blunt and forward. “I don’t mean in like - like, I’m not hitting on you. I like you. I think you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met, and from what I’ve heard, you have absolutely no reason to be, which is pretty admirable. I like you, and I have good taste, so you not liking you is an insult. To me.”
And then, miraculously: Beatrice smiles. Full and amused, points of her fangs pressing into the soft skin of her bottom lip; it’s breathtaking in its honesty. “I see,” she says, and Ava can feel the rigidity of her shoulders lessening, her body relaxing into itself. “Well, I can assure you that isn’t what I intended.”
“I know,” Ava soothes, rubbing her palm all the way to the crook of Beatrice’s neck before sliding it down her collarbone, resting on her chest. Victoriously, she notes how Beatrice’s arm has automatically wound around her waist in response. “But that’s what you did. So, I’d like an apology. I’d like you to say, ‘Ava, I am truly sorry for implying that you are a bad judge of character, and I am actually extremely awesome.’”
“Ava,” Beatrice murmurs, dark-eyed with lips like a lockpick, “thank you. And I’m truly sorry.”
Oh, there it is, returning with a vengeance: air coiling tight and thick between them; Ava’s hips nearly pressed against Beatrice’s own; her heart, aching to be bled directly into Beatrice’s waiting mouth. “Close enough,” Ava whispers, and kisses her.
Shit; she has got to stop doing that.
Beatrice stiffens under her mouth, but sighs against her a moment later, one hand loose at her side, the other still wrapped around Ava’s lower back. Like she’s resigned herself to being the centerpiece of Ava’s brash actions, and she’d rather follow through than deprive Ava of them entirely.
But her mouth is soft and pliant; it isn’t just that she’s letting herself be kissed, but that she’s inviting it, cradling Ava’s bottom lip between her own. Maybe, Ava thinks, maybe she’s as irresistible to Beatrice as Beatrice is to her.
She pulls away, probably a second or two later than she should have, and says, “Oops.”
Beatrice does what she’d done the first time - presses the back of her hand to her lips, before letting it fall back to her side - and starts reluctantly, “Ava–”
“Sorry,” Ava interrupts, her eyes darting down to Beatrice’s kiss-stained mouth. She’ll get ahead of the lecture. “You’re just so hot. I think I’m bisexual or something.”
Beatrice pushes her back lightly - almost teasingly - creating space between them, but she can’t hide the fondness of her eye-roll. It’s like she’s enjoying the disruption against her will, and these miniscule, physical reactions are the only way she’s able to express it. Ava doubts they’re purposeful, or even conscious.
“Well,” Beatrice says, “sexuality no longer holds any sort of importance in society, so rest assured that nobody will care who you like.”
Hook, line - no, not quite - a cocking gun, finger on the trigger, bang. “I see,” Ava says. “So it isn’t repressed lesbianism that’s making you pretend you aren’t attracted to me?”
She holds Beatrice’s stare, one eyebrow raised in challenge, and watches the flickering of Beatrice’s features, delicate like butterfly wings, like the last thin sheet of ice decorating a winter pond.
If she’d seen even the slightest hint of discomfort, she’d have backed down, no questions asked - but she catches a glimpse of hesitant curiosity instead, as though Beatrice is in the process of discovering just as much about herself as Ava is, despite the stark gap in years they’ve been alive.
“No,” Beatrice says finally, looking away, gathering Ava’s bags in her hand. “It isn’t that.”
–
Beatrice thinks she’s been given a break, as Ava bounds off to the bedroom with the intent of trying on her clothes - Don’t worry, she says, I won’t ask you about my tits - and returns to the mess of food in her kitchen, trying to remember anything of the cooking lessons she’d taken at boarding school as a child. It had never been her most passionate subject - the spontaneity and inconsistency of it had proven incompatible with her methods - but it’s hard to come by a fresh vegetable outside of a restaurant, and she’d quite enjoyed spaghetti squash pre-vampirism.
She examines the rest of her stock critically. A jar of olives, a clove of garlic, canned tomatoes…
She’s so absorbed in the meticulous cutting of it - flat against a board, sharp knife straight through the middle, cracking it apart and exposing the seedy, stringy center - that she doesn’t even notice Ava walk out of the bedroom and stop, hovering.
Without a spoon, she has no choice but to use her fingers - thin and long, reaching into the wet center and drawing out the pulp, carefully separating the seeds - some of the squash’s strands stick to her hand, draped over the back of her knuckles, clinging to her fingertips; she huffs a little, reaching for a paring knife with her other, and then–
A squeak comes from somewhere behind her left shoulder, and she turns, finds Ava staring - bright red - at her fingers, two deep into the hollowed-out hole of the vegetable.
“Ava?” Beatrice asks, momentarily alarmed. “Are you–”
Ava’s wearing the skirt.
Barefoot, it flows around her ankles, a black, sheer fabric with a bright red floral design - like thorned roses - that works its way up, unfurling; Beatrice can see now that there’s a shorter, thicker black piece underneath that stops its outer transparency from revealing too much.
But that apparently doesn’t extend to the slit itself, because Ava takes a step forward, shaking herself from whatever stupor she’d been stuck in, and the fabric parts around her thigh like a curtain lifting to reveal the stage, or like Beatrice’s lips when she sees the bare expanse of Ava’s skin, the curve of her knee, trailing all the way down to the sharp bone of her ankle. Which is ridiculous, because Beatrice has literally seen her naked, and has no reason to act like a slip of thigh is enough to unlock the cage her desire sits in and set it free.
Slowly, Beatrice retracts her fingers - there’s a soft sound of squelching, which has Ava biting down hard on her bottom lip - and tries again. “Can I help you?”
Worst choice of words anyone’s ever picked in their entire life.
“Um,” Ava says, watching her wipe the residue off of her hand, and Beatrice suddenly knows that yes, there are several things Ava wants her help with, and none of them are in any way appropriate. “I…wanted to know what you thought.”
It isn’t just the skirt, either. She’d paired it with a sleeveless black crop top that buttons up the middle, and it’s tight, with very little give - it highlights both her stomach and her cleavage excellently.
Beatrice says, using absolutely none of the brain cells she knows she possesses, “Oh.” And then, forcing her gaze back to Ava’s face: “Good.”
“Yeah?” Ava eyes her uncertainly.
“Yes,” Beatrice says, clutching the knife entirely too firmly between her fingers. “You look - like—” she’s floundering, which is something she doesn’t think she’s done in over a hundred years, “–you know what you’re doing.”
A short pause. “Thanks,” Ava says. “What are you making?”
“I’m - not exactly sure,” Beatrice says, turning back to her cutting board. “We have olives, tomatoes, garlic, a few spices…I thought I’d bake them.”
“Sounds good,” Ava says, and swallows as Beatrice reaches again for the squash. “I’m just going to - go - yeah.” She makes no move to leave. “The rest of my clothes.”
“Right,” Beatrice says. The roof, she swears, is seconds away from caving in on them, or bursting at its corners from the enormity of the tension it’s attempting to contain. “Are you…happy with what you’ve chosen, so far?”
“Yeah,” Ava says. So am I, Beatrice thinks, and pushes it away - tries to - keeps coming back to her instincts, her urges, whatever’d told her there was something to be missed in that graveyard, whatever forced her there over and over throughout the years with no results to show for it, whatever knew eventually she’d find Ava–
It takes another few seconds - any longer and Beatrice fears herself, what she would’ve done; and worse, what compulsive, bold Ava would’ve done - before she heads back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Beatrice breathes.
–
They spend the rest of the evening (“Yes, Ava, we still have clocks,” Beatrice says) in companionable silence; Beatrice serves her dinner and Ava behaves, doesn’t make comments about kissing the chef or giving her a meal in return with her neck bare and inviting, and then - miraculously - they both sit on the couch and read, quietly.
Not. Ava almost laughs at the idea. Yeah, right.
What actually happens is likely something akin to torture for the both of them, and for extremely similar reasons with wildly different contexts: Ava models various outfits and Beatrice politely pretends as if she only looks decent, rather than stunningly beautiful; she tries on her shoes, decides she hates heels after failing to walk four separate times, except that she seems to stumble - totally by accident, she swears - into Beatrice’s arms, who’s always there to steady her; Beatrice does server her dinner, which is, at least, edible–
“I have to say, though,” Ava begins conversationally, waving her fork in the air (“Must you?” interrupts Beatrice, who is taking her severe lack of cooking skills rather hard), “your blood was better.”
“Ava.” Beatrice looks a cross between pained and exasperated.
“What?” Ava asks, entirely too nonchalant. “It’s true.”
“Yes, but–” Beatrice breaks off, sighs deeply, stares at the dark ring of wood in her coffee table, clearly cut from a knotted tree. “You mustn’t be so…blase.”
“Why not?” She wraps her lips around the fork and watches the way Beatrice’s eyes - which have only just found the courage to meet hers again - drop immediately to her mouth. “I’ve never had sex or anything, but I think I’d be pretty open about that, too.”
“Is that so,” Beatrice says, not like a question, but rather like all her buttons have been pushed at once and her gears have caught against each other, grinding opposite directions.
“I mean, I’d like to find out for sure,” Ava says, setting her plate down and smirking. “Should we have sex? Just, like, for research.”
Ava’s been thinking.
In between her shopping spree and home-cooked meal, she’s decided that Beatrice is, in actuality, unbelievably sexy.
It isn’t just that Beatrice is the one who saved her, took care of her, and is now protecting Ava with her life or whatever; it’s everything. It’s in the way she carries herself - like she’s someone important, trying desperately to pretend she isn’t; how she decides each of her words so carefully before she says them aloud, as if she’s being graded; how she never seems to know what to do with her hands when she isn’t actively using them, fidgeting with her rings, or a stray thread of the couch cushion, or tucking her hair behind her ears when it comes loose from her bun.
It’s that Beatrice is a tightly-coiled spring that Ava can’t get comfortable against. It’s that Beatrice is a cabin in the woods and Ava’s pouring gasoline through the floorboards.
“Joking,” Ava says easily when Beatrice fails to respond in an appropriate amount of time.
“No, you aren’t,” Beatrice says, unreadable.
“No, I’m not,” Ava agrees, an open book. “But I can wait.”
This does not serve to soothe Beatrice in any visible way, but it doesn’t appear to upset her, either. Which is all fine and good, except - because she’s someone who pushes, who’s almost never received an answer she wants to a question she’s asked - what she’s craving is a reaction. A breaking point, however slim and brief. A stop sign, a green light, a highway without a speed limit.
So she continues, “Unless you want me to find someone else?”
“I–” Beatrice begins speaking immediately, cutting herself off just as quickly, as if one syllable had been the precursor to a loss of control. Her neck simmers pink, honey-rose, working up to her cheeks. She takes in a breath, her lungs expanding; Ava watches the way her shirt shifts with her inhale, stretching and pillowing, before relaxing into delicate creases. And she says: “It isn’t safe. We can’t reveal what you are to anyone outside of the Order.”
That’s all Ava needs. One crack; one letter. I, Beatrice had started before she’d reigned it in, and Ava wonders where that sentence would’ve gone - I don’t want that, maybe. I’m unable to answer that honestly. I want you and I’m not allowed to.
“Okay,” Ava says, nodding. “That makes sense.”
There are several things Ava could’ve said to refute her, but she’s done enough.
–
Beatrice sends her to bed an hour later. (We sleep, she’d explained, but not as much as humans. We tend to run on a seventy-two hour clock. Another one of Jillian’s experiments.)
Which is disappointing, because Ava likes having Beatrice near her, likes feeling safe and cared for without being burdensome, but she also knows she’d probably drive Beatrice to the brink of insanity if they tried to sleep in the same bed together now. Too soon, too uncontrollable; Ava’d probably try to jump her, and Beatrice would use some super-human ability to fling herself against the ceiling, and then she’d brood about what a monster she is for another twelve hours. So. It’s for the best.
But as she’s falling asleep - utterly exhausted, the death and resurrection of the day finally catching up with her - she murmurs, “Beatrice?” just to see if she’s there. If she’s listening.
And Beatrice’s voice murmurs back, “Yes, Ava?”
“Nothing,” Ava says, smile spreading sleepily across her mouth. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
“You’re not,” Beatrice says softly, and her weight settles on the edge of the bed. Ava feels, rather than sees, because her eyelids are far too heavy to lift without tremendous effort. Her hair is gently brushed away from her face. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”
This is how she thinks of Beatrice: light spilling into a dark room through an open door.
–
She wakes up in the morning to the sound of arguing.
“Lilith, please.” Beatrice’s voice, irate.
“I can be quick,” Lilith says. “She won’t even know what’s happened. It’s one little prick–”
“Hot date?” Camila asks, amused lilt underneath. “Found another human to ruin? That must be it. Why else are you so impatient?”
A scoff; Ava thinks it must be Lilith in response. “That was hardly my fault,” Lilith says loftily. “We had an arrangement; he violated it.”
“He was in love with you.”
“Of course he was. That doesn’t mean anything, nor is it some special circumstance I’m due to respect. Especially when I was clear - from the beginning - about what it is I desired from our relationship.”
“He tried to get possessed by a wraith when you rejected him.”
“Yes, well, that’s precisely my point,” Lilith says. “He was unwell. I made the right decision.” A pause. “Though, to answer your earlier inquiry, yes. I do, in fact, have a date.”
Dating in the apocalypse hadn’t exactly occurred to Ava, but she was suddenly desperate to know what it looked like. What did the end of the world do to love, she wondered; did it change out all its lighthearted, fanciful tropes for sharper edges and a darker shade of red? Do people still hold hands, or is physical closeness more of a necessity than a gesture? If Beatrice takes her out to dinner, do they smile and blink - doe-eyed - at each other across the table, or are they straight-backed and wary of their surroundings?
What if Ava wants to dance?
“I knew it,” Camila says. “She’s always like this when she’s got a date.”
“Astute observation,” Beatrice says. Their voices have all stayed the same distance from the door since Camila’s initial distraction.
“Not really,” Camila answers cheerfully. “She’s just a whore.”
The laugh rips itself out of Ava before she can stop it and then she’s choking in her haste to hold it in, but they’re vampires and there’s no way that they aren’t now aware that she’s awake and eavesdropping; the silence from outside most definitely confirms it.
And then, suddenly, Lilith is standing directly in front of her, one hand on her hip, the other clutching what looks to be a small, rectangular box, though it has a fold on its front similar to an envelope.
Ava rolls backwards off the bed, landing with a thud on the floor that has Beatrice kneeling at her side almost as fast.
“Lilith,” she scolds, her hand firmly tucked underneath Ava’s arm, and turns her softening gaze on Ava’s. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Ava says, rubbing the back of her head. “Just - startled.”
“What, by my mere presence?” Lilith tuts, hint of a smirk threatening her lips. “Good thing you’re being trained. I’d expect much better from the Halo-bearer.”
“No,” Ava says smoothly, “by the revelation that you’re a whore.”
Camila laughs heartily; Beatrice’s expression doesn’t shift outwardly, other than a tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth - the side that isn’t facing Lilith - in a likely attempt to fake neutrality. But she makes sure Ava sees it, which is how Ava knows it was a really good joke.
“Camila, stop laughing,” Lilith commands, put out. She’s lost her right to the last word. “It wasn’t funny.”
“Oh, please,” Camila says, still giggling. “It was, actually. I like her already.”
“I don’t,” Lilith says, as if this is supposed to scare Ava into submission.
And it might have, if it weren’t followed immediately by Beatrice saying, “I like her, too.”
Ava grins. Disheveled and tangled in blankets on the floor is probably the most honest version of herself she could present to Beatrice, and Beatrice likes her anyway. It feels more of a victory than it did yesterday, where Beatrice might’ve described her as cautiously and confusingly tolerable. Plus, this way it’s less embarrassing for Ava, who’d liked her immediately and without question - once she’d stopped screaming.
Beatrice helps lift her to her feet, mirth glinting in her eye as she takes in Ava’s bedhead and rumpled boxers, like there’s more she wants to say but can’t in present company. The thought itself is there, louder and more easily readable than it’s been previously. Ava thinks that Beatrice is trying very hard not to tell her she’s cute.
“Speaking of training,” Beatrice says instead, “your paperwork has gone through, so we’ll be taking you to the Cat’s Cradle today for an initial session.”
“And that entails…what?” Ava asks. “I heard Lilith talking about stabbing me or something before. Is that part of it?”
“Sadly, it isn’t,” Lilith says, thrusting the box towards her. “All official forms of identification require a blood sample.”
“Man,” Ava says, taking the parcel gingerly, “blood is serious business around here.”
“Literally,” Camila says. “Go on, open it. Slide your finger underneath the fold, there.”
Ava does as she’s told, working it like an envelope, and then–
“Ouch.” She winces, retracting her finger, and the box whirls with an odd selection of sounds; another few seconds and it pops open, revealing a thick card with Ava’s name and picture, and a red droplet of blood sitting prettily underneath a thick, translucent sheet of something hard.
She looks at her finger, which has all the signs of a papercut without the sting, and then watches as it heals over automatically.
“Apologies,” Beatrice says, though it wasn’t at all her fault, nor her instruction. “It’s to prevent fraud.”
“Let me guess,” Ava says. “Jillian Salvius?”
“Her son, I think,” Camila provides. “He’s a vampire, too.”
“What d’you mean, it prevents fraud?” Ava says. “How? What if one of you had opened it?”
“Well, we’re already in the system,” Beatrice explains. “It’s only used for official channels - mostly medical stations, government, combat training, or any position at V-Tech.”
“V-Tech?”
“Oh.” An odd look crosses Beatrice’s face. “Previously known as Arq-Tech.”
Ava feels as if her brain is preparing to explode, tear a hole in itself before rewiring all of its neurons anew. There’s such a vast divide between the information she knows and the world she’s being presented with; every time she thinks she’s got a handle on one thing, something else flies off of it.
“The system,” Ava says. “I thought we didn’t have, like, internet?”
“We–”
“As thrilling as this game of question-and-answer is,” Lilith interrupts boredly, as if she’s on the brink of dying from it, “I must depart. Ava, dear, try to smarten up a bit before coming by later. If I have to hear one more of your inane inquiries, I might just kill you myself.”
“I hope the dick is good,” Ava says, smiling angelically. “You obviously need it.”
Lilith’s gaze narrows in. “Bitch.”
“Slut.”
“Camila, stop laughing–”
“She’s funny!” Camila cries, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t know what you expect from me, Lilith–”
“Beatrice, turn towards me,” Lilith demands. “You’re hiding.”
“No,” Beatrice says, resolutely facing the wall and biting down hard on her lip to contain her own laughter. “I don’t believe I will.”
“Fuck all of you,” Lilith says.
“I’m sure you’d like that,” Ava replies, “but I’m gonna have to decline.”
Beatrice’s shoulders have begun to shake; Camila is leaning against the wall, one arm clutching her stomach. But she must sense the fraying ends of Lilith’s rope, because she pats her on the shoulder and takes several deep breaths, gathering herself before saying, “We should be off. Thank you, Ava. You’re a delight.”
“Thank you,” Ava says, smirking; she catches Lilith’s eye, thinks about adding and you, Lilith, for the opportunity to assert myself as the funniest bitch in this room, but decides not to push her luck.
Lilith says, calm and collected, “I am going to rip you limb from limb.”
Beatrice says, unfazed, “Goodbye, Lilith. We’ll see you shortly.”
And they’re gone. Ava doesn’t flinch this time, merely blinks and it’s just her and Beatrice, standing exactly where they were in a now-empty room.
Ava turns to her and says, “You won’t let her kill me, will you?”
Maybe it’s the light of day; maybe it’s been a long time since Beatrice started her mornings with anything close to laughter. Whatever it is, she’s less chained as she gently brushes Ava’s hair behind her ear - movements all loose and silk-like and smooth - her smile wide and genuine. She doesn’t even blush or force herself to look away after, merely drops her hand, slips it into the pocket of her slacks and says: “Never, Ava. I’ll protect you.”
She means it as something airy and opaque, a mirror of the mood. She means it as both the continuation and the endpoint of a joke, naturally coming to a close. She means it to be a level sentiment to the rest of the conversation.
I’ll protect you, she says, and it releases like a promise.
–
The Cat’s Cradle is best described as a last stand.
Built like a fortress with tall, impenetrable walls and a confusing maze of rooms (“There are no updated floor plans,” Beatrice says, “so infiltration without prior knowledge is nearly impossible”) the Cat’s Cradle serves as a type of barracks: there’s a medical wing, which is mostly used to treat humans; combat training and defensive strategy; temporary housing for those without resources who are attempting to get back on their feet; and, Beatrice says, several rooms that are on loan to V-Tech, who needed extra space for their studies.
“It was a convent,” Beatrice says as they approach the front gate. “Our convent.”
“You lived here?” Ava asks, staring up at the tower; somehow the old architecture has survived the entirety of the world it was built in. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” Beatrice says, and nods to a woman standing post at the pillars, who nods back before signaling someone above to let them inside. “I only moved into my apartment around forty years ago.”
“Why?”
“Everything changed,” Beatrice says, as though this is an acceptable response, and continues, “It was decided that this building had the best vantage point in the settlement, and could be used far more efficiently.”
There are trees, Ava realizes. Tall, wispy things, shaped like smoke, with bright red leaves. Ava stops, gaping at them; she wants to march over, rub her face in their branches, embrace them like old friends. Tell me about the earth, she wants to ask. What’s it like down there, in the dark and damp soil? If I peeled away the crust, would I still recognize what’s underneath?
Would it remember me?
“Ava?” Beatrice says, stopped a few feet ahead of her and watching with a tilted head.
“Trees,” Ava says nonsensically, gesturing outward. “I didn’t - I didn’t think they still existed.”
“Oh,” Beatrice says. Every moment with Ava is a reminder of things she never should’ve forgotten - small, intricate pieces of humanity leftover in the decaying wind, in the bruising rubble. “Certain things have adapted,” she murmurs, now coming to stand beside Ava. “The chemicals they absorb from the air turn them red, all year round.”
“Are there others?”
“Where you woke up was a warzone,” Beatrice says. “That’s why it was so barren. But elsewhere–” She breaks off; Ava doesn’t know where elsewhere is, but it must be out there, shimmering beyond the broken horizon. “You can’t prevent growth, no matter how many times you uproot what’s taken hold.” Her fingers gingerly brush the bottom of Ava’s right elbow. “We have greenhouses, too. We can help where it’s needed.”
“Wow,” Ava breathes out, and obediently allows herself to be guided along by Beatrice, away from the courtyard. “What do you grow in them?”
“Vegetables, mostly,” Beatrice says. They’ve moved to the entrance hall, and now Ava’s eyes are focused solely on the people around them; Beatrice can see her gaze shift calculating, as if trying to decipher who’s human and who’s vampire. “Though I believe Michael - Jillian’s son - is working with flowers and pollen levels at the moment. He’s developed an interest in bees.”
“Bees,” Ava repeats, as though she’s never heard anything more interesting in her life. Beatrice bites back a smile. Alone in their apartment is one thing - private and personal, with walls that can carry the secrets of her affection without giving her away - but a public space such as this is not suitable for such revelations.
“Come on,” Beatrice says instead, nudging her forward. “We’re to be expected.”
–
With one door and no windows, the room they’re in is like some kind of converted bunker, housing a variety of weapons and safety mats spread across the concrete floor.
Beatrice will have a few hours alone with her - just to get a feel for the way her body moves and responds; its limits and breaking points - before Mother Superion, Camila, and Lilith are free to observe and assist. She knows she’ll have her work cut out for her; training someone with little to no experience in martial arts is one thing, but training someone who hasn’t had a functioning body until twenty-four hours ago is a different test of patience.
(Not for her, but for Ava, whose willpower has presented itself as flaky at best, if her inclination towards kissing Beatrice whenever the feeling overwhelms her is any indication.)
But Ava surprises her: After Beatrice takes her through an initial set of stretches and starts to explain the importance of her stance - in which she’s given permission to adjust Ava wherever necessary, resulting in a hand on the back of her knee, followed by a palm cupping her elbow - Ava is as laser-focused as Beatrice has ever seen anyone.
Almost too focused, actually, in a way that’s somewhat alarming. She reacts to every move Beatrice makes, from a twitch of her fingers to the line of her gaze, and Beatrice never has to correct her positioning more than once before it sticks. It’s skillful and impressive, and makes her job far easier than she’d expected it to be.
“Good,” Beatrice murmurs for the third time, just after Ava throws her first proper punch, and that’s when the pieces come together: Ava’s lips part slightly, the ghost of an inhale catching between them, her pupils in the process of swallowing her irises. There are no smart remarks; no teasing lulls. Only an intense, desperate desire to impress.
Ah, Beatrice realizes. I see.
Back as a human, these sorts of signs are ones Beatrice would’ve deliberately ignored, or pushed away from herself until they orbited a different earth. But she’s been a vampire longer than she was a human, and she’s been a lesbian longer than she repressed it, and so she recognizes it immediately: the raptness of Ava’s attention, her response to Beatrice’s orders, the unmistakable scent of wetness and want–
Ava, it turns out, likes to be praised, just a little too much.
Her first thought is - well, nevermind that.
Her second thought, however, is how she can use this to her advantage in training.
“Excellent,” Beatrice says, circling her slowly as she falls back into position. “You’re a fast learner.”
“I’ve never trained my body to do anything,” Ava says, lowering her arms, as if sensing a natural break in their structure. “It’s…weird, but easy. Like it doesn’t resist me.”
“An intriguing idea,” Beatrice says, stopping in front of her, stare still on the examination. “You’re primed to receive information, because there’s nothing to unlearn or re-learn.”
“I guess,” Ava says, allowing her body to fully loosen up. Her fingers twitch towards the weapons display. “But when do I get to do cool shit? Like, these swords–”
“Definitely not.”
“Eventually?”
“Eventually,” Beatrice concedes. “I’d like to move on to the Halo, actually.”
“The Halo,” Ava repeats, like she’d forgotten it existed; it hasn’t activated much in the past day, aside from its healing properties. “Right. Okay.”
“I’m going to touch you again,” Beatrice says, slowly moving forward. “Is that alright?”
“Yeah,” Ava says, and presses her lips together, tongue moving inside of her mouth as though fighting whatever words are tempted to come off of it; she swallows a second later. “Yes.”
Beatrice steps behind her, observes the smooth curve of her shoulder blades through her shirt, rigid and nervous; the steady line of her shoulders, rising and falling like valley slopes with the timing of her breath; the stray strands of hair kissing the nape of her neck, left behind from her messy bun.
And in the center of it all: the Halo’s hiding place, tucked carefully underneath her skin.
Beatrice raises her hand, and gently flattens her palm against the circle of it.
Ava gasps. Tiny and furious, sucking air between her teeth; her fingers clench, curling into fists, and her muscles become statuesque - there is something here of legends and myths, except that theirs is based on touch rather than sight alone, a figure of a woman turning to stone, fingerprints embedded like fossils.
Ignoring it is the polite thing to do, and Beatrice is exceptionally good at both of those things: politeness and feigning ignorance. She asks, “Do you feel my hand?” knowing full well Ava feels it so acutely she could probably fill a journal with its presence.
“Yes,” Ava answers, a little breathlessly.
“Focus on it,” Beatrice says. “On what’s underneath. The Halo is yours; it will respond to you and your emotions. That’s why getting it under control is so paramount.”
It’s glowing beneath her hand, light pouring out from between her fingers as if clutching at water. She doubts Ava’s even aware that it’s happening, or that it has been happening - softly and shamelessly - as the precursor to both kisses. She hadn’t mentioned it; hadn’t wanted Ava suddenly aware and self-conscious, worrying about the ownership of her feelings. She’s dealt with such loss of autonomy her entire life - Beatrice doesn’t want to add anything further to the list.
“It feels hot,” Ava says. Her eyes are closed, brow furrowed in concentration. “What kind of things can I do with it?”
“Phase through solid objects,” Beatrice says. “Heal from almost any wound. Direct its energy in an outward pulse. Your strength exceeds that of a normal human, as do your senses.”
A hum vibrates against her palm. Ava says, “Cool.”
“All Halo-bearers are different,” Beatrice continues. She’s closer, breath hitting the back of Ava’s neck. “They’ve all had abilities tailored to them and their personalities. There’s no telling what you might develop.”
“Even cooler,” Ava says. Getting her to focus on the Halo and its powers has the added effect of taking the pressure away from the rest of her body - her fingernails are no longer digging into her palms, and the rigor of her shoulders disappears, lets them surrender naturally to gravity. “How do I do it?”
“Unfortunately,” Beatrice says reluctantly, “it tends to be a trial-by-fire situation.”
Ava spins around at that, locking eyes with Beatrice incredulously. Her hand’s still outstretched; she hadn’t expected the sudden movement, and finds herself strangely mourning the loss. Ava asks, “You’re gonna throw me to the wraiths?”
“What? No,” Beatrice says, frowning. “I’m going to have you spar with Lilith.”
“Oh,” Ava says. And then, grumbling under her breath: “That’s somehow worse.”
Beatrice looks away and smiles, like a secret only worthy to share with the walls. She isn’t sure she’d know how to explain it, anyway.
–
“Sparring” is a generous term for what she does with Lilith.
Despite Beatrice’s strict instruction that Lilith should not, under any circumstance, use her vampiric abilities for an edge, her movements are just a little too fast to track, her strength slightly too powerful for Ava to shake off.
That’s when her patience begins packing its bags - when Lilith brings her to her knees, again, wearing a smirk that so clearly screams payback.
“I’m waiting, Ava,” Lilith says, and her stance falls naturally back into starting position. “I’d been led to believe there was something remarkable about you.”
“You always believe what others tell you?” Ava grits out, getting to her feet. “Oh, wait. I forgot you were a nun.”
“I’m not sure I appreciate the insinuation,” Lilith says, much colder.
“Insinuation?” Ava asks, and mirrors her stance. “I didn’t think I was being subtle.”
Right hook; Ava neatly dodges that one, but stands straight in the path of her left fist, which hits her squarely on the cheek. She thinks something cracks, or maybe that’s just her neck and the speed at which it snaps with the force of Lilith’s hit.
“Lilith,” she hears Beatrice warn, and feels like a breeze in a wildfire; hot and angry and catching, embers flickering on the wind.
“I’m not going to baby her like you’re undoubtedly doing,” Lilith responds, barely-concealed smirk on her face as Ava turns back, hand covering her damaged cheek. “She’s the Halo-bearer. She can take much, much worse.”
The stupid, embarrassing thing is that of all the insults Lilith’s thrown at her, it’s the one she lets loose at Beatrice that finally triggers the Halo. Or, rather, pisses Ava off enough to actually give it power. Because Beatrice has been kind to her - far kinder than she had any reason to be - and Ava won’t let Lilith turn it into something shameful, or weak, or pathetic. Because Beatrice is the first person to treat her as if the act of caring isn’t a burden or a chore, or something so torturous that murder becomes a more enticing option than continuing to do so.
Because she likes Beatrice, and Beatrice likes her, and Ava did not come back from the dead to live in a world where that can be used against her.
“Focus, Ava,” Beatrice says suddenly, as though she’s noticed the shift, the turn of the air, the spread of flames cresting a grassy hill. “You can do this.”
Lilith does not sense what Beatrice does - too busy with her ego and arrogance - and she only smirks wider, gesturing Ava forward with a careless flick of her hand.
“The thing is,” Lilith says, “I’m not so sure she can.”
Ava erupts.
In all actuality, she doesn’t know what happens; heat bundles itself at the center of her spine, with edges like twitchy fingers and snarling teeth, and it’s so intense she has no choice but to throw it out of her - carve lightning-paths through her veins, break open emergency exits through the tips of her fingers, the indents between her ribs, the black of her pupils - and when she blinks again, Lilith is on the floor, several feet away.
She is no longer smiling, but Beatrice is.
Beatrice, who’d believed in Ava the entire time, who’d sensed the power building inside of her and had the wherewithal to dodge the blast, is staring at her with a fierce pride, lips pulled over her teeth.
“That’s always been the difference between us, Lilith,” Beatrice says. “You are far too quick to doubt.”
–
“Say it,” Ava murmurs after.
It requires no further context. “Good,” Beatrice murmurs back, and her eyes flash to Ava’s lips.
–
She manages to harness the Halo three other times before Beatrice calls the session, and once is under the eye of Suzanne, which is a feat she doesn’t recognize as important until she spots the final sliver of tension vacating Beatrice’s shoulders.
Proof, maybe, that she isn’t wasted potential; that with practice, she can do what others have done, can pick up a fight they’d thought doomed seventy-something years ago with Shannon’s death. Suzanne merely nods at Beatrice from across the room, as if dismissing her.
Lilith says, roughly cracking her jaw back into place, “I wouldn’t gloat just yet. You’ve tapped into one element of the Halo’s power, and only circumstantially.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll get there,” Ava says, rolling her neck on her shoulders. The Halo’s healing properties have a strange impact on her body - bruises blooming and fading, soreness sticking to her joints before slowly melting away. “All I have to do is think about your stupid smirk, and then–”
“That’s enough.” Beatrice intercepts her words before they lead to disastrous outcomes. “Lilith, I’m sure you have business to attend to; we appreciate your assistance.”
“I do,” Lilith says, and stares at Beatrice for a long moment, eyes flicking unreadably between her and Ava. “But truly, Beatrice? This, after a hundred years?”
“I’m not sure I understand the implication,” Beatrice says, though her forcibly polite tone suggests she knows exactly what Lilith is referring to, even if Ava doesn’t.
“Of course,” Lilith says, apparently thinking better of it. “My mistake. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“God, really?” Ava frowns in response, turning towards Beatrice, who’s suddenly at her side. “Can’t I spar with Camila?”
“I doubt she’d have a similar effect,” Beatrice says. She holds out a metallic canister, its sloshing signaling water. “You seem to like Camila.”
“I do,” Ava says, gratefully accepting. Its mouthpiece is slightly clunky, and water drips from the corner of her mouth down her jaw; when she lowers the bottle, she finds Beatrice staring at the smooth plane of her neck, something dark and unbridled in her eye.
“I’m sure you’re hungry,” Beatrice says after a pause, her voice unmistakably lower. “We should head home for now.”
“I am,” Ava says, glancing to her lips, the fangs hidden tantalizingly behind them. “I’m hungry.”
Beatrice, she thinks of saying, do I need to get down on my knees and beg for it? Do I need to bleed and make you taste it?
“Alright,” Beatrice says, too throaty for the situation, and turns away before Ava has the chance to publicly dismantle them both.
It’s for the best, probably.
–
Ava first notices it on the way home.
Her skin prickles, thrums with electricity. At first, it’s only in short bursts - miniscule enough that Ava thinks it’s the fabric of her shirt rubbing against her back, or that she’s just imagining it entirely - but by the time they arrive back at Beatrice’s apartment (finally allowed to go in the front entrance, and up several flights of stairs that likely takes Beatrice a single second to traverse when she’s alone), she’s realized the Halo itself is the cause, a current wound between her shoulder blades, pulled taut and tight.
It’s incredibly uncomfortable, and she stands in the living room, one hand grasping uselessly at her spine - fingers searching desperately for some kind of purchase, an off button; anything to quiet it into submission.
“Ava?” Beatrice asks, notably concerned. “Are you alright?”
“The Halo,” Ava says, clawing frustratedly at her back. “It’s like it’s - I don’t know, like itchy, or something. Like there’s something it wants.”
Beatrice has an idea of what exactly that could be.
It hadn’t escaped her that her blood is what had awoken the Halo from dormancy to begin with; after Ava’s initial resurrection, it’d sat prettily between her shoulder blades before the power of vampire blood had sunk into its crevices, triggering it. But she hadn’t expected it to need a steady supply; Shannon was the only other she’d ever seen use it, and she’d been turned herself.
“I believe I know what it wants,” Beatrice says, and gestures Ava closer with a cautious wave of her fingers; she doesn’t miss the way Ava’s arm drops limply to her side, eyes fixated on the length of Beatrice’s index, from her shortened nails to her knuckle. “Blood.”
“Oh,” Ava says, flash of tongue slipping between her lips. “Um. Am I - am I, like, some kind of addict now? Like, am I gonna die without your blood?”
Strangely enough, she doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect, only curious. Beatrice says, partly amused, “No. But I believe my blood is what activated the Halo the first time, and it’s craving that same source to recharge.”
“Oh,” Ava repeats, fresh with understanding. “Like a battery, or something.”
“Precisely.” Beatrice studies her for a reaction; a hint of something to suggest that a secret disgust is fighting to break its surface. Searching for external validation of her own internal fears.
She doesn’t find it. “Okay,” Ava agrees easily. “I mean, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was gonna be the first time, so…” She trails off with a shrug and a remarkably shameless expression. “If you think it’s what I should do.”
Ah, the coy play of semantics. Beatrice presses her lips together. “I think it’s what is necessary to ensure your continued survival,” she says. It’s a little dramatic, but it’ll get the point across.
If Ava seems surprised, she doesn’t show it; she merely hums and nods, taking a single step closer. “Well, if the circumstances are that dire,” she says, and Beatrice hears the same sirens she’d heard in the days leading up to the end of the world, “then it’s only fair you drink my blood in return.”
“That’s not–”
“Non-negotiable,” Ava interrupts cheerfully. “I’d like to keep you alive, too.”
A rock and a hard place, the bottom of the ocean, the fire-licked sky - there are very few paths open ahead of her that don’t violate her promises, so she may as well take the one with least resistance. She thinks Ava’s likely the stubborn type, anyway, and no amount of logic or reason will deter her - but that isn’t an excuse to not, at least, try.
Beatrice says, mouth in a thin line, “I’ve managed well enough until now without it.”
“I’m not sure I’d call poisoning yourself ‘managing well,’” Ava says, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, Beatrice. It’s equality, or whatever.”
But she grimaces after, the hunger of the Halo obviously picking away at her patience, and Beatrice wants to soothe it more than she’s willing to argue about it. Life has been so unfair to Ava - Ava, who took in a ravaged and ruined warzone and saw possibility; Ava, who came back from the dead to a world of monsters and found beauty - that the idea of denying her this one small peace of mind is nearly unbearable.
“Fine,” Beatrice says, far more reluctantly than she feels.
She sinks her fangs into the vein of her wrist - the same as she’d done before - and sucks, just a little, making sure the blood wells enough for Ava to drink easily. It stains her lips and her teeth, and as she pulls back, intending to give herself over, she finds Ava close - too close - one hand reaching for her waist, the other fluttering over her cheek, and then–
(Perhaps peace of mind was not, in fact, Ava’s actual intention.)
Ava bypasses her wrist entirely, gaze locked on Beatrice’s mouth, and captures it in a hot, open-mouthed kiss before she can even make sense of the tonal shift. Worse, she responds automatically - like something inside of her has become attuned to Ava, and it wants what she wants: to pull her close, to kiss her back, to be devoured wholly and completely.
Blood drips down her fingers, hanging at her side, before she cups Ava’s face in her hands, lips parting under Ava’s desperate insistence. Maybe it’s a side-effect of the day, the time they’d spent touching each other’s bodies, speaking softly in measured, even inches; Ava’s tongue licks through her mouth, swallows her blood and her saliva, tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and elicits a sharp gasp from Beatrice - a sound she’s never heard herself make before, in any situation - and then Ava’s pressing firm against Beatrice’s body, uncaring of the wet blood smeared across her cheek, kisses growing more frantic and aggressive and violent until Beatrice gets the hint, digs her fangs into Ava’s full bottom lip and lets blood pool in her mouth–
One of Ava’s hands falls to her ass, Beatrice’s clean fingers are tugging at her hair, and maybe they’ve strayed slightly far away from Beatrice’s original agreement.
Still, Beatrice drinks a mouthful, feels herself melt and rebuild, diamond sewn into her bones and skin like iron, impenetrable and irredeemable and free. And then she pulls away, shoves her wrist between them and commands, “Ava.”
Ava listens. Wraps her mouth - stained red and kiss-swollen - around the marks in Beatrice’s wrist, sucks like she’s trying to leave a hickey, tongue pressing into the wounds as if in exploration, and Beatrice gasps again, like being touched between her thighs, like a hand straight into her soul. With every swallow she seems to settle, her frenzied energy calming into something palatable, her eyes more honey-sunlight brown than earth-shattering black.
When she finally lets go, Ava is panting, blood smearing the corners of her lips; she’s so wet Beatrice can smell it, how sex pours from her like a river who doesn’t care about its course, happy to erode everything it touches into dust - Beatrice included - her head is heavy, her stomach is full, Ava is looking at her like she’s cunt-starved, like she wants nothing more than to force Beatrice onto her back and grind into her mouth as she licks Beatrice’s own cum from her thighs, like she’s a different kind of monster who wants only the things Beatrice has never given, wants to make her experience, wants to make her remember, wants to make her hers.
Beatrice says, “I think we’ve gotten a little carried away,” and doesn’t even have the ability to be embarrassed by the edge in her voice.
“Sorry,” Ava says, not sorry at all, but she does drag her hand from Beatrice’s ass to her waist. She has Beatrice’s fingerprints on her cheek, smeared in blood. “You’re so fucking hot, Beatrice. I can’t help it.”
“I can come back later?” A voice amusedly interrupts, and Beatrice nearly throws herself into the wall trying to back away; Ava barely turns her head in greeting.
It’s Camila, standing in the doorway with a delighted grin on her face, as if she’s just won a bet or acquired the perfect course of blackmail. Beatrice clears her throat and says, “No. No. We’re fine.”
Ava says, “Camila, isn’t Beatrice like, stupidly fucking hot?”
Camila says, “She isn’t my type, but I can see the appeal.”
Beatrice says, “I’m not sure this is a useful line of questioning.”
“Camila,” Ava starts again, dismissal of Beatrice’s objection obvious, “do I have any competition?”
A hundred years unraveling the end of the world, and Beatrice has never been more undone than she is right now. There’s no emergency exit; no getting off the ride. She found Ava and it’s her duty to protect her, and that means she can only watch helplessly as Ava plans her slow and painful dismantling, her heart stripped into ribbons and wound around Ava’s pretty neck like jewelry.
Camila laughs. “Absolutely not,” she says. “Many have tried. All have been rejected.”
“Good,” Ava says, and then, more of a whisper, eyes returning to Beatrice’s dangerous mouth, “Great.”
“Oh, Bea,” Camila says, as if she should have a bag of popcorn ready and a comfortable velvet chair, “you’re doomed.”
“Thank you,” says Beatrice, who already knows that perfectly well and is doing her complete and utter best to ignore it. “Truly.”
“I came to pick up those heels you mentioned,” Camila says. “Clearly, we do need to learn to knock.”
This catches Ava’s attention. “Oh, the ones I bought?”
“Yes,” Beatrice says, grateful to busy herself with something mundane as she comes down. She is falling from a great height; she is burrowing up from the center of the earth. “You’re the same shoe size.”
“Be my guest,” she hears Ava reply as she slips into the other room to grab them. “I can’t walk in those fucking things. Plus, I like that Beatrice is taller than me.”
“Yes, it’ll definitely give her certain advantages when you start sleeping together–”
“I think that’s probably enough,” Beatrice says, suddenly standing directly in front of Camila, pressing the heels into her hands. “Thank you, Camila, once again. Please leave.”
She swears she can hear Camila’s peels of laughter from blocks and blocks away.
And then, exactly what she’s dreading–
“Beatrice.”
Ava, low and dark like shadowlight. Ava, lips bloody, Beatrice’s fingerprints tattooed across her cheek. Ava, if lust were its own monster, a succubus with an eye heavy on its next victim.
Ava, crooking her finger and beckoning.
“Beatrice,” Ava says again, smiling almost sinisterly. “Come here.”
Helplessly, Beatrice obeys, just as much of a mess as she looks, if not more - intestines like twine, knotting and fraying; heart pounding at its walls, hunting for the door - somewhere there is the world she left behind, and it is begging her to take its gift of a second chance.
“What is it?” Beatrice murmurs, stepping forward. Hands fisted in her pockets, a sad attempt to keep them from reaching out for what she knows she’ll only hurt if held too close.
Ava loops her arms around Beatrice’s neck, entirely unconcerned. Eyes flickering to Beatrice’s mouth and back. Leans in, as if going for another kiss, and then pulls away, teasing.
“You want me,” she says.
“Yes,” Beatrice whispers, powerless to resist. “I want you. But I shouldn’t.”
“I don’t care about that,” Ava says. “You want me. And I want you”–she does kiss her, then, a feather-light brush of lips, coppery and iron-like and addictive–“to take me out.”
Take her out, move her in, give her the bed and the windows and the rain - Beatrice will rebuild the atmosphere if she asks, clear a path through the oppressive cloud-bank of dust and devastation and rope the stars; I saw the moon for the last time thirty years ago, she thinks of saying, and I swear it looked just like you, like it was the only thing in the entire sky.
“Where?” Beatrice asks.
“Anywhere,” Ava says.