Work Text:
Being unable to sleep is a pain that’s new to her. She didn’t usually need help, being able to succumb to the comfort of the numbness encumbering her easily. But when she did, a needle never failed to slip through her skin, sending a flurry of benzodiazepines through her bloodstream. Now, she has none of it.
No numbness. No needle. No nurturing mother to rock her gently to sleep.
Now she’s just consumed.
She stares out into the darkness, perched haphazardly on some forgotten balcony of the seemingly timeworn convent. Rain trickles. She is barely protected under the stone eaves above her, and they’re doing a pretty shit job as is, but as wind gusts she finds herself speckled in glistening wet blobs that quickly find a home settling uncomfortably into any crevice they can find.
Her body vibrates against the chilly air and she can’t decide if it's just the cold or something else entirely.
She wants it all to make sense. Maybe it already does. But she can’t really wrap her head around the events that almost took away the family she had only just found.
She can’t stop thinking and thinking and God her legs itch .
And she should be grateful they do. Because not even a month ago she didn’t have the capacity to itch anywhere but a face she couldn't reach for and now she could scratch any itch she damn well pleases.
Well not every itch. But that thought is filed away in her “inappropriate thoughts about a very specific member of the clergy” file folder that lives somewhere deep in the depths of her mind. A file folder that, of late, is becoming increasingly full. And harder and harder to ignore-
“-Ava?”
A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, reaching through the cracked balcony door, and actively scaring whatever small amount of Jesus that had found its way into Ava right back out again.
“...You’re wet?”
God really has to be punishing her.
“Well it’s raining isn’t it?” The answer has a bit more sass than she intended, but is decidedly on brand enough for her to rescind any thoughts of apology.
“That it is.” It’s puffed out, like smoke from a newly lit cigarette, followed with a light little chuckle that dispels any semblance of vapor. “You know, I meant that more in a ‘Why are you sitting in the rain getting wet, ’ kind of way.”
Ava can’t help but look. Beatrice’s face is lush with curious softness. Ava wants to hold back that usual need to spill her guts, and yet she never really could. “I wanted to think. It feels nice. Or I guess… it should.”
The hmm escapes Beatrice’s throat in her typical quiet and understated way, but it makes Ava think that maybe she fucked up. Said too much in yet another ill-suited situation. But that's the thing about life Ava has slowly been learning; sometimes we say stuff that makes us seem like rambling idiots and the people we love do everything they can to understand it.
Beatrice was trying her best to understand it.
“Would you like some company?”
It wasn’t much, but it was something, to which Ava nods.
As Beatrice settles, Ava tries and fails to withhold her gaze. It's hard when the only thing between you is silence. One that is begging to be broken.
“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking about?”
No.
Ava doesn’t want to let up on the fact that sometimes, she’d rather be back feeling nothing than the overwhelming, confusing, pile of horseshit she’s forced to face now. Because that would mean Beatrice would know just how thoughtless and self centered and absolutely ungrateful she truly is.
Who wishes for that kind of thing? A person who would rather feel nothing than have to feel let down again, that’s who.
“Just you know…stuff.” It’s not a graceful answer in any sense of the word, but maybe it’ll curb the older woman’s curiosity just this once.
“Okay. Stuff.” Beatrice works through each syllable slowly, “Good stuff or bad stuff?”
Nothing can ever satisfy the desire for information that lives deep inside of “Sister must-to-know-everything”. Of-freaking-course.
“I was thinking about…um doing laundry.” The sentence surprsises Ava herself, but technically it isn’t a complete lie. It’s a thought she’s been harboring deep inside herself since well…forever.
“Oh! The convent has a laundry room in the west wing. I can show you in the morning.”
Beatrice is ever so ready to help, as per usual, but it still stings that it’s not exactly what Ava meant.
“That’s not-” Ava forces a breath in between the words, “-exactly what I meant.”
Beatrice deflates for a moment, her face overtaken with an uneasiness that makes Ava queasy. Moments like this make her wish she had more experience with sustaining connection.
“I mean. It’s gonna sound completely and unbelievably stupid in the grand scheme of things.” Ava’s teeth draw blood against her lip, the sharp sting she is what she needed to bolster her bravery. “I want to wash real clothes.”
The other woman says nothing to this, but raises an eyebrow in confusion. Ava takes it as an invitation to continue.
“You know…the kind you buy in the store because you like them. Not because they make a brilliant disguise or because they’re part of a habit that doesn’t even belong to you. Just…because they’re a sort of unnecessary necessity. Mismatched socks. Itchy sweaters. Floral bed sheets. Real fucking life.”
Beatrice sighs, with a look on her face that makes Ava think she’s going to be admonished for her language. Which feels about right, a worthy punishment for such a self serving need for normalcy.
“Dishes.” It’s quiet, a brushing of lips that’s practically indecipherable, the way many secrets tend to be.
“What?”
“For me it-it’s,” Beatrice stutters, as she always seems to do when it comes to sharing anything that lay below her surface, “it’s dishes.”
Ava still feels a little lost. Not that that’s unsurprising considering she was in her own messy tangle of thoughts. But she feels a warmth she didn’t expect; realizing that she is probably being let in on some unlit part of Beatrice’s being. Waiting with greedy ears, unsure if she’ll ever get an opportunity like this again.
“I never got to do it all. My parents never trusted me with our usual fine china. They always had someone else that they could.”
Ava doesn’t talk; Though a pun involving the clever pun of “dish-gusting” sits on her tongue. She fears she may lose the moment she already has a weak hold on.
Beatrice looks away.
“And as I grew up, I wanted more than trust. I wanted partnership. I admired the romance in efficiency. And I wanted it with…someone.” Something like torment twists across her delicate lips, “Someone to dry when I washed. Over and over again. To somehow make the dull run bright again.”
Ava pulls her knees into her chest, relishing in the pressure. Her knees feel cool against her cheek. “I can see why you would have wanted that, Bea. The mundane sounds nice right about now.”
Beatrice held her breath for a beat.
“I think I still want it. If I can be honest.”
Ava lifts her head. Her lips part as if to speak, but instead her pinky skims across the girl’s next to her. Her mother had once taught her how to handle precious little secrets.
Beatrice looks between them, so hard Ava that can feel the stare fill the whole space. But she could see something lingering in her eyes. A twitch of the finger against her own.
“What if we made a promise?”
“A promise?
“Yeah. I know it sounds silly but…I only have things I’ve never done. So we promise. To make sure we get to experience it all. The dishes. The laundry. Grocery lists. Going out dancing. Getting to actually live our lives.” She lifts her hand suddenly, pinky raised towards the dripping eaves.
The taller woman next to her has faced literal demons, and yet Ava had never seen her look so fucking terrified. It was almost enough to make her rescind her offer. She was willing to let it be brushed off and forgotten, like so many other moments between them. She allowed Beatrice that.
“I promise.”
The statement surprises Ava, who had already begun dropping her hand in acceptance of being left hanging.
A pinky hooks around her own. Their hands rest together on cold stone. The Halo Bearer can barely breathe, truly believing that any movement will tear apart this brief flash of openness between them.
She chooses to ignore the fact that they're practically holding hands. She’s also trying to ignore the part of her god forsaken brain that knows it’s a promise she cannot keep.
“I would promise you anything, Ava.”
Oh. I would too.
It’s a startling realization. One Ava, for once, isn’t sure how to voice. She looks over to Beatrice, whose eyes are shining like vulnerable puddles, expecting to be stepped in. She wants to comfort her, but she’s not exactly sure how. Her hand moves on its own volition, as if to say, ‘Ava, you can’t stumble now.’ Her grip tightens around Beatrice’s hand fully, giving a gentle squeeze.
“I would do anything you want me to do Bea. Anything.”
Her words hang in the air. Rain hushes every sound. Ava blinks. So does Beatrice.
A hesitant hand closes the distance between them, tucking damp strands of wet hair behind Ava’s ear, with such softness that she has never experienced in that action before. Only the cold hands of a bitter old woman.
“I’m only supposed to worship God,” Beatrice whispers, “Promise Him everything.”
The Halo Bearer softens, ashamed she let her own selfish desires affect another person she cared about. “I would never get in the way of your faith.”
Beatrice looks at their hands, running a thumb over Ava’s fingers. “You already have. Not- not in a bad way. Gosh. I just mean,” she huffs out; tears brimming her moony eyes, “I feel finally myself. Because of you. So just, thank you.”
It's a rare showcase of emotion, making Ava beam. Their situation isn’t ideal, not by a long shot. In this moment though, she accepts that she’s allowed to have hopes and promises and feel shit about her life before this and to take and give and maybe it’s not all that selfish after all.
She shifts forward, her lips brushing over Beatrice’s soft cheek.
“Anytime Bea, whatever you want.”
She looks back down upon the soaking acres of the convent, dropping her head to Beatrice’s shoulder.
“Whatever you want.”