Chapter Text
Beatrice finds the first of the notes while doing their laundry. She’s turning her pants inside-out, emptying pockets when an unfamiliar wad of paper falls out from one of them. Bending down, she picks it up, catching a faint waft of ethanol, weeks old, but still lingering.
Strange. She’s quite meticulous about these things.
Gently, Beatrice unfurls the note, taking care not to damage the already worn paper.
Hey Bea,
What do you call a sleepwalking nun?
A roamin’ Catholic.
Ava xx.
The puff of air she releases is automatic, just like the smile that blooms across her face. Unbidden. Always easily coaxed by Ava.
She brushes a thumb across the edges of the note, smoothening it out. Turns it over, and smiles again at the memory it brings forth.
It’s a receipt from the bar. An order for a drink that Ava had comp’d after one of her particularly disastrous attempts at the cocktail. It had only been their first week there, so leniency was granted. But what followed afterward was most memorable. A course of events that only Beatrice was privy to as Ava turned their kitchen into a makeshift wet bar for three days, spending their week’s paychecks on bottom-shelf liquor to practice honing her skills at mixed drinks.
They didn’t have any money for groceries that week and Beatrice had to have a long talk with Ava about properly managing their finances, but there weren’t any more drink mishaps. Grievous ones, at least.
For as much as Ava leaped from task to task, like an overeager sugar glider, her dedication to each project was always focused. A quality that Beatrice greatly admired, no matter how fleeting.
Beatrice finishes loading in their clothes and adjusts the dials before pressing start. The washer begins its cycle with a loud rumble, age-old pipes groaning in effort as they start to push water through.
She balances the empty laundry basket against her hip, her other hand still holding the note, eyes tracing over the improved penmanship. Something else that Ava has recently dedicated herself to bettering. An undertaking that was proving to be beneficial if the result was anything going by.
Beatrice takes her time walking out of the basement, mind still lingering on the note. She tucks the paper in her pocket, taking care not to lose it before calling forth the elevator. Usually, she’ll take the stairs. It’s faster, provides good exercise, and is the safer option in case of well… Anything.
The doors open with a slow and grinding creak and she steps inside. The paper in her pocket feels heavy, weighed down by memory—or perhaps the lack of. She’s never received something like this before. Physical evidence that someone was thinking of her. Wrote something for the sole purpose of wanting only her to read it. Growing up had been an isolating experience, to say the least. While classmates would stealthily exchange notes in the middle of class, giggle and blush about receiving love letters in their lockers, Beatrice watched. Always on the outskirts.
After a time, she’d grown to prefer it. Found comfort in it.
This, now—unusual. But far from unpleasant.
A warm draft of air blows in as the front door of their condominium opens and closes. It’s followed by slow, familiar footsteps belonging to an elderly woman that Beatrice places as one of their neighbors, the one that always has jazz songs playing in the afternoons whenever she invites Beatrice over for tea.
Immediately, her arm jerks out to stop the elevator doors from closing.
“Evening, Mrs. Graf,” Beatrice greets cordially in Swiss German, with a polite smile as she moves to make room for the woman to step into the cramped space.
“That’s Betha to you, dear,” The lovely woman reminds her, always insisting on first names. “Are you having a good day?” Betha pats her arm in thanks.
She nods. “Yes, I wanted to thank you for the spiced cookies you sent last week. They were delicious.”
The kind woman waves off her thanks and promises to send some apfelstrudel this weekend. They exchange a few more pleasantries, continuing the conversation as the elevator opens to their floor and they make their walk to their respective apartments. Beatrice waits until the other woman steps inside before pushing open the door to hers.
“Bea!” Comes the immediate and enthusiastic greeting from their bedroom. The rusty springs of their futon bounce with a squeak as a body launches itself off and socked feet skid across the floorboards.
“Ava,” Beatrice returns the greeting more calmly. Fond. She places the laundry basket on the ground next to the front door. “Please remember to place our clothes in the dryer in an hour.”
Ava gives a playful salute. “Yes, boss! And if Johan pulls that shit again, I’ll use the Halo and dropkick his ass to the moon.”
“Please do not,” Beatrice says. She can already feel the oncoming headache that would result if such a thing were ever to occur. The note continues to weigh heavy in her pocket. On her mind. Beatrice turns to the kitchen and stops. Turns back around to face Ava who is looking at her with a soft curiosity. Beatrice swallows. Cowardice is something that’s starting to become second nature to her in the presence of Ava. She doesn’t like it. “I found a note in one of my pockets,” Beatrice confesses.
“Oh!” Ava jumps, delight overtaking her face. She materializes next to Beatrice, holding both hands out like excited crab claws as she pitches them forward in a gimme motion. “Which one?”
Oh.
The implication that there’s more. Out there for her to find when she’s least expecting it? Her traitorous heart stutters.
Slowly, as if handling a precious artifact, Beatrice pulls the note out of her pocket, immediately snatched by Ava as soon as she sees it. She laughs brightly in recognition, head thrown back, curtains of recently shorn hair dancing with the motion. “If you liked this one then you’re gonna love the others.” Ava reads it once more and laughs again before letting Beatrice pocket it with trembling fingers.
“Yes,” Beatrice clears her throat, doesn’t think about how there are many more for her to find. Doesn’t think about how she wants to find them. Doesn’t think about how she shouldn’t. “Your penmanship is showing improvement.”
Ava leans close and props herself up on her toes, dropping her chin on Beatrice’s shoulder with a gentle thump, eyes glowing and happy. Beatrice breathes in, sharp—reminds herself to exhale. “Aw, come on, Bea. I know you liked it.” This close, she can feel puffs of Ava’s breath caressing her cheek. Her ribs shake. “That was a good joke!”
When she blinks, her eyelashes brush against Ava’s brow. It’s too much. Beatrice moves her focus to the giant water stain that mars the ceiling leading into the bedroom—the one Ava had joked about looking like a vagina while Beatrice argued that it resembled a Nephropsis (“English, please, Sister Britannica.” / “A lobster, Ava.”) and got called a nerd for her efforts.
Ava nudges closer and Beatrice has to remind herself to breathe. “It was…one of the better ones,” She concedes. Slow, deliberate.
Ava spins away joyfully, pushing aside mugs and appliances on their cramped kitchen counter before hopping onto it, legs dangling against the bottom cabinets. Beatrice’s shoulders relax.
She drums her fingers against the lip of the counter, eyes roguish and teasing, a sign that she’s never up to any good. “Well, there’s one hidden in here. You might like this better.”
Her chest tremors. Traitorous heart. “Where?”
“Uh uh,” Ava tuts playfully. “You gotta search for it, Sister! Can’t expect me to give you all of the answers.”
“Ava…” Beatrice admonishes, but it holds no real weight. Not when the prospect of finding another note, another keepsake, threatens to unmoor her.
She looks away to check the time, eyes drawn to a cartoonish—mildly terrifying—owl clock that Ava had scavenged on one of their shopping trips. It’s half past seven. Perhaps time to get started on dinner. “We still have some of that wine left over from last weekend. I was thinking of preparing some chicken marsala, tonight. Does that sound alright?”
At the mention of food, Ava perks up again. “That sounds fucking amazing.”
“Language,” Beatrice murmurs, despite it having no real effect on Ava who will continue to say the things she wants. But it’s become routine at this point. Their own little ritual. An inside joke, Ava might call it.
She begins running through the list in her mind. Mushrooms. Heavy cream and chicken broth for the sauce. Beatrice opens their fridge to gather the items and—
It’s empty.
Not entirely. No, there are plenty of items in their fridge. Milk. Eggs. Tortillas. Yogurt. Those chocolates Ava makes her buy because she likes to eat them after training. But there’s no heavy cream. No carton of chicken broth. No mushrooms.
No chicken.
Beatrice stares into their empty fridge, feeling dismay climb up inside of her. “We do not have groceries. What happened to our groceries?”
“We ate them, silly!” Ava reminds her. Yes, silly her. They ate them.
“But I just shopped. Two days ago. Where is the chicken? And the mushrooms. The chicken broth?” It would not be an over-exaggeration if she were to say she’s never felt hopelessness like this before.
Ava gallantly hops off of the counter to join Beatrice in her search. She presses up next to Beatrice, face brushing against her shoulder as she bends to look inside their fridge as well. “Oh, yeah. So—“
Already, Beatrice knows. Nothing good ever comes from Ava remembering something after the fact it happened.
“Maja—her kids were sick and she wanted to make some chicken soup, but she didn’t have enough broth so I gave her our remaining chicken to use for the stock since you told me they go bad fast—“
“—Not that fast—“
“—I got hungry so I grilled up some mushrooms for a snack. And you used up the last of the chicken broth for yesterday’s stew, remember?”
Yes, she did. She remembers now.
Treacherous brain.
Ava ducks under Beatrice’s arm, the one that’s holding open the fridge, to take an even closer look. At this proximity, she can feel the heat of the Halo, dormant, but still thrumming with power. Ava’s back continually brushes against her arm as she rummages around their fridge, moving condiment bottles and milk cartons in search of something specific. A sliver of soft skin peeks out from where her shirt rides up.
Beatrice feels her chest tighten. She rips her eyes away.
Treacherous heart.
“Well, we’ve got some tortilla. Tomato sauce! And some cheese,” Ava calls them out like they’re holy treasures and not items hastily bought at the corner store after a particularly late shift at the bar.
Ava pulls herself out and Beatrice feels herself relaxing, about to finally breathe in relief but then, instead of stepping away from their fridge—away from Beatrice, Ava does neither of those things. Instead, she stands between the two. The fabric of her shirt fluttering against Beatrice’s.
Ava looks at their cabinets and says something about spaghetti. Beatrice does not hear. She is not listening. “I need to close the fridge,” Beatrice announces. Because the milk will go bad. She needs to close the fridge.
“Does that sound good?”
“Hm?” Their hands aren’t touching but she can feel the warmth emanating from Ava’s fingertips.
“Spaghetti burritos?”
It sounds atrocious. “Spaghetti is an acceptable option,” Beatrice amends because she doesn’t think pasta should be stuffed inside a tortilla.
“No, Bea. You gotta trust me.” Ava crowds up against her and Beatrice has to keep herself from taking an automatic step back. Her hold on their still-open fridge door tightens even further, to the point where the plastic starts to bend under the force of her white-knuckled grip.
Ava’s head tilts up and Beatrice already knows what she’s about to be subjected to. Knows there is no way to shield herself from this. If she closes her eyes, she’ll be admitting defeat. “This will turn out good, I promise,” Ava pleads, and juts out her lower lip, eyes turning wide and watery, unleashing the only weapon that causes Beatrice to yield. Her pout. Without fail. Every time.
Traitorous heart.
“I’ll prepare the spaghetti,” Beatrice says, folding under the blinding weight of Ava’s attention. “And then you can make your burritos.” That’s the compromise she offers. At least this way, half of their dinner can still be salvaged.
“Yes! Yes!” Ava jumps back, pumping her fist in victory. Beatrice relaxes. “You won’t be disappointed, Bea!”
No, this spaghetti abomination will kill her long before she’ll get a chance to express the proper disgust it deserves.
Still, Ava’s excitement is infectious. Despite the fact that they’re about to create a monstrosity, it’s also the first time they’re cooking together. Usually, Beatrice runs the kitchen with a soldier’s efficiency and Ava is content to let her do as she pleases, oftentimes posting up at the dining table with her hands propped under her chin. Beatrice will scold her for not trying to help and Ava will laugh and get up only to be told to sit back down.
It’s the game they play.
Ava disappears off to the bedroom. Beatrice can hear soft footsteps going into their closet followed by the sound of boxes and clothes being overturned. A sign that she’s rummaging for something.
Beatrice is compelled to help if only to keep Ava from turning their entire apartment inside out. In the end, she decides to leave Ava be and get started on dinner. Beatrice puts a pan on the stove, splashes it with some olive oil, and cracks open their jar of pasta sauce while she waits for it to warm. She opens up one of the bottom cabinets and fetches a small pot for the pasta. She’s about to carry it over to the sink and fill it up with water when her eyes catch on something inside. A slip of paper.
Oh.
Carefully, she unfolds it in a tremulous grip.
Hey Bea,
What’s a nun’s favorite weapon?
Nun-chucks.
Ava xo
Her chest burns. The rummaging has stopped now. And footsteps are approaching. Quickly, Beatrice tucks the note in her pocket, beside the one from earlier. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t let herself.
Ava emerges from the bedroom with a triumphant grin that stretches from ear to ear. She does an endearing twirl, showcasing one of her most recent thrift finds: a bright red cooking apron—a color that Beatrice is sure her cheeks match. But it’s not the graphic that does her in—a cartoonish image of a burly, mustachioed man, but the words underneath, kiss the cook, printed in a large, bold font.
“Gotta look the part, amirite?” Ava finger-guns.
Beatrice clears her throat. Turns back around.
The smoke detectors are sensitive and she doesn’t want to let anything burn. She runs the wooden spoon through the pan, and gently stirs. “The sauce is almost done.” Switches her attention to the pot bubbling with noodles. She pops the lid, letting the rising steam clear away before peering inside. “And the pasta should only take a few more minutes to cook.”
“Yes, chef!” Ava takes up her position beside Beatrice, leaning over to smell the pan of bubbling tomato sauce. “Smells good.”
For someone who seeks out assurance for almost every task she does— “Did I make this drink right? / “Is it okay if I didn’t separate the whites from the colors?” / “Best buy dates are usually just suggestions, right?” —Ava offers it up in every breath she takes— “That’s tight, Bea!” / “Smokin’ hot!” / “Good thinking, Bea!”
“It’s just from the jar,” her tone is clipped, not out of anger, but embarrassment. Beatrice, who has never encountered such effortless praise, does not know what to do with it offered so bountifully.
Ava glances at her with narrowed eyes. Playful. Perceptive. “Sure, but I know you, Bea. You definitely added spices and shit to it.”
“Language,” Beatrice tries for stern but ends up halfway between endeared and exasperated. “Yes,” she admits, not entirely sure where she is being led, but letting herself be dragged along all the same.
Ava snatches a fork from the dish rack and threads a few spaghetti strands through it, popping it into her mouth before Beatrice can remind her that it’s hot. The warning dies on her lips. She laughs under her breath when Ava sucks in fistfuls of air to cool her mouth.
Ava spins the fork in her hand before asking, “How did you learn to cook so well?”
The question, asked without warning, gives her pause. Brief, if only because she had become accustomed to this habit of Ava’s. Accustomed, but never prepared. Beatrice turns off the burner and grabs a stray mug to scoop out some pasta water and places it to the side, considering her answer.
“I had a lot of time on my hands.” These extraneous skills hadn’t come until she had proven herself unworthy. “It’s easy to cook for one.” It’s a lonely confession. One that she doesn’t want to let linger. Beatrice moves away from their shared space. She brings the pot to the sink where it's been set up with the strainer. With a steady hand, she drains the spaghetti. Steam billows out, a thick smoky wall rising until it touches their ceiling.
Beatrice doesn’t turn around. Waits for the last of the water to drain and for the pasta to cool before she transfers it to the saucepan. She can feel Ava’s eyes on her, watching her in that silent, careful way she does when she’s thinking very hard about something. “Diplomat parents, right?”
It feels like a lifetime ago. Information that was freely offered up under the cover of darkness. Illuminated by candlelight flames flickering like wisps of wind, brief windows into the soul. “Yes. They both led quite busy lives.” The memories of a different life. A different person. It all feels so far removed now.
Beatrice returns to Ava’s side, drained and cooled spaghetti in hand.
There’s an unrelenting interest on Ava’s face, as is always the case whenever she manages to squeeze scraps of personal information out of Beatrice. “Did you cook during boarding school? Hey, wait—” She can trace the direction of the thoughts forming behind Ava’s eyes, rapid-fire as she connects pieces together. Beatrice holds her breath and waits.
“You went to school here, right? Is that why you picked this place?”
“I—“ Everything happened so fast after. They hardly had time to think, let alone act. The polizia was going to converge, and Adriel’s forces had grown overwhelming, exponentially. There was no other option than a tactical retreat. They left in the dead of the night, packing only one bag between the two of them. She and Mother Superion had surmised their best option was by train—multiple points of entry and exit, easy to monitor who enters and leaves. A car would have been much more trouble than its worth, especially after the Carabinieri established civilian checkpoints on all major roads leading out of the city, just hours after the explosion.
Ava must sense her growing unrest because as soon as the silence spills into uncomfortable territory, she tugs the conversation in a different direction, “I think my mom cooked a lot?”
The idea of learning more about Ava, another enigma—effervescent and so effortlessly charming that you forget how guarded she can be about her past—does the trick and pulls Beatrice away from her thoughts. From thinking about the what ifs and almosts that already keep her up some nights.
“You remember?”
Ava gives a half-hearted shrug. “Not really, I was too young,” she replies, a subdued expression on her face. And Beatrice has to restrain herself from doing something reckless like reaching out and wrapping her in a hug. She settles for shifting closer, and lets their shoulders touch in a silent show of support.
The small gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Ava, who offers a grateful smile. Small but still blinding. She grows quiet, watching Beatrice mix in the pasta with the sauce. Anticipating the next step, she grabs the mug of pasta water and pours it in for Beatrice, who murmurs a quiet thank you, careful not to disrupt whatever it is that Ava’s thinking about.
They stand by the stove in companionable silence, leaning against each other. Steam and the scent of dinner hitting them both in the face. Sharing spoons as they both taste.
After a while, Ava speaks up again, “Being in a kitchen with someone else. The smells. The warmth.” She turns to Beatrice with shining eyes, “It doesn’t feel like the first time.”
The confession feels weighted. Like Ava is sharing more than just a memory with her. Like she’s letting Beatrice hold it. Change it. Make it into a first. It’s irresponsible. To trust Beatrice with such a duty. Not when she’s unworthy of it.
But isn’t she guilty of doing the same? She’s brought Ava to a place from her past. Has allowed her to change it. Make it into a first, too. It’s irresponsible of Beatrice to burden Ava with such a duty.
Her throat feels tight. “It was through a brief stop after a tournament. Hardly memorable.” The words come stilted.
“Memorable enough if you brought us here,” For all her brashness, the words are said with extraordinary gentleness, held so carefully by Ava.
“Yes,” Beatrice concedes, growing quiet. Some part of it ingrained in her mind deep enough to leave a lasting impression. For it to be the first place she suggested. “The team was hungry and there were still two hours left in our journey.” She thinks of long, winding roads and rolling plains of green. Blankets of wild lavender painting the landscape in a dreamy blue haze.
“What tournament?” Ava asks, bright and inquisitive. No detail spared from her exploration, no matter how small.
Beatrice finds it hard to conceal the smile that twitches at the corner of her mouth, not when Ava spreads her enthusiasm like infection. “Aikido.”
“Hell yeah!” She cheers, nudging up against Beatrice once again to knock their shoulders together. “Bet you got first place, didn’t you?” It’s more of a statement than a question. The easy way that Ava has grown to know her in just a short period of time. It should feel threatening. It should make her want to run. To retreat back into the safety of her walls.
“Yes,” Beatrice shyly confirms, ducking her head.
Ava whoops loudly, tipping forward, and Beatrice jerks out an arm to steady her when she sways too close to the burner. Ava latches onto her forearm to stabilize herself, squeezing in quiet thanks. Her fingers don’t let go, instead loosely lingering as they trace the wool of Beatrice’s sweater.
“Okay, it’s done,” Beatrice announces and the fingers immediately pull away, taking the warmth with them.
Ava grabs their plates, putting them side by side. She grabs two tortillas and puts one on each plate. Then, she carefully piles a serving of spaghetti onto each tortilla, generously covers them in shredded cheese, and rolls them up. In a separate pan that Beatrice has already warmed for her, she lays both of them side-by-side and waits for the burner to do its magic.
While they wait for the burritos to grill, Beatrice lays down a mat on their dining table and carries over the pan of spaghetti to it. She gets a cold pitcher of water out of their refrigerator and fills two glasses, setting those down on the table as well.
Shortly after, Ava joins her and sets down two plates with their grilled burritos, expression full of unrestrained glee.
Beatrice eyes her burrito with trepidation but doesn’t say anything. She watches Ava demolish her own, sauce smearing on her cheek, spaghetti falling out of the pocket. Each bite is accompanied by a noise of appreciation, one that has Beatrice locking her jaw. She scolds Ava for talking with a mouth full of food.
After Ava’s intense urging, she folds. Picks her burrito up and takes a bite. Quick and painless.
She chews, slowly and methodically. The gentle crunch of the tortilla, a faint sweetness, pasta and tomato, the stringiness of the cheese.
“So? What do you think?” Ava asks, expectant and hopeful.
Beatrice finishes chewing. Swallows. Takes a generous sip of water. It’s not…entirely bad. “I think eating this once is enough for me,” She answers hesitantly, noting every expression that crosses Ava’s face. “But you did a wonderful job preparing this,” Beatrice reassures, swift and without pause. “Perhaps you should help out more in the kitchen,” she ribs, amused.
Ava sucks a breath, wincing in feigned sympathy. “Damn, I so would. But the crazy lady that usually runs this place never lets me in,” Ava leans in and strands of sun-kissed hair fall over to curtain her face. Beatrice’s free hand twitches before fingers curl themselves around a napkin. Ava lowers her voice in a conspiratorial whisper, eyes twinkling mirthfully, “But, she isn’t here today so I can talk shit about her!”
“Ava!” Beatrice aims for stern but breaks off into laughter before she can even complete her sentence. Ava joins her, continuing to talk about the mythic woman who “rules their sacred kitchen with an iron fist” and “puts Medusa to shame by removing her enemies from the premises with just a single look”—even as Beatrice calls for her to stop, stomach twisting in loud, unrestrained laugher—the loudest she’s laughed in a long time. It’s freeing. It’s the kind of laughter that seems to be happening more and more. Always in the presence of Ava, who coaxes it from her so easily. Without second-thought.
Their laughter tapers off into shaky giggles as they try to regain their bearings and resume dinner. Her stomach hurts—it’s the kind of hurt that comes from unreserved joy. She meets Ava’s gaze, the smile on her face reflected back by Ava.
Secret smiles and quiet conversations are shared between them as they finish up the rest of their meals in companionable silence.
Ava jumps up from her chair as soon as Beatrice finishes taking her final bite, insisting that she’ll collect their dishes tonight against Beatrice’s protests. Ava commands her to sit while she takes care of the clean-up. With their positions reversed, it’s now Beatrice who sits with a hand propped under her chin, watching Ava rinse their dishes.
The last of the summer sun streams in through their kitchen window, its golden mouth kissing Ava’s cheek, the curve of her shoulder. The light cradles Ava and yet Beatrice is the one that feels warmed. Beheld in a way that threatens to unmake her.
Ava, who makes her forget.
She looks around their apartment, kitchen counter decorated with splatters of sauce, stray spaghetti strands stuck near the burner—wrecked with love.
Later, when all of the dishes have been washed and dried, the counters wiped clean, and the lights turned off—when everything is much quieter and moonlight streams in through a sliver in the curtain, Beatrice lies in bed, fingers curled around her final note of the day. Found tucked inside the book on her nightstand, the one she always reads while waiting for Ava to finish up in the bathroom.
Ava sleeps with her whole body facing Beatrice, always starfished in such a way that some part of her is always touching some part of Beatrice. Tonight, it’s an arm curled around hers, knuckles lightly resting on her bicep—touches that Beatrice allows, even leans into under the veil of the night.
Listening to Ava’s soft snores, Beatrice lies awake tracing constellations on their popcorn ceiling and lets herself consider a treacherous thought. Wishes for this to endure.
Wishes to never be freed from this mess.
Hey Bea,
I think you’re pretty awesome.
Ava <3