Work Text:
the summer scolds
Camila should perhaps not be left alone right now.
On one hand, she understands the precariousness of her situation—her mental connection to Adriel is still shaky at best, though she’d managed to use it for good earlier. She would’ve been able to do more, to be an essential part in the success to put the Crown on Adriel’s head, but—well. Someone had gotten in the way.
She doesn’t like to think about Lilith.
Of course, the chain that Jillian had made for her did well in blocking Adriel out — it did perfectly, in fact — so well that she’s considering taking it off just to get a glimpse of him, to try and see anything, anything helpful that she can use for their next plan—
Camila pointedly does not take off the pendant, but she considers it for a very long moment. The only reason she doesn’t is because there’s no one else around, and while she believes in her own ability to stand up to Adriel, she’d rather have been captured by his cultists than have someone she knows find her locked up in her own head. Not again.
Instead, she prays. She prays without fear (thank you, Jillian) and she prays without remorse; she prays for assistance and she prays for the knowledge to beat this threat.
But her prayers only last for three minutes at best until the sound of footsteps pulls her out of them; footsteps coming closer, and fast.
Camila opens her eyes and turns her head just in time for Ava to come careening into the room; she doesn’t walk so much as tumbles, tripping over her feet and coming this close to bouncing off the door. She rights herself almost immediately, but the unsteadiness of her form stays that way; she sniffs again, and Camila realizes that Ava is about to cry.
She’d seen Ava last just ten minutes ago when the Halo Bearer had been on her way to one of the (four) balconies that existed on this gargantuan mansion Jillian owns. Camila hadn’t stopped her; she hadn’t needed to, and she’d been fairly certain that Beatrice was already out there, too, and she wasn’t about to get in the way of that.
But now Ava’s exhales are coming out wrong, shaky and shallow and too quick, and Camila’s only thought is Who’s dead? because she has only seen Ava like this one time before and that was after the Vatican. After Mary.
Camila leaps to her feet, immediately on high alert. “Ava? Are you okay?”
Are they under attack? Ava doesn’t seem wounded, but rather out of it—has she been hit by a tranquilizer? Do those sometimes make people cry? Camila can’t remember if that’s one of the possible side-effects. Yasmine hadn’t cried, but maybe Ava has some sort of allergy…?
“Oh.” Ava’s eyes meet her own as if she’s only just realized she’s not alone in the room. “Sorry, I—didn’t realize you were in here. Sorry. Fuck,” she says, and goes to wipe her eyes. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry.”
Everything is clearly not fine. Camila stops a few steps away, unsure. “You’re not hurt or anything, right? Where’s Beatrice?” she asks warily. “Wasn’t she just with you?”
She asks because she has no idea what to do with a potentially-crying Ava, but surely Beatrice will. She asks because Beatrice would want to know about this, because surely Ava’s already looking for her. She asks because she’s not stupid. But when Ava flinches at the mere mention of Beatrice’s name, Camila realizes, horrifyingly, that she has no plan B.
“I dunno. Out—outside somewhere,” Ava says shortly, looking away. She isn’t crying, but she’s very close to it and the shakiness in her voice hasn’t dissipated in the slightest. “Sorry for bothering you during—” she gestures vaguely with her hands. “—whatever you’re doing. I’m going now.”
“Ava,” Camila says, taking another step, and then, “Ava—”
But it’s too late; Ava spins on her heel and, still looking concerningly wobbly, books it out of the room. She turns right, probably now heading towards her and Beatrice’s bedroom, and Camila gets into the hallway just in time to hear the door click behind her. Ava's locked herself in.
Camila stands there for a long moment.
Then she thinks, Oh, hell no (she’s pretty sure God will forgive her for this one, considering the circumstances) and begins to head towards the balcony where she’d seen Beatrice last.
She finds Beatrice exactly where she expected; still out on the terrace, leaning against a pillar and looking at absolutely nothing. Camila would never say this to her face, but she knows her: Beatrice is cracking at the seams.
“What,” Camila says, getting her attention, “did you do?”
It comes out a little more harsh than she means; Beatrice flinches, keeping her steady gaze on the horizon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
Camila’s blood begins to boil. She thinks she finally understands what the Bible means when it says Righteous fury; an anger towards something that simply shouldn’t exist to be angry about, one that surpasses all logic and reasoning.
“Beatrice,” Camila says shortly, “Ava is in there crying, and—”
“What?” Beatrice finally meets her gaze, features going slack. “She’s—”
“Yeah!” Camila exclaims, interrupting her. “Because of a conversation she had with you!” She sets her jaw and looks her friend square in the eye, disappointment coursing through her veins. “What—did—you—do?”
For a moment, Beatrice doesn’t respond. Suddenly she looks to Camila to be very, very tired; her shoulders slump, the dark circles under her eyes seem even more pronounced than usual. Once, before Shannon’s death and before she knew Beatrice as well, Camila had joked that being Beatrice must be very exhausting. Now she knows it isn’t a joke at all—Beatrice carries so much on her shoulders and that’s only the things Camila knows about. There’s undoubtedly more: more pain than Camila could ever even understand, but she’d thought—she knows that Ava is closer than she is. That Ava would understand. Camila can guess, but that’s all she has.
Then Beatrice says, in a whisper, “She asked if I would come with her. If she left.”
Oh.
Camila understands in an instant, and she wishes she didn’t. “And you said no.”
Beatrice’s chin trembles imperceptibly as she looks away. “I gave her the right answer,” she says, and Camila’s not sure if it makes it worse that she so clearly believes that. “I need to… reexamine my own priorities. They’ve shifted in ways I don’t—can’t have.”
Camila examines her for a long time, unsure of what to say. Perhaps it's unbecoming of her to care so much—but she believes wholeheartedly that God has a purpose for her, and that purpose has to do with her at least attempting to help the people she loves. Being who she is makes her happy. Camila likes who she is, where she is; she's an integral member of the OCS, now; she's not just the rookie and she doesn't think she’ll ever be able to give up being this part of herself. That being a nun, that being a soldier. This job has always been thrumming through her veins, even when she didn't know it. It's in her blood.
But she doesn't think it's in Beatrice’s. Not really. Camila exists in the OCS as an entire person, but Beatrice cuts herself open in order to fit.
Once, when she was still a rookie — the rookie, the new girl — she might've thought Beatrice fit best of all. Not anymore. Not after Shannon, after Ava, after Camila’s seen with her own two eyes the way Beatrice’s faith has twisted and changed course. There's no shame in it, she'd said, and she'd meant it—meant every word, meant You deserve to be happy and this isn't making you so.
(That's the worst part, Camila thinks. The Order is Camila’s home, but it's not Beatrice’s. Beatrice deserves a home.)
So Camila says, simply, “Why?”
Beatrice glances at her. “What do you mean, why?”
“Why can't you have that shift in priorities?” Camila asks.
“You know very well why—”
“No!” Camila says, louder. “I don't! Because you haven't told me!” Because she's a good friend, and because Beatrice's face has begun to look stricken with a fear she has rarely seen, she lowers her voice. “And I don't need you to. But I can guess. Someone hurt you, Beatrice,” she says; Beatrice flinches again, but Camila takes a step closer and holds her gaze with her own. “Someone hurt you, and I don't know who, but you were very close to them. And you haven't recovered from that.”
A vein in Beatrice’s jaw pulses. She opens her mouth as if it's the hardest thing in the world to do and says, “Camila—”
“I’m not done,” Camila snaps, on a roll. “I don’t know who hurt you or how, but that person wasn’t and will never be Ava, so stop acting like it was.” She softens, then, as Beatrice sucks in a wounded breath. “I’m telling you this because I care about you, and because you deserve better than what you’re giving yourself.”
“What I do or do not deserve does not matter,” Beatrice responds flatly. “This is who I am.”
She believes that, too—or, at the very least, she wants to believe it. Camila thinks very firmly that if Beatrice had a choice she’d rid herself of all emotion entirely, which is heartbreaking, and Camila wishes not for the first time that she could just simply fix whatever had broken years ago in her. She tries nonetheless. Just the mere thought of it is terrifying—Beatrice without her passion for her Sisters, Beatrice without her love of the Word, Beatrice without her care for Ava…
Camila is a loving person at her core, and so is Beatrice—no matter how hard she tries not to be. It’s the struggle, then, that cracks her open and leaves her bleeding.
“You should be happy, Bea,” Camila insists. “And Mother Superion agrees with me, she—”
“You’ve talked to Mother Superion?” Beatrice interrupts her, eyes widening. “About me?” Beatrice’s voice is heavy with fear. Camila curses herself for letting that little tidbit slip.
(To say they talked about Beatrice was an oversimplification of events. At the height of her frustration during those dreadful two months apart, and after another failed communication with Ava (she loves Ava, adores her, but the Halo Bearer could not be focused to give a good report if it killed her), Camila had talked at Mother Superion, once, being very careful not to mention names and keep things firmly in the hypothetical vein.
Then, after probably too long of a moment, Mother Superion had cut her ramble off with an extremely perceptive, Beatrice will do as Beatrice does.
Camila had not pointed out the tinge of sadness in her voice.)
“No,” Camila says, assuring, because she may not understand everything about Beatrice’s pain but she would never presume to tell someone else about it without her knowledge. “But Mother Superion loves you, Bea. We all do. And I think—she’d understand.” She peers closer, sees the flicker of fear that Beatrice tries to hide. “And I think you know that, too.”
Beatrice’s shoulders slump with a weary sigh; not verbalized, but Camila hears it just the same. She looks like she very much wants to curl up and hide away from the world, which is not at all like Beatrice. It hurts Camila’s heart just a little more, and she softens further. She opens her mouth to continue—
Then Beatrice speaks. “I thought I was going to hate Switzerland,” she says.
Camila goes still. Something’s tugging at her memory — she knows this, maybe — but she’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She says, “Why’s that?”
“I’ve been there before,” Beatrice replies, not looking at her. She fixes her gaze back on the horizon; the sun is setting. “When I was younger, before the OCS recruited me. I was sent there as a lesson: to be better.” Her chin is trembling with the admission. “I hated it there. I was so grateful when the OCS scouted me. I could be more than who I was. I could be better.”
“And then you were sent there again,” Camila says quietly.
“And then I was sent there again,” Beatrice says. She’s still studying the setting sun, and Camila, afraid to break the quiet atmosphere, doesn’t dare seek her gaze. “I thought I’d hate it. I was dreading going back there for the entire trip. I snapped at Ava a few times—she was kind about it. Too kind.”
Camila’s never been to Switzerland, but she knows a little something about being brought somewhere in which she associates painful memories. Wincing, she remembers that she’d been the one to pick the location that Ava and Beatrice hid. “I’m sorry. If I’d remembered—”
Beatrice shakes her head, and Camila’s mouth snaps shut. “Don’t apologize. That’s the problem,” she says, and oh.
“What was?” Camila asks. She thinks Beatrice needs to say it.
She hesitates, but only for a half-second. “I didn’t hate it there,” she says, and she smiles, then, despite everything; despite this horrible afternoon and Camila yelling at her and her own pain; Beatrice smiles at the memory. “Not even for a second. Not at all. I got inside that apartment and looked around, and I—I loved it.” Her voice goes quieter. “I miss it, that little apartment. I miss it more than I thought I would.”
She’s on the verge of something, Camila thinks, and she’s not sure what she should do next. “Beatrice,” she says, softly, “you need to tell her that.”
Immediately, Beatrice’s face shuts down, just a little bit. She inhales an unsteady breath. “I can’t.” And then, braver, “She wanted to leave, Camila. I was the one who kept her there.”
Personally, Camila thinks that’s baloney. Sure, Ava’s more gung-ho about the fight now than she ever has been, but Camila doesn’t believe for a second that Ava had wanted to leave. Wanted to do more, maybe. Wanted to be helpful, definitely. But leave? Not at all.
Camila remembers dozens of check-ins — the ones where Beatrice was busy or out of the apartment because Camila had been impatient and called early — and she remembers how happy Ava had looked every single time she answered the call. How she’d gone on about I flew today! Bea was so proud and Bea got promoted to manager! Yes, we’ve only been working there a month, yes we’re very pleased and One of the regulars tried to ask Bea out today, can you imagine? The guy — this big, tatted dude — walked away with his tail between his legs within five minutes. I don’t even think she realized what he was trying to do. She’s a little clueless about that, huh?
Camila heard Ava say I love you countless times in Switzerland, and she sees Ava say I love you here, too, even if she’s never said it aloud in so many words (and Camila doubts that, too). Ava says I love you with her smile, with her hugs, with the way she reaches out and touches someone. Ava says I love you with her face every single day, and her face is almost always turned towards Beatrice.
“She loved it there, too,” Camila tells her, because it’s the truth—she’s seen it. “You weren’t keeping her anywhere—Ava adored every bit of it.”
“But—” Beatrice shakes her head again. “It’s not the same. I can’t—”
It’s exactly the same, Camila could say. But she doesn’t. She’s pushing, sure, but she doesn’t want to give it all away entirely. It’s not her place. All she needs to do is get Beatrice back inside to make up with Ava—if she succeeds in that, then maybe Ava will say it herself.
(Probably not, but she can dream.)
“I can’t do this, Camila,” Beatrice says, and this time it sounds like a plea; a breakthrough, maybe, the moon shining through the cracks of a cloudy sky. “Not with her. Not when she’s…”
“The Halo Bearer?” Camila suggests.
“When she’s Ava!” Beatrice’s voice goes up several octaves, though she immediately lowers it. Camila’s half-surprised Beatrice invoked Ava’s name. They’ve been dancing around it this whole time, stepping on a tightrope of care and a love for Switzerland and maybe this is good, maybe all Beatrice needs is to remember who they’re talking about. “I can’t do this with Ava.”
Well, that’s just stupid.
Personally, Camila’s more than half-certain Ava already knows. Knows on some level, at least; knows of her effect on Beatrice and knows how to straddle the line on using that to her advantage while also never going too far, never pushing her luck entirely. Ava’s far smarter than she thinks — than she likes people to think — and Camila cannot be the only one who’s caught onto the way she nudges Beatrice nowadays; always pushing, always pulling, and never quite going in for the kill.
It’s very sweet of her, Camila thinks. She’s clearly taking her time with it, taking her time with a quiet acceptance that’s rare for her. Camila can hardly believe Beatrice doesn’t see that.
“What do you want to do, then?” Camila asks plainly. “What do you want?”
Again, there’s a long silence. To her credit, Beatrice actually looks as if she’s considering the question this time, instead of immediately dismissing it. Camila lets her take her time — the Vatican wasn’t built in a day (even though it was destroyed in less) — and elects to watch the remaining sunset alongside her, basking in the light of a long day. She’s so tired, she realizes, and she expects Beatrice feels the same. They’re all so tired.
(After all of this, Camila will take a vacation to Switzerland, even if no one else will.)
“I can’t run,” Beatrice says firmly, after letting out a short sigh. Even now, she won’t answer directly. “I won’t run. Not now. Not when Adriel’s still our fault. If she doesn’t want to run, either, then she’ll fight with us.”
Camila studies her for a long moment, wonders if Beatrice knows that I want her to run is written all over her face. She doesn’t point it out. “Okay,” she says instead, accepting the response. Then, “What about after?”
Because there will be an after, of that Camila is sure. Adriel gets stronger with every day, Lilith and Father Vincent have abandoned them, and Mary is gone, but Camila will never not believe that they’ll win the war. Not with Ava. Ava, Camila thinks, could win any war in the world she wanted. That’s the kind of person she is—you want to fight for her. You have to.
(Camila believes that of Ava and she’s not even in love with her.)
Beatrice doesn’t answer for a very long time. She finally turns back to look at Camila again; though she hasn’t shed a single tear, there’s a redness rimming around her eyes, and her posture, though still as perfect as ever, seems to waver slightly, like one strong breeze would be able to knock her over. Still, there’s not a single tremble in her voice when she responds.
“After, I’ll go where Ava goes.”
It’s still, perhaps, the easy way out—in the end, she hasn’t really said anything that she can’t just go and deny away later, but Camila senses that this is the best she’ll get; that it’s better, even, better than she could have ever expected.
And Camila’s not the one Beatrice needs to say everything to in the first place.
So Camila smiles. She doesn’t go in for a hug, because she doesn’t think Beatrice would appreciate it very much, but she does reach out and pat Beatrice’s folded hands twice; soft and gentle. “I’d never expect otherwise,” she says, and softens the potential jab with legitimacy. “And if I may say… I don’t think she’ll be opposed to your company.”
Beatrice takes a long, deep breath before pulling away. “I expect I have some groveling to do,” she says, and there’s regret in her voice, sure, but there’s also a lingering fondness that only shows when she’s talking about Ava. Camila wonders if she even knows it exists—wonders if Ava does. One of them, certainly. “I… appreciate your kindness today.”
She’s done for the day, that much is clear. Camila smiles at her again, and while Beatrice cannot seem to muster the energy to smile back, her eyes do soften imperceptibly. Camila takes it as the victory that it is and leans back against the bannister, sighing softly at the darkening sky.
“Have fun with that,” she says, electing to tease a little and see where it gets her. Beatrice exhales through her nose, but doesn’t end up replying in words. She taps Camila’s shoulder, once, and then turns to disappear back inside. To Ava’s room, ideally—if not, Camila’s done all this for nothing. She hopes Beatrice apologizes.
She thinks she will.
Camila, for her part, stays outside for a little while longer. She watches the moon come up and prays once more. She prays for their safety, for Ava’s safety especially—for Lilith to come home. She prays for Mary to be found (always, no matter what). She prays that their next plan will work, that no one will be injured during, that Adriel will be sealed away and the OCS will be able to rebuild.
And she prays for love. She prays that Beatrice allows herself to feel it, that Ava will allow herself to fight for it. She prays for the strength to protect the people she loves. She prays for them all to have the freedom and courage to care and be cared for. Loving and being loved can be terrifying, but it’s worth it. She knows it is.
Please let them find peace, Camila thinks. Amen.