Chapter Text
Ava knows God is real.
(She’s still debating if it’s capital-G God or lowercase-g god. Who’s to say if there were more weird realms with deities in them?)
The God that Ava knows—Reya—made her believe that the only way to save the world from Adriel was by making her half of a suicide bomb. Brilliant. With a slight miscalculation. That ended up obliterating Michael (may he, respectfully, rest in peace-s) and separating her from the love of her life for far too long.
(For Ava, too long can be defined as an hour, a minute, a what-the-fuck-how-does-time-work-here.)
Whatever.
Ava is still working through the bamboozlement of the century—sans therapist because Sister Therapists don’t exist (they really should; Ava is in the middle of making a proposal to Mother Superion) and there was no way Ava could tell half of this shit to some unfortunate therapist for normal people.
But it’s fine because there’s one more thing Ava knows.
Karma is also real.
The universe took away her mom, her ability to feel the world at her fingertips, her freedom and the joy of living for twelve years of her life. It kept her away from having experiences any regular nineteen-year-old would.
But it gave her a new family, infallible women and all of their tenacity and love inscribed on her ribs like they built her to be strong.
Karma gave her Beatrice. Intelligent, empathetic, and compassionate Beatrice.
Beatrice, who is driven and principled. Beatrice, who is scared and scarred—but gracefully courageous even so.
The universe showed her what it feels like to be held by her, loved by her—cared for by the woman who could probably fit enough love to last lifetimes in her heart. (Ava thinks she’s lucky because she requires a lot of love, only because Beatrice has told her she gives too much away.)
And if forcibly backpacking an angel’s halo led her to Beatrice, Ava can learn to accept that the halo has a colossal laundry list of problems to work through.
It's fine.
She's accepting it, anyway.
It's pretty easy to do when Ava feels like she’s only really living when she’s by Beatrice’s side.
And plus, if it weren’t for the halo, her hands wouldn’t know the softness of Beatrice’s hair when she has it down or the indestructible wall of stone she has for abs. She wouldn’t have the feeling in her legs to lead Beatrice into trouble with her—shenanigans for the memory bank, Ava says. But she also has the full ability to make true to the promise that wherever Beatrice goes, she’d follow.
Even if that meant going on her ridiculous runs with her.
Ava lifts her dampened shirt to wipe the beads of sweat trickling towards her eye, nearly heaving through her panting, “When you said a four-mile run, I thought you meant two to get there and two to get back. Roundtrip.”
Other than the light sheen of sweat that only makes Beatrice look hotter and not like a drowning rat (which, by the way, totally unfair—she even sweats with perfection), she is blissfully unfazed like a beautiful daisy enjoying the breeze on a pleasant spring day. In one of the few moments she allows herself to brag, Beatrice breathes out a laugh and merely smirks with the sun lighting the amusement playing in her eyes.
She's smug about it; Ava sees how her prideful mischief sticks its tongue out at her—a tease.
Just the way Ava likes. She’d never tell her girlfriend this because she’d somehow make her do it, but she’d run around the entire fucking globe with her if Beatrice would smile at her like that again.
Ava’s in love with her. Down horrendously. In fact, there’s “down bad” and then there’s “Ava.”
Beatrice smiles, all fond and sweet, the way she usually does whenever Ava manages to endear her (which is nearly always because she has mastered the art of being a charming little shit—or maybe because Beatrice just loves her too much). Within a second, Ava sees their entire future together in splotches of laughter and piles of laundry and way too many tax documents that Beatrice will eventually have to go through with her.
It’s only the teasing lilt of Beatrice’s voice that reminds her, over the time that they’ve spent together and Ava constantly fucking around to find out, Beatrice managed to soak up Ava’s little shit-isms with perfection too. “Whenever you’re ready to go, darling. But not too late if you want to catch the movie before dinner. It’s your favorite, too. Sister Act.”
(A bit on the nose, Ava knows. But she can’t help that she likes Whoopi Golberg for her charisma. Or the singing nuns.)
Ava deadpans, pouts, because she’s the one who planned their date. She can’t be the reason why they’re late.
Before Ava can even purse her lips, Beatrice is shaking her head, taking a step back.
“No, I'm not kissing you. If I kiss you, we’re not leaving this place anytime soon.”
“Bea, you have to. That’s the only way I'm making it back without you carrying me.” Ava stops, tucks her lips into a straight line, “Actually, you know what? That sounds good. No kissing…unless it’s a reward! I wanna be held by my strong, sexy girlfriend!”
Beatrice tries to fight her sheepish, flattered smile. It's probably one of the very few things she can’t do well when it’s Ava humoring her because the stubborn upturn of the corner of her lips is the first thing that makes Ava laugh. All of the attention and honesty makes Beatrice blush, sun-kissed freckles swimming in rosy pink.
Ava can’t help how she preens, a rush of pride that balloons her ego. It’s a power, the most coveted to all of man and god-kind, Ava thinks, to get Beatrice flustered with ruddy cheeks. Not even an overly ambitious half-of-an-eight-mile run could get her so flushed.
It is not the halo that makes the Warrior Nun powerful, it is the Not-a-Nun-is-in-Fact-an-Atheist-Warrior Nun that makes the halo powerful. Or whatever profound hero shit that movies love to tout about.
Beatrice doesn’t kiss her. Not on the lips, anyway. Rather, she leaves one ever so chivalrously on the knuckles of her hand, held so devoutly in hers. Beatrice excels in all she does, naturally. But it is faith and devotion that Beatrice lives and breathes.
Ava knows she isn’t God. (Maybe Bisexual Jesus if she was making a joke.) But Beatrice’s sincerity and love and belief in her make her feel like one.
Despite all of her lamenting and exaggerated wheezing, Ava runs the four miles back because Beatrice didn’t train a quitter. But, Beatrice’s silly little heart did choose to make a touch-starved girl who fluently speaks the love language of touch the love of her life, so she carries her like a koala wrapped around her back to their car after Ava whines about the incredible injustice of not being rewarded for her hard work.
When Mary had said to listen to everything Beatrice says, she probably hadn’t imagined it turning out like this: Beatrice being her voice of reason and restraint, Beatrice and Ava meditating every morning, Beatrice gently guiding her through choices when she needs it. She is the start and end of her days, she’s in every decision Ava makes because she is Beatrice’s and anything that is Beatrice’s is fully deserving of being hers.
Being Beatrice’s comes with many things—protection, love, freedom, and happiness. And it comes with patience so admirable Beatrice had to have learned it from a saint.
“Hey, Bea?”
Beatrice hums her attention, somehow both trained on a book about how to make the most scrumptious focaccia bread and on Ava.
“Would you still love me if I was bald?”
Beatrice’s eyes shoot up from the cookbook to focus on her, eyebrows furrowed in that precious befuddled look Ava loves, “What?”
“Would you love me if I was bald? They say you know you’re in love when they’re still hot to you after a haircut.”
Beatrice answers with so much honesty that Ava almost misses the spark of playfulness in her eyes, “That’s absurd. Of course, I'd love you. And you’ve gotten plenty of haircuts before and I loved you through all of them.”
“So, you think I'm hot all the time then, huh?”
Beatrice exhales a heavy sigh, like she can’t believe she’s baiting for Ava’s lines. Low, like a scold, Beatrice spares no warmth in her voice, “Ava.”
Still, Ava feels the familiar warmth of Beatrice’s affection fanning through her chest. Like it tends to the hearth Beatrice turned her heart into because she presents her love like an offering. It’s in how Beatrice regards her with exasperated endearment, like she can’t help but to adore her.
Ava feels triumphant, somehow. Like she’s more proud to understand Beatrice and what her love feels like than she is for surviving a fucked up, power-hungry angel, Reya’s realm, and a Holy War.
“You love the bisexual haircut on me. Admit it.”
Beatrice doesn’t bother answering. She goes back to reading about massaging out gas in pliant dough and high quality olive oil with a poorly disguised fond eye-roll.
Ava smiles to herself because she already knows the answer.
(Beatrice may read her books but Ava reads Beatrice like a book every time she looks at her.)
Beatrice fucking loves the bisexual haircut on her—loves to run her hands through it, tuck her tresses behind her ears before she cups her cheeks like she has found something divine, loves to play with it in her fingers when there’s pillowtalk and Beatrice is thinking way too hard about the silly hypotheticals Ava comes up with when she has trouble falling asleep, loves burying her nose in it when she’s afforded big spoon opportunities because, “hey, I can’t be the big spoon all the time! What if I want to be held?”.
Oh, Ava knows Beatrice loves every single little thing about her—her limbs that know nothing about personal space, even in a bigger queen-sized bed, her clumsiness and penchant for coping with any negative emotion ever by disguising it with humor, all her reckless selflessness.
It's easy to love the good parts of her. The exuberant part of her that loves life a little less than she loves Beatrice and she loves Beatrice more than anything she has ever known, a smile that could probably make a friend out of anyone, a heart so big and empathetic.
But Beatrice loves the parts of her that are hard to know, parts that Ava covers with her jokes and goofiness. As much as Ava would hate for Beatrice to see her at her worst to spare her aching empathy, it’s only Beatrice who could see her though it—who would fight armies just to hold her, to be by her side so she’s never alone.
What a comfort it is, Ava thinks, to know Beatrice at all, to know what her love feels like.
It was the lull before night falls, sunset lurking behind. There were two patrons at a table and one at the end of the bar. Ava would normally hate it slow like this, but just her luck, the prettiest woman in the world, AKA her girlfriend, is sitting at Ava’s favorite table (because it’s center front of the bar where she tends to idle) doing books.
Ava doesn’t mean to stare so hard, but she can’t help it. Looking at Beatrice is an excellent use of her time. Plus, it’s cute when Beatrice finally notices the spotlight of attention on her, so innocently unassuming of Ava’s unabashed and open gazing.
There’s just one unfortunate thing that gets in the way. (And it’s a damn shame because Beatrice is a vision. With the sunset bleeding into the sky, baby pink softly glows a gentle blush on her cheeks.)
Ava has one of those faces, that feeling of bright optimism and warmth, and it makes her a springboard for conversation that takes her away from wallpapering how beautiful Beatrice looks to her brain.
One of their new regulars interrupts her view, in which Ava is immediately annoyed. Because “hello, rude! I'm busy!” But because Ava is saving up for the Christmas present she’s getting for Beatrice and her tip money is fully contributing to it, she fits an amicable smile on her lips.
“Hi, Ava!”
“Hi! Your usual?”
The woman flashes a grin, drops a compliment while Ava makes her a hot toddy, “I like your sweater!”
And because this girl flirts with Beatrice and her sweet, lovable, precious girlfriend can’t get a clue even if it was written on her face, Ava is unafraid of reverting her maturity for the sake of making a point. She can’t help the smugness puffing up her chest and looks towards Beatrice, “Thanks! It’s my girlfriend’s sweater.”
Beatrice turns towards Ava, as if she felt her eyes on her, like her words had beckoned her like a curled finger. A small smile plays on her lips, fondness shaped in the hearts coming from her eyes.
Ava feels the world float away, safely held by the sincerity of Beatrice's affection, with her eyes smiling at her like the moon, taking her breath away.
This feeling is a simple truth of life—as long as Beatrice is proud of her, to be hers, Ava knows she’s doing something right.
(Ava decides it’s lowercase g-god because Beatrice exists and, duh, Ariana Grande was right. God is a woman and she’s currently planning a trip to the farmer’s market to buy locally sourced olive oil to make the most kick-ass focaccia bread the world has ever seen.)
Ava knows she loves Beatrice. She’ll love her like this in this life and the next.