Chapter Text
Beatrice doesn't even know what she is doing here. Truthfully, it is very out of character for her to be sitting so late at a bar, and alone too.
Normally, Camila would have had to drag her out of her office and shove a glass of whiskey into her hands for Beatrice to come out with them --- Lilith needs much less convincing, given that she does absolutely anything involving Camila. The pining in between the two is getting intoxicating, Beatrice really wants to take them both by the shoulders and shake them like pear trees — but she only has two hands, after all.
But here she is, leaning against the bar, her chin in her palm, her bun tight enough to break her hair tie, a glass of whiskey twirling in her hand. Just one phone call from her mother and she is back to her bad habits from college. Lilith says it's borderline alcoholism, Camila that it's self-destructive tendencies. Sure, Beatrice does intend on getting drunk tonight, and she's already tipsy, but she has enough self-control to know her limits — now she does, after learning it the hard way.
It's warm in the room, but she doesn't know if it's from the alcohol burning her throat or the agitation of the bar. The music is drowned out by voices, conversations, laughter. Even her own thoughts are fuzzy, like a buzzing noise in the back of her brain.
Someone bumps against her right side, without apologising, and she turns to discover a man, his back turned to her, talking to a young woman, not even seeing her as he keeps talking.
She doesn't know what he's saying, she doesn't care, but she is now laser focused on the young woman, on the way she is clearly turned to the bar, head slightly turned towards the man as he keeps talking, a polite smile on her face. Beatrice has learned to read body language from a very young age, knowing when not to get in her father's way, learning when it was best to retreat to her room when her mother was having a migraine, and if the woman's is anything to get by, she clearly doesn't want to be here, and is trying to find a way to leave without the conversation escalating into something dangerous.
Lilith would say she is being paranoid, but Beatrice can't help but keep her eyes on the woman, to detect any signal that would tell her to spring into action.
The woman is young, awfully so, pretty, too, with her long messy hair waving down her back, her little summer dress, her red cheeks and her even redder lips. She nods politely as the guy keeps talking and talking, wrapping her lips around the straw of her drink — Cuba Libre, Beatrice guesses.
He says something that she doesn't listen to, and the woman laughs, but somehow Beatrice has the feeling that this isn't her real laugh, it's fake, poised, controlled, it doesn't match the sparkle in her brown eyes. He reaches out and puts a hand on her knee, and that's when she sees it; the flash of panic in her eyes as she tries to find a way to get away. She raises her head, looks up, but her gaze finds Beatrice's instead.
She blinks, three times, and Beatrice knows.
She slides a twenty to the bartender, takes off her jacket that she wraps around her waist, rolls up the sleeve of her shirt. It's all in the details. Camila would be proud. The woman's eyes dart from the guy's face, clearly asking her to hurry up, and Beatrice complies.
She plasters a fake smile on, circles around the guy and puts herself in the woman's space, not quite in between the two of them but clearly stopping him from reaching out.
"Hey, sorry I'm late. Traffic was insane."
The friend card, the friend card, she doesn't want to start a fight and put the poor woman in an uncomfortable position. If it was up to her, she would have asked for a bottle of their finest wine and crashed it on his head, just to relieve a bit of pressure, but it would have been mean and bad for the girl.
She expects everything — the woman telling her she misread the signals, the guy getting up and leaving, the girl smiling and starting a fake conversation about their fake mutual friend — but for the woman to turn towards her, a smile on her lips as she runs a hand over her collar.
"Hi baby."
And putting her lips on hers.
It's just a peck, messy and unprepared, but Beatrice forgets for a second where she is. The woman's lips are soft, and warm, so warm that it feels strange for a shiver to make its way up her spine, her hair rising on her skin as if she was cold when in reality Beatrice can feel herself burning from head to toes. No doubt that she is as red as a tomato as the woman draws back, her arms wrapped around her shoulder, and Beatrice's hand finds itself on the woman's back. She tenses, and Beatrice starts pulling away, but the woman smiles as she starts playing with the little hair at the back of her neck.
She's fine, okay, got it.
"You took your sweet time," the girl comments, and Beatrice can only stutter pathetically as an answer.
The woman's smile widens into the left side of her face, a teasing sparkle in her eyes, and oh how Beatrice is making a fool of herself but she loves every second of it. The woman's skin is warm and her lips are sweet and her smile is contagious and Beatrice would take every chance she can for her to smile at her, even if she has to embarrass herself in the process.
Somehow, the guy is still here, looking at the both of them, and Beatrice thinks that it's getting harder and harder for her not to start a fight with him.
"That's not a problem for me," he says.
"Excuse me?" Beatrice growls back, the other woman frowning too.
"Yeah, I'm into it, I can just watch, if you want."
Oh, manners be damned, Beatrice is going to slam his head on the bar and fuck him up if that's what he wants.
"You—"
"It's okay, baby, I've got this," the woman says in a very calm and sweet voice and somehow it sounds more dangerous than Beatrice's rumbling of fury.
The woman fishes a couple of euro bills from the pockets of her dress, slides it onto the bar as she grabs her glass.
"Queer women are not here for you to enjoy, asshole."
And she throws the whole Cuba Libre at his face, jumps from the stool and grab Beatrice's hand.
"Run!"
They both dart for the door as he yells behind them, the woman pulling her into the night as they run into the street. She laughs and apologise as they slalom in between passers-by in a mix of English, Spanish and what Beatrice assumes is Portuguese and Beatrice can't help but laugh too as the girl lets out shouts of happiness and peals of giggles.
Beatrice yanks on her arm as she nearly hits a car and sends her crashing into her own arms, letting out a yelp and breathing hard against her chest. They both watch in stunned silence as the car keeps driving, its driver yelling insults at them for being so careless, and then the girl laughs, squirming in Beatrice's arms.
"You almost got hit by a car."
"Not my first rodeo," the woman says, reaching out to put Beatrice's hair behind her ears.
There is something soft but intent in the way she touches, like every brush of her fingers has a purpose, like it's a means to an end.
"Thank you for helping me, you know, at the bar. Not that I needed saving, hey, I'm a strong independent woman, but my mother says she won't bail me out again if I keep getting into bar fights."
Beatrice can't stop the laugh that bubbles into her chest and pops on her lips, the woman smiling up at her with something akin to impudence in her eyes.
Suddenly, her eyes widen and she takes a step back, and Beatrice feels cold all of a sudden.
"Oh God, did I steal you away from your friends? Were you with someone? Partner, friend, date? Jesus Christ, I'm gonna get arrested for kidnapping!"
Beatrice laughs again, she can't help it. Later, she'll blame it on the alcohol, knowing damn well it's a lie.
"Stop laughing! You're a stranger in a bar that I just grabbed on my way out!"
"You also kissed me," Beatrice adds, before being able to stop herself.
"Oh God."
"And no, I wasn't here with anyone, I was on my own."
The woman sighs in relief.
"Oh, thank fuck, that would have been really awkward."
She smiles again — and oh how Beatrice has been warned countless times against the dangers of a pretty smile on a woman's face but right now she would forsaken God if he came to admonish her.
"I'm Ava," she says.
"Ava," Beatrice repeats, testing the name on her tongue and loving the way it sets on her lips, light and airy and beautiful. "I'm Beatrice."
Ava reaches out her hand with a smile and Beatrice shakes it, squeezing a little. She watches as goosebumps make their way across her skin, notes the swirl of wind around them and promptly unties the jacket around her waist to wrap it around her shoulders.
"I— you don't need to— alright," Ava mutters, running her fingers on the hem as Beatrice adjusts it around her.
It suits her, and Beatrice's stomach flips a little — just a little —, at the sight of Ava in her jacket, pretty and a bit small, with her messy hair and even messier smile.
"That's three," Ava comments, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"I'm sorry?"
"Three times you save me."
Beatrice snorts out a laugh.
"I don't think you could have died of hypothermia today."
"It's night."
"It's June, Ava," Beatrice says, fitting so well into some sort of mutual familiarity that it scares her a little.
"Whatever!" Ava laughs, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "I gotta pay you back somehow. Does walking you home counts?"
For a very short second, Beatrice thinks about saying that she doesn't need to, that they could just go on with their separate life and makes this encounter just a funny story to tell their friends. She thinks about pulling into her own self-loathing and denying herself the joy of seeing her just for a few more seconds.
But Ava smiles, raising an eyebrow, and Beatrice forgets about it all.
"Alright."
Ava jumps as she lets out a little squeal of victory, grabs her hand.
"Come on! This is the best night yet! It's my favourite weather!"
"You have a favourite weather?" Beatrce asks, bewildered.
"Yeah! It's when it's warm enough to stay outside during the night, the sky is clear of clouds and you can see the stars. Bonus point if you had a very tiring but washed it off with a shower before going on a little walk. It's..." She waves her fingers around as she tried to find the word. "Enchanting. That's the one. Enchanting." She smiles to herself, before turning to Beatrice. "You don't have a favorite weather?"
Beatrice shakes her head.
"There must be something you like. I knew a girl that liked thunder, she was a weird one but hey, whatever goats your boat."
"I like the rain," Beatrice mutters, ready to retreat into her own hideaway at the first sign of disapproval. "Summer rain, specifically."
"Yeah? What do you like about it?" Ava asks, squeezing her hand with a smile.
"The noise. I like that it makes the temperature drop. If I could, I think I would walk under it," she says, watching as Ava's eyebrows furrow, clearly about to ask why she wouldn't, and Beatrice isn't ready for that conversation, so she changes the subject instead. "Ava. Do you know where you are going?"
"Oh, right, no," Ava says, looking like she's holding back a laugh. "Where do you live?"
"I'm staying at a hotel for the night," Beatrice explains as she starts making her way down the street, not letting go of Ava's hand. "I leave tomorrow morning."
"Oh, you too? Where are you going?"
"Back to England."
"Ha! I knew you were the British gentleman. The accent, the jacket, the saving me? Yeah, totally English," Ava says, looking at her with a teasing smile.
"What about you?" Beatrice asks, concealing her laughter behind a cough rather than acknowledging how being called a gentleman makes her feel.
"Spain. It's funny, isn't it? We're both from different places and yet we found ourselves in the same place, at the same time."
"Switzerland will do that to you," Beatrice shrugs.
"It's like it's out of the world, like our own little bubble. Maybe it's not real. Maybe we're just living in a dream or something."
Younger Beatrice would have laughed and mocked her and said she was delusional, but this Beatrice doesn't want to. This Beatrice understands the feeling, this Beatrice wishes she could leave her issues and her anxieties at the border too. This Beatrice feels like this is too good to be true.
"Well, if we're in a dream, you're probably the best thing my brain ever came up with."
Ava stops in the middle of the empty sidewalk, and Beatrice nearly bumps into her.
"What?"
Ava turns to her, her face even pinker — does that word exist? Beatrice doesn't know, the whiskey is getting to her head — than before in the neon light of the bar they're standing next to.
"Beatrice," she says very seriously, squeezing her hand as if she wants her words to carve her words into Beatrice's brain. "This is the nicest thing someone has ever said to me."
Beatrice blushes to the root of her hair. A part of her feels embarrassed for ever saying something so cliché, another part is sad that Ava hasn't been told pretty things before. Another, bigger part of her wants to kiss her right there and there, with the happy music flowing from the speaker of the bar — 'Dog days are over', she'll remember later.
"Aaand, that's my favorite song. This feels like a fucking fantasy. Are you real?"
Beatrice takes both of her hands in hers, squeezing, and Ava looks up at her with those beautiful eyes of hers that make Beatrice want to drown herself in them.
"Yes, Ava, I am real. Are you real?"
"'Think so, yeah."
She giggles again, warm against the cool air of the night, pressing her hands into Beatrice's.
"Can I kiss you?"
"You already did."
"Can I kiss you again?" Ava repeats, rolling her eyes, and Beatrice smiles.
Beatrice doesn't think, for the first time in her life, her thoughts are quiet.
"Yes, Ava, you can kiss me."
And Ava kisses her, warm and sweet and airy like some sort of little angel, and Beatrice loses herself in the quiet noise that comes out of her throat when she responds, in the feeling of running her fingers through her hair, of touching her jaw.
Later, when she will be moaning her name into oblivion as Ava will come undone in her arms, she'll wish it was real.