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Beatrice didn't hear exactly when Ava got back from the other side after the Holy War. Wires got crossed, burner phone numbers misplaced, and by year two Beatrice was registering for master's level courses as an undergraduate.
She had worked hard to rebuild the foundations of her life after about Ava and revelations about the church completely tore her apart.
It hadn't been a good feeling, being so unmoored. Not one she intended to visit again.
So when Camila did finally get a hold of her, told her Ava was back and the old crew was looking for her, Beatrice hesitated.
Not hesitate to respond, no; her fingers flew faster over her cell phone with a proficiency she never expected to achieve. The hesitation was... well, frankly, it was fear.
How is she? she typed. It wasn't what she really wanted to know, but she wasn't about to ask Camila if Ava had asked after her.
She's well, had been the response. Where are you? I want to be able to give Ava your location when she gets back.
Beatrice dutifully replied, and added, I welcome any and all visits.
While waiting for such a visit, she completed her undergraduate. Her masters. Actually, the only reason she knew everyone at the OCS was alright was because Mother Superion-- who, now that Beatrice had received a dispensation of vows, allowed Beatrice to call her Suzanne-- frequently called upon Beatrice for research favors.
It's on one of these video calls that Suzanne brings it up. "We're having a reunion," she said. "You're going to be there." And with that kind of tone, the tone Suzanne hasn't used on her in years? Yes. Yes, Beatrice will be there.
"Of course," she accedes.
The month passes faster than she expects, and Beatrice shows at Cat's Cradle with a bag of grocery donations and a box of mixed pastries for the reunion. It's a casual affair, and she's in a black leather jacket, dark blue jeans, and a grey button down.
And there, just past the lifted in the courtyard, runs a little girl.
A little girl, no more than four years of age, with Ava's face.
Beatrice's gait stutters to a stop. She nearly drops the bag of groceries.
Ava... has a kid.
Her heart plummets.
She lost her chance; Ava found someone else to be with and she lost her chance; Ava found someone not only be with, but have a child with--
And then Ava is there, older, yes, but not too much older, running after the child and scooping her up in her arms, pulling up the girl's shirt and raspberrying her little belly until the girl screeches.
And then Ava looks up, and Beatrice meets her eyes for the first time in more than five years.
She swallows like her heart isn't shuddering itself half to death, tries to give Ava a half smile, walks forward again. "Hey," she says, and it comes out so softly she's not entirely sure Ava hears her.
"Hey," Ava says, and her grin is as wide and raucous as it has ever been.
And the little one is wriggling and protesting and running towards a group of younger sisters across the courtyard that Beatrice has never met.
The reunion goes on, and Beatrice is barely mentally present.
But whoever they are, this person who has taken her place at Ava's side, they aren't with Ava at this reunion. And Beatrice gets bitter. Did they leave Ava? Did Ava leave them? Was Ava so reckless to not use protection? She doesn't know Ava's thoughts on abortion.
Why didn't Ava tell her? Why didn't Ava come back? Come visit?
Ava's kid, though... Well, Matilda is incredible. She's barely two and you can already see Ava in her face and her absolute penchant for mischief.
Beatrice has never had the chance to be around kids, but she finds herself wanting every little scrap of Matilda's attention.
And Ava ... Motherhood sits well on her. She's kind, and patient, and she explains everything simply and in an easy to understand way that has led Matilda to be a far more mature speaker than other children her age. Beatrice can see Ava is proud, so proud. And Beatrice, unsurprisingly, is so breathlessly proud of Ava, even as she nurses the feeling of betrayal in her chest.
When Matilda finally crashes and Ava tucks her away in a spare room in Cat's Cradle, Beatrice can't help herself.
Ava has been so brilliant all evening, so kind. She's asked Beatrice innumerable questions about her life since they last saw each other-- her education, her work, and how on Earth she manages to find time to help out Mother Superion even while she pursues a secular life for the first time. She pointedly doesn't, Beatrice notices, ask about partners or romance.
But Beatrice? Beatrice can't help herself.
They sit together on a bench in the cool night air of the courtyard, the both of them foregoing alcohol for Fanta.
"So... Matilda."
Ava looks over at her, grins. "Isn't she great? Everybody told me that being a mom would be hard, and oh boy it fucking is, but it's also so much better than I expected. I can already tell that Tilly's gonna be SO much less fucked up than me."
Beatrice’s insides knot. You’re not… messed up, she wants to say. She’s absolutely brilliant, she wants to agree. How could you have left me in the dark for so many years? she wants to ask. How could you?
Instead she steadies herself. Reminds herself, even now: Thou shalt not covet, and says—
“I’m happy you’re happy, Ava. It’s good to see you happy.” And it is. It’s not a lie. After Adriel and the Holy War, Ava left the OCS tired, a little confused, perhaps a little resentful (though she would never say it). She still hadn’t gotten to experience ‘normal life things,’ and she needed the chance to mourn that. Beatrice had understood.
“I am,” Ava says. She leans over to bump her shoulder into Beatrice’s.
“And… what do you do, then? When you’re not taking care of… Tilly?”
Ava scratches at her arm, looks around a little aimlessly. “Well, you know. A little of this, a little of that. Nothing serious. I want to spend as much time as I can with her, and the church wires me a monthly stipend. It’s probably the same one you get. You know, for us saving the world and whatever…” She smirks, and Beatrice sees some kind of memory pass behind her eyes before she turns and their eyes find each other.
It’s silent for a moment, the each of them searching— though for what, neither seems to have the words.
Finally Ava takes a breath, as hurried and desperate as though she hadn’t been breathing at all. “But I’ve been saving money for film school! For when Tilly is finally in preschool, and I have a bit more free time in my day, and she’s a little more independent. I think I want to try film school.”
Beatrice nods. Of course—it makes complete sense. Ava has always been an avid consumer and critic of television, and with regards to anything to do with the medium at all, Ava’s mind is like a trap.
She says as much. Ava chuckles. “Well when it comes from you, at least I know it’s honest.”
They lapse into silence again, until Beatrice slurps a little too hard at the can of Fanta and they burst out laughing at the absurdity of the echo in the empty courtyard. Ava, ever the goon, mimics Beatrice’s slurp and accidentally sends it shooting through her nose, and then they are both giggling, giggling like it’s five, six years ago and they are young, and they are not veterans, and they are not scarred for life.
And Ava is not a mother.
“Can I be honest with you about something else?”
It’s out of Beatrice’s mouth before she can stop it, and she shuts her mouth quickly enough that the intonation of the sentence is a bit stunted.
Ava looks at her weird, like she’s about to laugh. Or cry.
“I’ve really—“ Beatrice takes a deep breath, fortifies herself—“I’ve really missed, you Ava. And I—I…”
She allows her posture to soften, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, can of soda held in both hands because it gives her hands something to do. “I felt… hurt when I didn’t hear from you. But I understand,” she adds quickly. “I completely understand; I know you needed space. I had just hoped— Just thought what we shared—“
Her throat has tightened and she has to stop talking, stop talking right this very moment, or the next sound out of her mouth will be a sob. And she will not do that to Ava; she will not. She told herself this reunion would be about them as a family, and if Ava wanted to put that part of their relationship behind her, then that was her right.
But of course, Ava has always been the exception to Beatrice’s exceptional self-control. The corners of her eyes ache and her she is hyper aware of her face, the pressure of keeping from reflexively frowning.
“Bea,” Ava says, and it is so gentle, so tender and full of something Beatrice thinks might be regret, that it coaxes the sob from Beatrice’s throat after all.
She sobs once, allows herself that one expression of grief, before sitting up and looking away.
And then she feels Ava’s hand on her knee.
"Bea,” Ava says again. Her voice is soft, even a little pleading. “I… I missed you, too. But I thought—I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me. I’ve been in touch with Camila this whole time, and Mother Superion, of course, because of keeping tabs on the halo. You could have reached out at any time if you missed me so badly—"
“— And so could you.”
It’s cold. Stern. A Beatrice from another time. It shocks even her, and she inhales sharply.
“I’m sorry, Ava. That tone was uncalled for.”
The regret is earnest but it doesn’t stop the aching in her heart, the pain she thought had faded, the yank, the tug of her self, her being, towards Ava. It had all but faded, until Bea saw her here. But now it is back with full force; Ava is a tanker and Beatrice is the anchor being pulled from the bottom of the ocean, summoned, and she cannot resist or defy the one true subject of her devotion.
Even if that subject has moved on.
“No, I think it was pretty appropriate actually.” Ava is glum now. She takes a sip of her Fanta, holds it in front of her face to examine the can. Beatrice knows that look: Ava is wishing the Fanta was something stronger.
And it is a look that is so familiar and old and nostalgic that Beatrice is flung backward in time to Switzerland and Bar La Vasseur and Hans and by the Holy Saints, Ava’s button down shirts and the way she tied them around her waist, and their cold walks home in the evening, and their home— their home, one they shared together, one they built together.
“I was just scared, you know?” Beatrice’s reminiscing is shattered by Ava’s admission. Ava doesn’t seem to notice, and continues. “I was scared, because—well, I was finally free? I suddenly had all this freedom, and no limits, and I wanted to do so many things—so many things it was hard to hold all of those wants in my body, Bea. Big wants and little wants. Dreams and… and little cravings. And it scared me. And I thought the urge to run was past me. I thought— I thought I was a bigger person but I ran, Bea. I fucking ran.”
Ava chugs the rest of her Fanta, head thrown back, and she is simultaneously lit by the bleaching rays of the moon at her front, and the yellow gleam of an agitated Halo at her back. Her grief, her frustration is in the tension of her jaw, the way she crushes the can aimlessly before setting it on the bench besides them. She sighs.
“I’m not a good person, Bea. I’m an okay person. But you wanna know the first thing I did when I stopped being so overwhelmed?” She looks at Beatrice now, looks at her the way she used to look for praise during training. Then the hope falters and Ava looks back at the ground. “I found my mom’s grave, Bea. I found her.”
Ava sits on her hands now; just one more behavior of Ava's that hasn't changed.
“Nobody had taken care of it— I mean, outside of whoever makes sure there aren’t any rats or pests or anything. It was pretty grimy. It needed some cleaning. But I got to go see her, and give her flowers, tell her about stuff. The OCS. Dying. You know. All that usual, normal stuff. It was… good. It made me… I dunno. It made me realize that after all this time, she was still kind of the one I wanted to make proud, you know?”
Beatrice nodded. Her heart was so far up her throat she was fairly sure she could hear her pulse in her ears.
“I decided right then,” Ava continued, lifting her right hand from under her leg to gesture her emphasis at the sky, “right then, that I wanted to have Tilly. I knew it. I wanted to give the experiences that my mom gave to me, to someone else, too. I wanted share all of those amazing things—those dreams, those little cravings— with someone special.”
Why couldn’t it be me? The selfish creature in Beatrice writhes with rejection, with hurt, maybe with a little bit of anger, and Beatrice hates herself for it. Hates herself, and, if she admits it, is even a little jealous of Ava, jealous of the closeness Ava feels with her mother even now, even though she’s dead. She has more of a connection with her dead mother than Beatrice has with her alive one.
What a selfish thought, she chastises, doing her best to yank herself from her spiral of self-masochism.
Beatrice gently lays her hand on Ava’s knee. “I’m happy you got to have that time with you mother, Ava. Truly. That must have been very healing for you.”
“Yeah. It was. I didn’t really know I needed it until I had it, you know?”
Beatrice nods, but she is still internally fighting to keep herself present. Next, surely Ava will explain— Ava will tell— Tilly—
“Then, I dunno.” Ava gives Beatrice a bittersweet smile. “I just… went. Did the things. Saw the sights. Hoped I’d meet someone on the way, but…”
Beatrice stiffens slightly. She thinks maybe Ava notices; she used to quirk her mouth like that sometimes in amusement whenever—
Her thoughts skid to a halt as Ava shifts to more directly face Beatrice, their knees bumping, and Ava reaches to pick at a piece of lint or something on Beatrice’s shoulder.
“They were just never you, Bea. They were never you.”
Beatrice is quite sure the pulse in her ears becomes a torrent, and she blinks rapidly. “Then— but— Matilda—?”
Ava drops her hand and suddenly her face is a little bit smarmy and a little bit embarrassed and a little bit cocky, maybe, too. “Well. It turns out there are groups for that sort of thing on social media.” At Bea’s blank look, she continues. “Like… people who want to have kids? By themselves?”
She doesn’t want to judge Ava’s choices, she doesn’t want to judge at all, but— “You got pregnant from a donor you found on Facebook?”
Ava was expecting this reaction, probably even set it up that way to fluster Bea on purpose, and her laughter is high and light and even the moon on this clearest of nights has nothing to compare. The chill that had gripped Beatrice’s chest is suddenly gone, and she feels a lightness in her head that she’d usually associate with intoxication.
“You do know that I’m irrational and impulsive, right? That that, like, never changed about me?”
Beatrice resists the urge to bury her face in her hands. “And the… donor?” She won’t say father because Ava hasn’t yet, they might still be in their lives; Beatrice can’t know— “Surely you at least… reviewed their family history?” It’s a weak finish, but Ava just chuckles.
“I’m irrational, okay, but I’m not reckless.” She plucks Beatrice’s half-full Fanta right from her hands and takes a sip. “… Okay, most of the time. Not reckless most of the time.” She pauses, cocky smile smoothed to something closer to satisfaction and adds quietly, “At least not with Tilly.”
Ava takes a deep breath, looks over to Bea. She sees it, then, the evidence of Beatrice’s earlier distress. “He’s not important, Bea. I wanted Till just for myself, and if she wants to meet him later in life then I’ll make it happen, but,” she shrugs. “I think I’ve always been a one-woman kinda gal.”
Beatrice is certain she is dreaming, or being launched into space, or being possessed or, frankly, just hallucinating. But Ava sets down Beatrice’s Fanta can next to her crushed one and takes her two hands in her own. The feeling of those warm, slightly clammy palms is so familiar and jolting that it can be nothing but real. The most real anything has ever been.
“If… that woman will have me? Even though I’m older now and I have stretch marks and a permanent scream generator following me around?”
“You’re beautiful,” Beatrice croaks. “Matilda is beautiful. And…” and her voice fails her for a moment before she remembers the heartbreak of the past however many years. “And I want you. I want to be with you. I have no idea what that will look like and the idea of parenting, frankly, terrifies me beyond belief—but if that’s what you’re asking of me, I will do it. I will do anything for you, Ava. I will go anywhere.”
Ava’s crushes Beatrice against her, ferocious, and Beatrice is whelmed by the smell of Ava both familiar and different, the warmth of her, the warmth of the halo, and she thinks this must be what rebirth feels like. Quenched thirst after a long, long drought.
Ava pulls back and she wipes at her cheeks with her sleeve. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
And so it goes.
fin