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Bea drags her feet a bit as she walks up the front steps of the Embassy, though maybe stumbles would be a more appropriate term. Not very ladylike, she knows . So sue her — it’s been a long night, and even if the flight back from the club burnt away any alcohol that could have remained in her blood, the comedown from an almost-ten-hour-long bender is arguably worse than any cheap tequila she’s ever had. She takes a moment to fit her keys in the lock, resting her weight against the door, preparing for whatever awaits on the other side. With a deep sigh, she turns the keys and goes inside.
The first thing she hears is Ted’s loud voice, because of course it is. He’s apparently scandalized that Booster has never seen some movie or show or maybe he’s talking about a book. Bea’s not sure; at some point, you just have to tune out Booster and Beetle’s conversations before you go insane — it’s one of the first things she learnt after joining the League. She stays where she is for a second, not really in the mood to talk to anyone right now, and waits until she hears that laugh of Ted’s, the one that tells her no one’s going to see her cross the hallway to reach the kitchen because Ted’s laughing so hard his eyes are closed and Booster won’t tear his eyes away from him even if Despero himself shows up asking for a rematch. It’s nice to hear them laugh, Bea thinks. Well, it probably would be, if they didn’t all live together in such close quarters; these days, things being what they are, Ted and Booster’s loud laughter and absurd debates only put her in a bad mood, more often than not. She tells herself that’s the only reason she’s been avoiding the Embassy.
God, she used to be a good liar. What happened?
There’s a box of doughnuts on the small kitchen table when Bea walks in, and she doesn’t really look at it until her stomach grumbles. Shit , she should probably eat something before heading to bed. She picks up a doughnut on her way across the room, biting into it disinterestedly as she opens the fridge. She closes her eyes and sighs heavily, enjoying the cold air on her overheated skin. You’d think someone who can turn themselves into pure fire wouldn’t even feel the heat anymore, but Bea learnt a couple dozen nights out ago that exhaustion has a lousy effect on her temperature regulation.
“Fire,” a deep voice says behind her.
Bea opens her eyes, takes a moment to compose herself. She takes a bottle of water from the fridge and turns around, closing the door with her hip and swallowing down the last of her pastry.
“J’onn, hey.” Her voice sounds hoarse even to her own ears.
“Are you just coming in?”
“You know how it is,” Bea smiles, shaking her head a bit, as if to say, That’s good ol’ Bea for you .
“I trust you had a good time?” J’onn asks, opening and closing one of the cupboards with a small frown on his face.
Bea gives him a mischievous grin, more out of habit than anything else. “Something like that, yeah.”
She gulps down half the bottle in one go as J’onn takes what he probably thinks is a discreet look around the room. Then he gives a small nod to Bea and turns to exit the kitchen.
“Well, I better get going, I was hoping I could find Catherine before she headed out for the day. There’s something I’d like to discuss with her.”
“Sure. I’m heading upstairs, anyway. Need my beauty sleep,” Bea says, kneeling in front of the sink and rummaging through the cupboard underneath it. “Oh, and, J’onn?” she calls after him when she finally finds what she’s looking for.
J’onn’s already at the door, but he turns around at her voice. “Yes?”
“Catch.” Bea throws him the box of cookies that had been hidden behind the cleaning products, and watches as J’onn’s face breaks into a smile when the second of confusion has passed. “From Beetle’s secret stash. Found them the last time I burnt my bed and Max put me on cleaning duty.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
And just like that, J’onn’s gone and the room is silent.
It takes her more time than she cares to admit, but eventually Bea stands up and walks out of the kitchen and down the hall. She reaches the stairs and leans on the handrail as she takes off her heels; her feet are killing her. Shoes in hand, she tiptoes up the stairs, hoping she won’t run into anyone else; unlikely, given the amount of people currently staying in the building, but lately most of her teammates have been keeping busy, so maybe it’s not impossible.
She reaches the bedroom she shares with Tora without encountering anyone —and thank God for that— but hesitates at the closed door. She takes a look around the empty hallway before unceremoniously pressing her ear to the old, decolored wood, trying to make out whether there’s any movement on the other side.
Bea is quite aware of how immature her behavior has been lately —sneaking around the halls of the Embassy, dodging her teammates and their attempts at conversation; going out every night and refusing to go home at a reasonable hour, no matter how tired she is, just to ensure that she doesn’t run into Tora on her way in; checking her damn bedroom is empty before going inside— but she can’t help it. She knows it isn’t Tora’s intention, but every time she sees her, Bea remembers it all. She remembers Tora, lying on a thin, hard mattress in the hospital, her skin an angry red, rosier where the burns were less severe and had already started healing, brownish around the graver wounds. Bea remembers not having moved from her bedside during those first few days, when Tora’s condition was still critical. She remembers the look Tora had given her when she’d first regained full consciousness, that look that had felt, to Bea, full of pity, as well as love, because it so clearly said It wasn’t your fault . But Bea had quickly looked away, the patches of burnt skin on Tora’s body still too vivid in her mind, and she’d known then — she needed time, she couldn’t face Tora, her kindness and careless forgiveness. Not then.
And not now.
And so Bea is all-too-aware of how ridiculous this is. It started out innocent enough, just small, typical avoidance practices like waiting until she can no longer hear her teammates’ voices before getting out of her room or making up lazy excuses when they invite her to go somewhere — which, granted, isn’t all that healthy, but she doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal, either. Then she started sleeping during the day —because, really, avoiding the others is much easier when their schedules don’t overlap— which soon turned into going out every night once she realized routinely refusing her friends’ company made her feel lonely, and, before she knew it, she was staying out until well after the clubs are closed and checking rooms before entering to make sure she doesn’t cross paths with Tora.
It doesn’t sound like there’s anyone at the other side of the door, so she goes into the bedroom. Exhausted, she drops her shoes by the closed door and barely takes two steps before collapsing face-first on her mattress. She’s so tired, though she’ll probably regret it in the morning if she doesn’t take off her sweaty clothes before falling asleep. With a groan, she gets her hands under herself and pushes herself up, taking her time to try and shake off the dizziness. Eventually, she finds herself sitting at the foot of her bed, throbbing head in her hands. With a long sigh, she moves a few stray hairs away from her face and starts looking around for her sleep clothes, an old silk nightgown she must have carelessly thrown somewhere the day before.
The room is, for lack of a better word, a mess — at least, Bea’s part is. Where Bea’s bed is unmade, Tora’s sheets are neatly tucked in, even a couple of throw pillows have been carefully arranged; while Bea’s floor is cluttered with shoes and old, worn paperbacks, a couple of skirts taken out of the closet and then discarded on top of her dresser, Tora’s things are mostly in place, only a hairbrush and a couple of bracelets scattered across the vanity, the cuff of a shirt peeking out of the laundry basket. And, on their shared nightstand, a tall glass of water, some ear plugs and aspirin, and Bea’s gown carefully folded next to one of Tora’s novels.
Bea’s chest aches at the sight. Here she has been doing everything in her power to avoid Tora, and Tora has still been taking care of her. Like always. Bea’s eyes sting as she reaches for her nightdress, feels the soft fabric between her fingers. She’s pitifully close to hugging the clothing to her chest when she hears the door open. She freezes.
Tora’s standing in the doorway, wrapped in a towel and combing out her hair with her fingers. For a second, she looks surprised to see Bea there, but she quickly recovers and gives her a bright, even if a bit careful, smile.
“Hello.” Tora’s voice is soft as she walks across the room to her closet.
“Hey,” Bea says, suddenly conscious of how throaty her voice sounds. Or she thinks she says it — she can’t be sure, because her attention is immediately drawn to Tora’s exposed skin and the still-red marks that cover it. Even as her stomach churns and she thinks she might throw up, Bea can’t tear her eyes away from Tora’s legs, from her back and neck, from the angry burns running up her thighs and down her arms, turning her delicate pale skin into an inlay of deep purple bruises and tender, flushed abrasions. And there Tora is, humming to herself while she rummages through her drawers as if nothing is wrong.
When she seems to find what she’s been looking for, Tora drapes her towel over a chair and bends over to pull on her underwear. Bea thinks Tora asks her something, but she doesn’t really hear her, too focused on the burns she can now see on Tora’s back.
Bea looks away when Tora straightens up, and this time she hears her when Tora asks almost casually, “How was your night?”
Bea makes a noncommittal sound, halfway between a grunt and a hum, and starts undressing, hoping to avoid any further conversation. She takes off her tights, noticing a tear along the back of one leg —well, there goes another pair—, but stops when she realizes she can’t unzip her dress on her own. Tora must have been watching her, because, without missing a beat, she approaches Bea’s bed with a muttered “Here” and reaches for the zipper.
Every last hair on Bea’s body stands when she feels Tora come up behind her. She can feel Tora’s warmth at her back, the feather-light pressure of her fingers on Bea’s skin electrifying as she moves Bea’s long braid out of the way. Bea swallows thickly when she feels Tora’s breath against the back of her neck. She’s suddenly overwhelmed by the realization of just how much she’s missed this — the intimacy of a quiet morning in their bedroom, the proximity of her body to Bea’s own… Bea has missed Tora more than she ever thought it was possible to miss someone —especially someone you live with — and, against her better judgment, when Tora starts silently unzipping her dress, Bea wishes she could turn around and embrace her, hold her and never let her go again. But Bea has no right to do that, so she merely closes her eyes and lets herself enjoy the feeling of Tora’s hands on her, even if it has to be through a layer of fabric.
All too soon, Tora is done, though it is Bea who pulls away first, muttering a quick “Thanks” and pulling her dress all the way off without turning around. Bea already has her nightgown and toothbrush in hand and is heading for the door when Tora calls her name in a tone just this side of anxious. Bea stops where she stands, taking a deep breath before turning around.
She takes in the sight of Tora, standing in her underwear, hair still dripping, small droplets falling down her face, catching on her full lips, running down the line of her long neck and slowly following the curves of her chest. For a short, awful moment, Bea wants . She wants to take Tora in her arms, wants to take her to bed and follow the path of those droplets with her lips until there isn’t a part of Tora’s body that doesn’t remember Bea’s mouth. But then her eyes catch the tell-tale rosy color of still-healing skin, and it’s all Bea can do to avoid physically recoiling at the sight. Instead, she raises her chin and meets Tora’s eyes for the first time in days.
Bea knows she is lost the moment Tora’s gaze catcher hers — she can’t keep running away from Tora, and she definitely can’t flee when those beautiful sky blue eyes are staring at her with so much emotion in them. Even if her face won’t show it, with that small smile still in place, Tora’s eyes look pleading. Bea can’t leave now, and right now she’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
“Can you help me with the lotion? It’s a little hard for me to do my back.” Her barely-there accent is sweet as honey, and Bea finds herself nodding before she can think better of it. “Thank you,” Tora says, and hands Bea a bottle before sitting at the foot of Bea’s bed.
Bea hesitates for a second, stuck in place, but eventually reacts when Tora looks at her, questioning. Without a word, Bea takes a seat behind Tora on the bed. She stares at the tube — burn cream — and shakes her head, taking a deep breath and bracing herself. She squirts a bit of the lotion on her palm, covers both her hands in it before laying them on Tora's back. Tora gasps, a small hitch of breath, quiet but not enough for Bea not to notice; she immediately takes her hands away.
“Did I hurt you?” Bea asks, and she wishes the question didn’t sound so loaded. So desperate.
Tora looks at her over her shoulder, waits until Bea meets her eyes to say, “It doesn’t hurt, it’s just a bit cold, I never expect it.”
Another time, Bea might have teased her — an ice goddess jumping at cold cream?— but now she just nods curtly and gets back to work, lets her hands warm up the lotion minimally and drinks in the sound of relief Tora makes. As she moves hands over Tora’s back, spreading the lotion and warmth over the skin, Bea closes her eyes, and she can almost ignore the memory of the damaged tissue and instead enjoy the contact, the feeling of Tora’s pliant muscles under her attentive fingers. Even after there is no more ointment to apply on Tora’s back, Bea keeps massaging the skin, she lets her warmth wash over the muscles and untangle any knots there might be. She listens to every little sound of pleasure Tora makes and lets Tora’s airy sighs convince her that she is not hurting her.
But before long they reach a point where Bea can’t realistically keep going without giving away her yearning for Tora’s contact, so she drops her hands to her lap.
“Thanks,” Tora says, voice low, as if she, too, realizes just how intimate, how delicate, this moment is.
Tora makes to get up, but Bea stops her with a gentle hand on her arm. Their eyes meet again, and, without a word, Tora sits back down, this time closer to Bea, who rearranges herself on the bed and ends up circling her arms around Tora, her chest flush to Tora’s back. Bea carefully squirts more lotion directly on Tora’s arm, and with light and tender movements starts spreading it over the wounded skin. She watches light red and dark purple get covered by a thin layer of white as her hand moves, before returning to their original tones but shining slightly. Bea caresses Tora’s skin, feels her own heart skip a beat when her hand aligns perfectly with one of the wounds on Tora’s wrist.
Bea breathes in deeply and holds for what feels like an eternity before exhaling shakily. In what she hopes is a steady voice, she asks, “Does it hurt?”
She feels Tora shift a bit, and then Tora’s back is fully resting on Bea’s chest and Tora’s looking up at her. “No. It doesn’t hurt, Bea.”
Tora looks down at where Bea is holding her wrist, and, as Bea follows her gaze, Tora moves her hand so that it is her who’s holding Bea’s wrist. She strokes Bea’s tan skin with her thumb a couple of times before slowly intertwining her fingers with Bea’s. Bea’s throat closes up —thankfully before a ragged, broken sound can make it out— and she can feel her eyes start to water again.
“Beatriz.”
Bea drops her head forward, defeated. She rests her forehead against Tora’s shoulder, focuses on the warmth of Tora’s skin against hers, lets the fresh scent of Tora’s conditioner embrace her.
“ P or favor, perdoa-me. ” Bea whispers, hiding her face in Tora’s neck. She feels the tears running down her cheeks, and she considers pulling away, worried about her mascara running on Tora’s skin. But she’s been craving this closeness for so long, forcing herself to avoid it no matter what; she can’t stand the thought of letting Tora go now that she finally has her in her arms again. “I’m sorry, Tora. I’m so sorry.”
“Bea—” Tora starts, voice soothing, thumb stroking Bea’s own, but Bea cuts her off.
“No, Tora. Please. I… I’m sorry. I couldn’t— I didn’t—” Bea takes a deep breath, nuzzles the place where Tora’s neck meets her shoulder before seeking out Tora’s eyes. “Look at yourself, Tora.” She gestures vaguely. “I did this to you. I know ,” Bea quickly adds when Tora opens her mouth to interrupt, “I wasn’t in my right mind and I wasn’t in control. But it was still me. I remember doing it. I can’t even look at you without remembering it.”
“Beatriz, look at me,” Tora says, and Bea realizes she had looked away at some point. She looks at Tora’s face, sees the barely repressed emotion in her ice-blue eyes. “I can understand that. I do. But pushing me away won’t make you feel better, and I think you know that. Look at me — I’m fine.”
“I don’t think that’s—”
“Bea. I’m fine. We’re fine. I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”
Bea wants to argue, to point out that half of Tora’s body is still covered in burn marks, but deep down she knows Tora is right — these past few days have been some of the most miserable of Bea’s life, she can’t go back to avoiding Tora, especially not now that she has held her in her arms again, felt her snow-white hair tickle her cheek, stared into eyes a blue so pure Bea has never seen it anywhere else. So she just nods, trying to blink away the tears.
“Yeah. I know.”
Tora nods, too, her smile becoming wider. She twists on the bed until she’s facing Bea, takes her face in her hands. “Good.” She wipes Bea’s tears away with her thumbs, cradling her face delicately. “Now rest.”
Bea reaches for her nightdress again. She hesitates for a second when Tora gets up, but then decides that she might as well just ask.
“Can you…” Bea clears her throat and tries again. “Can you stay a while?”
Tora’s face lights up, and she gives Bea a small nod. She approaches the bed again, shedding her bra on the way. After Bea’s changed into her nightgown, she holds the comforter up in invitation, and Tora gets under the sheets with her. Immediately, Bea’s arms are around her, squeezing her close.
“I’m sorry.” Bea’s voice sounds muffled where she’s buried her face against Tora’s chest.
Tora pets her hair tenderly, briefly pressing her lips to the crown of Bea’s head. “I know. I forgive you.”
Bea makes a small sound, and there’s a couple of seconds where Tora thinks she might start crying again. Instead, Bea cuddles even closer to her. Tora rests her chin on top of Bea’s head and continues running her fingers through her hair.
In the quiet of their bedroom, Tora throws an arm over Bea, resting a hand on her hip bone. Bea hugs Tora closer to herself, and holds on for dear life.