Chapter Text
The warmth of the sun against her cheeks and eyelids slowly wakes Beatrice. She shifts on the bed and feels the cool sheets on her bare feet, as well as the empty space on the bed next to her.
That’s what yanks her awake. Sleepiness vanishes in a split second and her heart rate spikes, worry furrowing her brows as she rips the sheets off.
Ava. Where’s Ava?
As if hearing her internal panic, Beatrice hears Ava's voice—a muttered shit!—and only then does the burning smell of something registers. Confused, Beatrice pads quietly to the kitchen—just a few steps from their shared bed, really—and finds Ava busying herself with… frankly, a mess.
“What are you doing?”
Ava screams. The kitchen drowns in the Halo’s divine light for a moment as the Warrior Nun drops something to the floor, metal clattering against hardwood.
“Jesus, Bea,” Ava whines, then glares at Beatrice. “Don’t scare me like that.” She huffs, picks up what Beatrice realizes now is a spoon, and dumps it in the sink already occupied by several bowls.
Beatrice offers an apologetic smile as she walks closer, her hands busying themselves with straightening her sleep shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” Ava echoes with a resigned sigh, then cringes. “Did the burning wake you?”
The cold of the bed did. Worrying about you did. Neither of which seemed like acceptable answers. “The cursing, really,” Beatrice settles with. “On Sunday, of all days?”
Ava shrugs. She takes another spoon, then makes a panicked sound and another shit—quickly followed by a sorry and a glance at Beatrice—when she turns to the pan currently on the stove, already smoking. With another sigh, she turns off the fire and pouts over at Beatrice.
“I wanted to make you breakfast,” Ava says, and it’s different from her usual loud, proud lamentations. Like she’s actually embarrassed. She shrugs. “We’ve been in Switzerland a week and all I’ve done to contribute to this apartment is…” She gives a glance at the kitchen and helplessly waves her arms. “Well. This.”
Beatrice turns to the mess on the kitchen table. A wide open bag of what she assumes is all-purpose flour rests against a tray of eggs, dusted with white. The coffee pot runs, the liquid too dark for Beatrice’s taste, which definitely means Ava’s, too. There are two plates with eggs—sunny-side up for Beatrice and scrambled for Ava, both with signs of burning, too—on the side where they usually eat, mugs and the jars of creamer and sugar next to them along with the bottle of maple syrup. A halfway decent attempt, from the looks of it, except for the burnt pancakes still on the pan.
The effort itself surprises Beatrice. It’s not like they’ve discussed the division of chores between the two of them when they ran away to the alps to hide from—prepare for—Adriel. Beatrice fully expected Ava to focus on training, whether that was using the Halo or learning her German just so they could blend in easier in town. Beatrice had been the one focused on taking care of other things, taking care of Ava, mostly because it came more naturally to her, raised for years as a daughter meant to be married off to a nice, young man.
But Ava trying unravels something in her, nudges her to an unfamiliar territory of the keeper being taken care of, but it’s something she pushes to the back of her mind. Not the time nor the place to indulge in such thoughts, not with a war looming.
“Burning breakfast isn’t the end of the world,” Beatrice assures with a smile. “I appreciate you for trying.” She steps closer to Ava and gives her shoulder a squeeze, before taking the pan and dumping the burnt pancake in the trash.
“You’d think making breakfast is easier than fighting demons,” Ava mutters.
Beatrice chuckles as she rinses the char from the pan. “Good thing the key to defeating Adriel isn’t with your cooking.”
“Ouch.” Ava pouts again. “I just want to take care of you for once.”
That makes Beatrice pause. She continues with her task even if she forgets to breathe, even if Ava doesn’t seem to realize the weight of her own words as she clips the bag of flour shut and moves the tray of eggs to the counter. When she turns to look at Beatrice, there’s eagerness in her brown eyes, appearing more golden in the light of the early morning sun. Sometimes, Beatrice forgets how young she’s supposed to be. How much of life she’s yet to live, but here she is, tethered by responsibility. “Maybe you could… teach me to cook? Or at least, not burn things.”
“Alright,” Beatrice says when she remembers how to breathe again.
Ava beams, her smile brighter than the daylight—or was that the Halo as well?—and sweeps Beatrice into a hug. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but a part of Beatrice aches.
“You’re the best, Bea.”
“You don’t have to butter me up anymore. I already agreed.” She tries to wriggle away from the hug if only so she could calm her racing heart. She gestures to the bowl of pancake batter, then eyes the plates on the table and the tray of eggs, already almost empty. “How many eggs did you use?”
“Uh.” Ava cringes and slowly peels herself away from Beatrice. “I’m… Not sure.”
Beatrice sighs. Ava only grins, puppy eyes and all.
“Well,” Beatrice relents. “We’re due to pick up groceries and mail anyway.”