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Ava has had her share of bad decisions in the short period of time in which she has been able to do anything at all, and it seems coming here has made it into that list. Don’t get her wrong, it’s not like she regrets it. Au contraire: her second thoughts refer to self control being evidently deceptive. All the people around are morphed into a blur, the music and chatter serving as white noise. Even as the lights flash and bounce intermittently, her gaze lays upon one individual among the crowd, like a moth drawn to a flame.
If she’s honest with herself, she’s a mess right now: frozen in place, mouth agape, heart racing, anxiety blooming in her chest, and maybe — that being an understatement — something else along with it. Ava can’t help but realize she fucked up.
Beatrice is right there, barely two meters away. Her hair is down, swaying with her clumsy but genuine dancing. Short sleeves partially rolled, her hoodie discarded when the shots started warming both of them up. Sunkissed skin, haircut astonishingly flawless for someone who cut it herself. Every now and then, a smile punches Ava in the gut, just to make this even more ruthless than it has to be. Beatrice looks stunning. She wants to fucking kiss her.
Although Beatrice looking great isn’t a revelation, this Bea is a rare sight. She isn’t on duty, her guard isn’t up, no fighting demons, no church. She’s just herself. She’s who Ava gets to witness for the couple minutes after she wakes up, or when Ava has a particularly bad day and Bea talks her through it in her arms, or even the Bea who jokes and snickers with her. Purely Beatrice, bare, hers.
Ava now comprehends why Mary called her out about when she thought she was in love with JC. She wasn’t. She’s sure of it now, seeing as whatever she felt for JC simply couldn’t compare to this, and as much as she wants to blame it on the alcohol, she can’t. Ava isn’t remarkably great at being certain about things, but she’s definite about Bea.
What she can blame on the alcohol, though, besides her vision slightly doubled, is how her breath stutters and her heartbeat skips as Beatrice strolls back towards her, and once more, smiles. Should she be doing this on purpose, Ava would call her a sadist — but truly, it’s just really so bad for her she feels like a Victorian man seeing ankles.
Ava looks up a little to meet the girl’s eyes. Beatrice speaks first, thank god. It’s not like the halo-bearer has any words left in her, all of the pages of Ava’s personal dictionary erased one by one with each passing second she spent ogling a nun.
— How would you appraise my first time being drunk? — Beatrice combs her fingers through her hair, because she hates Ava, giggling. Of course, the blonde has to chuckle as well, because Beatrice this happy does wonders to her mood.
— Adequate — she concludes, shrugging, not even noting how Beatrice's vocabulary has been rubbing on her, slowly but surely. The shorter girl isn’t sure how far gone Beatrice is, but it is enough for her to react more easily, it appears. Bea laughs a bit harder, drifting in, and putting her hand on Ava’s neck — god forbid her thoughts —, probably gesticulating. She guesses or something, because, fuck, she isn’t sure of anything at this time. Especially not when Bea tips to place her forehead against hers and Ava lets her arms snake around her waist.
Their amusement dies down, though both are still panting. There’s a grin seemingly plastered on Beatrice’s face. Ava, on the other hand, can only stare at the woman’s lips: so close, so easy to reach, whatever they have going on so fragile, on the edge of being ruined by either the best or worst decision Ava could make.
Her resolve shatters to atoms when Beatrice seems to catch up with Ava’s expression. She’s puzzled for the grand total of two seconds, then her frown melts into fondness, and Ava does not want to dig into how that sparks a light of hope, alright? It is then that Ava decides that she’s actually desperate, and she will very seriously cry if she doesn’t get to have Bea’s lips on hers right now, or better yet, yesterday.
She closes the gap between her and Bea impulsively, afraid that if she leaned in slowly, like the average person would, she’d end up running away herself. Alternatively, she’s terrified of this being merely her imagination tricking her, and those two seconds would be enough time to wake up. On an even worse theory: this could all be true and Bea will curb stomp her in rage when she realizes what Ava just did, because, yes, this was very shocking and she will need to process this before beating her up. Ava is sure she might be on the way to a cardiac arrest, pushing herself through anxiety, tears threatening to fall from her eyes and onto Bea’s face.
Her theories are proven wrong, though. Opposing the worst case scenarios, Beatrice simply kisses her back, and her mind shuts up. Tears may still want to make an appearance, though, because she’s pathetic like that.
It’s better than whatever daydream she’s had. Lips soft in contrast to calloused hands, the slide of her lips gentle and caring, countering her stoic self. She can't let this kiss stay this calm, giving her room to melt into the illusion that Bea wants her the same way she does. Ava presses in, hands grip Bea's waist, needing to be as close as she can, brows furrowed in something she could describe as determination. The latter retributes the gesture by fisting the hair on her nape, and that turns her on, embarrassingly so. That's what she needed: for this to go down a route that will muffle the buzzing in her chest, begging her to break the kiss and confess undying love. She can’t. Not here, not drunk. Not without even going on a proper date. Not with a war going on.
However, that intensity starts slowing down after Ava tugs Bea's bottom lip between her teeth. It’s terrifying. Did she go too far? She doesn’t want this moment to end, because what if Bea looks at her with resentment as soon as they part? What if she says this is a mistake, turns her back and walks away? Ava struggles not to let another batch of tears flow — she hopes the previous has gone unnoticed. They almost do: Beatrice breaks the kiss, takes a second to breathe and open her eyes, but she doesn’t walk away. She’s right there, her thumb now caressing Ava’s cheek. She looks a little wrecked, panting a bit, her lips now red, parted. They shut to curve slightly upwards, staring down at Ava like she’s the only thing that ever mattered in her life.
Ava is leading herself on. She buries her face on the crook of Bea’s neck and hugs her tightly, lightheaded now, breathing in her cologne to find grounding. This isn’t a foreign position to them. Beatrice knows her protocols well, so she lets one arm hug Ava while the other hand reaches up to scratch her scalp. It’s probably too loud to calm down completely, but this is better than nothing. She doesn’t trust herself to do or say anything.
Beatrice leans towards her ear to whisper:
— Let us go get some water to sober up, then head home. Is that okay?
— Okay — Ava whispers back, nodding along weakly, blinking away the burning in her eyes.
She detaches from Bea, straightening up though refusing to look at her in the face, and lets herself be led back towards the bar, where they pretend nothing ever happened. Her free, careless Bea slowly dissolves now. She watches painfully as she puts her hair back in her signature bun, her face back to its daily tension, eyes dull meaning she is thinking about something. She’s on duty again.
Minutes go by without a single word shared. When it happens, she only asks Ava if she’s well enough to go home. She isn’t, really. But that isn’t what Beatrice is asking. And as it turns out, they didn’t have time to talk through anything. The world needs saving, and they don’t get to just be normal and have normal issues.
Ava would soon find out that maybe that was the right time to confess, because she’d rather do it anywhere other than on her deathbed, anytime other than seconds away from potentially never seeing her lover again, under nearly any circumstance other than not getting to hear Beatrice say she loves her back.