Chapter Text
The Saturday morning sun streamed through the windows of the apartment, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, a stark contrast to the still-fragile atmosphere between Ava and Beatrice. They had agreed, tentatively, to redecorate, to transform the apartment from a battleground of unspoken resentments into a shared sanctuary, a fresh start. But the agreement was just the first step; the actual process loomed before them, a daunting task filled with potential pitfalls and, perhaps, the promise of healing.
"So," Ava said, breaking the silence that had settled over their breakfast of leftover pancakes – a silent acknowledgment of their shared attempt at normalcy – "are we actually doing this? Operation: Repaint the Pain Away?" She attempted a playful tone, but her voice wavered slightly, betraying her underlying nervousness.
Beatrice looked up from her coffee, a small smile playing on her lips. "I believe that's the plan. Unless you've changed your mind and decided to embrace the… 'shabby chic' aesthetic of emotional wreckage?"
Ava laughed, a genuine laugh this time, the sound a little lighter, a little freer than it had been in weeks. "No, I think… I think I'm ready for a change. A… a colorful change." She emphasized the word "colorful," a subtle hint at the impending battle of aesthetics she knew was coming.
Beatrice sighed, a theatrical sigh that was both amused and resigned. "I anticipated this. I have prepared myself for… an onslaught of vibrant hues. Just… promise me we won't end up with a living room that looks like a unicorn exploded."
Ava grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "No promises. But… I'm open to… compromise. Maybe. As long as there's some color. Somewhere. Please?"
The trip to the home improvement store, "Brico Depot," a sprawling warehouse filled with tools, hardware, and endless rows of paint samples, was an experience in itself. It was like entering a different world, a world of practicalities, of tangible solutions, a world far removed from the emotional complexities of their relationship.
Ava gravitated towards the brightest, boldest colors – fiery reds, electric blues, vibrant yellows, colors that screamed life, energy, passion. She envisioned a living room that was a reflection of her artistic soul, a vibrant, dynamic space that would inspire creativity and spark joy.
Beatrice, on the other hand, lingered in the section of muted tones – soft greys, calming blues, gentle greens, colors that evoked a sense of serenity, of peace, of… order. She imagined a living room that was a sanctuary, a calming oasis, a space where she could relax, recharge, and escape the chaos of the outside world.
The clash of styles was immediate, and inevitable.
"Ava, that red looks like a crime scene," Beatrice said, her voice a mixture of horror and amusement, gesturing towards a particularly intense shade of crimson that Ava was holding up to the light.
"It's called 'Passionate Poppy'," Ava retorted, defending her choice. "It's… vibrant. Energetic. It's… us."
Beatrice raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "Us? I don't recall us ever being described as… 'passionate poppies'. More like… 'reserved researchers' and 'messy artists'."
"See? Opposites attract!" Ava said, grinning. "It'll be… a dynamic contrast. A… bold statement."
"It'll be a headache," Beatrice muttered, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice.
They spent the next hour wandering through the aisles, debating colors, textures, and finishes, their conversation a mix of playful banter and serious negotiation. They clashed, they compromised, they argued, they laughed. It was a microcosm of their relationship, a reflection of their differences, but also of their willingness to… try.
They eventually settled on a compromise – a base of a soft, warm grey, a color Beatrice approved of, with accent walls of a deep, muted teal, a color that Ava found surprisingly… calming. They also chose a few brighter accent colors – a splash of yellow, a touch of orange, a hint of purple – for pillows, throws, and other decorative elements, a way to incorporate Ava's love of vibrancy without overwhelming the space.
They bought brushes, rollers, drop cloths, painter's tape, and all the other necessary supplies, their shopping cart overflowing with the tools of their… transformation. It felt… hopeful. Like they were building something new, something together, something that could potentially erase the scars of the past and create a brighter future.
Back at the apartment, they cleared the living room, moving furniture, covering the floor with drop cloths, preparing the space for its metamorphosis. It was a physical act, a tangible representation of the emotional work they were undertaking, a way to clear out the old and make way for the new.
They put on old clothes – Ava in her paint-splattered overalls, Beatrice in a worn-out t-shirt and leggings, a rare glimpse of her in casual attire – and turned on some music, a playlist they'd created together years ago, a mix of their favorite songs, a soundtrack to their shared history.
They started painting, working in silence at first, the only sound the rhythmic swish of their brushes against the walls, the soft strains of the music, the occasional sigh or grunt of effort. It was… meditative, almost therapeutic, the physical act of painting a welcome distraction from the emotional complexities of their situation.
Ava, as expected, was messy, getting paint on her clothes, her hair, even her face. She attacked the walls with a kind of joyful abandon, her movements fluid and energetic, her brushstrokes bold and expressive.
Beatrice, on the other hand, was meticulous, precise, her movements careful and deliberate, her brushstrokes even and controlled. She focused on the details, ensuring that every edge was perfect, every corner clean, every surface smooth.
They worked on opposite walls, their styles contrasting, their approaches different, but their goal the same – to transform the space, to create something new, something… shared.
As they painted, the silence gradually gave way to conversation, hesitant at first, then more relaxed, more natural. They talked about the colors, about the process, about their plans for the room. They talked about their work, about their friends, about… everything except the elephant in the room – their relationship.
But the unspoken emotions were still there, lingering beneath the surface, a constant undercurrent of tension, of uncertainty, of… hope.
At one point, Ava, reaching for a high corner, lost her balance and stumbled, her paint-covered hand landing on Beatrice's arm, leaving a streak of teal across her skin.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" Ava exclaimed, her eyes wide with alarm, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Beatrice looked down at her arm, at the streak of paint, and then up at Ava, her expression unreadable. For a moment, the tension was palpable, the air thick with unspoken emotions.
Then, Beatrice smiled. A genuine smile, a smile that reached her eyes, a smile that made Ava's heart skip a beat.
"It's… fine," she said, her voice soft, a hint of amusement in her tone. "It's just… paint."
She reached for a rag, intending to wipe it off, but Ava stopped her.
"No, wait," Ava said, her voice hesitant, her gaze fixed on Beatrice's arm. "It… it looks kind of… cool."
She reached out and touched the paint, her fingers tracing the streak of teal, her touch gentle, tentative. Her fingers brushed against Beatrice's skin, a light, accidental contact, but it sent a jolt of electricity through both of them.
They froze, their eyes locking, their bodies close, the air between them charged with… something. Desire? Longing? Hope? It was a mixture of all three, a potent cocktail of emotions that left them both breathless.
It was a moment of intense intimacy, a reminder of the connection that still existed between them, a spark of the passion that had once burned so brightly.
But then, Beatrice pulled away, her cheeks flushed, her eyes averted. "We… we should… get back to work," she said, her voice a little unsteady, her composure momentarily disrupted.
Ava nodded, feeling a mixture of disappointment and… relief. The moment had been… intense, overwhelming, a reminder of the powerful attraction that still existed between them, but also of the fear, the uncertainty, the… baggage… that still stood in their way.
They returned to painting, the silence returning, but it was a different kind of silence now. It was a silence filled with unspoken desires, with lingering feelings, with a heightened awareness of each other, with the knowledge that the spark was still there, waiting to be rekindled.
Later, as they were cleaning up, exhausted but satisfied with their progress, Ava stumbled upon a box tucked away in a corner, hidden behind a stack of drop cloths. It was an old, wooden box, its surface worn and scratched, its hinges rusty. She didn't recognize it.
"What's this?" she asked, turning to Beatrice, her curiosity piqued.
Beatrice looked up, her expression a mixture of surprise and… something else. Recognition? Nostalgia? Pain?
"I… I don't know," she said, her voice hesitant. "I haven't seen that box in… years."
They opened the box together, carefully lifting the lid, revealing a collection of… mementos. Objects from their past, relics of their shared history, forgotten treasures that evoked a flood of memories.
There were concert tickets – to a band they'd both loved, a show they'd attended early in their relationship, a night filled with music, laughter, and a shared sense of connection.
There were dried flowers – a small bouquet of wildflowers that Ava had picked for Beatrice on a hike in the mountains, a spontaneous gesture of affection that had become a cherished keepsake.
There were photographs – pictures of them together, laughing, smiling, their faces filled with the joy of their love, images that captured the essence of their relationship, the moments that had defined them.
And there was a small, folded piece of paper, a poem that Ava had written for Beatrice, a silly, rhyming verse that expressed her love in a playful, lighthearted way. Ava remembered writing it, pouring her heart out onto the page, trying to capture the magic of their connection, the joy she felt in Beatrice's presence.
They sat down on the floor, surrounded by the mementos, their past spread out before them like a map, a visual representation of their journey together. They picked up the objects, one by one, examining them, sharing memories, reminiscing about the moments they represented.
"Remember this?" Ava said, holding up the concert tickets, a small smile playing on her lips. "You spilled beer all over your shirt, and we had to go back to the apartment to change. And then… we didn't… make it back to the concert."
Beatrice blushed, a delicate pink coloring her cheeks. "I remember," she said, her voice soft, a hint of nostalgia in her tone. "It was… a good night."
They laughed, a shared laughter that echoed in the room, a reminder of the joy they'd once shared, a glimmer of hope for the future.
But then, Ava picked up a photograph, a picture of them at the beach, their arms around each other, their faces radiant with happiness. The laughter faded, replaced by a wave of sadness, a reminder of what they'd lost.
"I miss this," Ava said, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes filled with tears. "I miss… us."
Beatrice reached out and took Ava's hand, her touch gentle, reassuring. "I know," she said, her voice equally soft, her own eyes mirroring Ava's sadness. "Me too."
They sat there for a long time, surrounded by the remnants of their past, their hands clasped together, their silence filled with unspoken emotions, with shared memories, with a lingering, undeniable connection. It was a moment of both tears and laughter, of sadness and hope, of pain and… healing. It was a reminder of what they'd had, of what they'd lost, and of what they… might… still find again.
That night, after Ava had gone to bed, Beatrice lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. The day had been… intense. Emotionally draining, physically exhausting, but also… surprisingly… positive. The painting, the shared memories, the moment of intimacy, the conversation – it had all brought them closer, rekindling a spark of hope, a glimmer of possibility.
But she couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the sense of… dread… that had been lingering since she'd accepted Jillian's job offer. The more she learned about the project, the more disturbed she became, the more she realized that she'd made a terrible mistake.
She got out of bed, unable to sleep, her mind plagued by anxieties, by fears, by… nightmares. She walked over to her desk, turning on her laptop, the screen illuminating her face with a pale, cold glow.
She opened the document that Jillian had sent her, the one detailing the… artifact… and its connection to Ava's family history. She stared at the photograph of the pendant, a halo with with distinctly familiar markings, the image burned into her memory.
She felt a wave of nausea wash over her, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had to protect Ava. She had to… stop Jillian. She had to… get out.
She was caught in a web, a tangled mess of secrets, lies, and… danger. But Jillian had her, had leverage over her. She signed a contract and an NDA, she was trapped.
She closed her laptop, her hands trembling, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt… helpless. Hopeless. Terrified.
She went to the window, staring out at the city lights, the glittering cityscape a blur through her tear-filled eyes. She wished she could go back in time, undo her mistakes, erase the pain, reclaim the love she'd lost.
But she couldn't. All she could do was… try. Try to protect Ava. Try to stop Jillian. Try to… survive.
As she stood there, staring out at the darkness, a nightmare began to form in her mind, a terrifying vision of what the future might hold.
She saw Ava, strapped to a cold, stone altar, surrounded by hooded figures, their faces hidden in shadow. She saw Jillian, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light, chanting in a strange, ancient language. She saw the necklace with the halo pendant with with distinctly familiar markings, glowing with a malevolent energy.
She saw Ava screaming, her body writhing in pain, her eyes filled with terror. She saw herself, trying to reach Ava, trying to save her, but she was held back, restrained by unseen forces.
It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. But it felt so… real. So… vivid. So… terrifying.
She woke up with a start, her body covered in a cold sweat, her heart pounding in her chest, the images from the nightmare still vivid in her mind. She lay in bed, trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the fear consuming her.
It wasn't just a nightmare. It was a warning. A premonition. A glimpse of the… danger… that awaited them. And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that she had to do everything in her power to prevent it from becoming a reality. She had to act, she had to be brave, even if it was the last thing she could possibly do.
She couldn't let Jillian hurt Ava, she could not live with herself.