Chapter Text
Summer winds to a close later than normal, the heat and humidity stretching lazily through August and September and into the early edges of October. Beatrice normally loathes summer, in any city but in New York in particular— kitchens are hot enough already, small ones even more so with all the bodies crammed into them, and the addition of sweltering sticky weather and the uniquely pungent smell of New York in the heat makes it all so much worse—but the heat takes on a new appeal this year. Days when Beatrice would normally trade her morning run for the treadmill in her building's gym to avoid the heat instead find her following Ava around the city, hands tangled as Ava bounces them excitedly from event to exhibition to pop-up, and the heat may still be miserable, but Beatrice is learning more and more about herself in this situation with Ava and beyond being someone who wants, she's apparently also someone who can enjoy being dragged to a produce stand in Flatbush for the sole purpose of buying up six pounds of mangosteen if Ava's the one dragging her.
The first real break in the heat hits, a crisp morning that Beatrice would normally revel in, and she comes back from her run to Ava's— she has clothes here, now, enough to manage a few days at a time without going home; Ava has just as many at her place, a comforting mix of ratty t-shirts and patched shorts and converse high-tops— with a flush in her cheeks that has more to do with the temperature than the exertion, and finds Ava burrowed under the blankets in her bed.
"Close the door," Ava yelps with a whine when Beatrice comes in, and Beatrice laughs at the way her distress sounds through the music in her headphones. She closes the door obediently, crouches to untie her shoes, and is just sitting them to the side of the door where there's now a jumble of both of their shoes living when Ava lets out a strangled shriek from the bedroom.
Beatrice lunges without thinking, crashing into the bedroom in wide-eyed panic in two long strides, already ready to take on—
—Ava has launched to her feet in the bed, standing there in a t-shirt and underwear, hair sprawled around her shoulders messily, an exuberant grin on her face as she stares down at her phone.
"What—" Beatrice cuts off with a yelp of her own when Ava launches off the bed and straight into her arms, wrapping around her like a koala. "Ava!"
"Bea!" Ava yells, and pulls back just enough to smack a wet kiss against Beatrice's stunned mouth.
"What in the world—"
Ava squirms in her arms, legs locked tight but body nearly falling anyways when she lets go of her hold around Beatrice's shoulders, and Beatrice grabs onto her with alarm just as Ava shoves her phone into her face. "Look!"
Beatrice steadies Ava with one hand firm at her back, and herself with a hand on the wall, and squints at the phone that's far too close to her eyes to be actually readable. Ava's still squirming, the way she does when she's excited and has too much energy to contain, and it's hard enough to keep them both from falling without also trying to read the screen that's bobbing in front of her face.
"What if you just told me?" Beatrice says, swallowing a sigh and giving up on the phone, straightening her stance so she can hold Ava more effectively.
"Inspector!" Ava crows. She flings her phone onto the bed behind her and wraps her arms around Beatrice's shoulders, kisses her so soundly that Beatrice nearly forgets entirely that they're meant to be talking.
"What?"
"Jillian has a friend whose husband is a— it doesn't matter— never mind that—"
"Of course," Beatrice says drily. Ava ignores her and presses her hands to Beatrice's cheeks, squishing her face almost painfully as she holds her head in place.
"There's a Michelin inspector coming to the restaurant," Ava says. "Next week."
Beatrice nearly drops Ava. She scrambles to keep them both upright when Ava yelps in alarm, more on instinct than with any coherent thought, because she's worked in some of the most lauded restaurants in the world, has earned Michelin stars in her own right— the restaurant already has a star— but she's never had advance warning.
"What?" she says slowly. She shifts in Ava's impatient hold and moves to set her down, moving carefully aroudn the sudden bubble of discomfort in her chest. "How—"
"I told you, Jillian knows someone who knows someone who spilled the beans." Ava waves one hand dismissively, dives back into the blankets to retrieve her phone. "I don't know who, obviously, or when specifically, but next week. Next week!"
"That's—" Beatrice cuts off, drags a hand over her face. Michelin inspectors' identities and schedules are closely guarded secrets, for obvious reasons; she's never heard of anyone getting advance notice, even for a range of time, of one of them coming to their restaurant. "How— we should—"
"I know!" Ava's beaming as she resurfaces with her phone triumphantly. She bounces back over to Beatrice, kisses her as she stands there dumbstruck and unmoving, and sprints into the shower. "We gotta go, I have to talk to Mary about—"
Ava's voice vanishes into the sound of the pipes and the shower, all of it coalescing into a distant hum in Beatrice's ears. She stands planted in place in Ava's bedroom, sweat still cooling on her skin from her run, uncertainty swirling through her, and suddenly Ava's back in front of her wrapped in a towel with wet hair, cheeks flushed from the hot water.
"Bea?" Ava frowns, presses a hand to her cheek. Her palm is damp from the shower still, warm and comforting, and Beatrice's eyes slip shut without her permission, head tilting into Ava's touch. "You okay?"
"Of course," Beatrice says without meaning to. She bites down on her tongue as if it'll bite the words back, frowns when it gets her nothing but a sharp slip of pain. "I just—"
"What's wrong?" Ava's exuberance is entirely gone, her forehead creasing with concern, and she tugs at Beatrice's hand, maneuvers them around in the small amount of floor space until she can sit Beatrice down on the edge of the bed. Beatrice would normally protest outside clothes on the bed, but there's a block of discomfort in her chest that she can't explain, something heavy and uncertain, different from panic in a way that she doesn't know how to explain.
"I don't know," Beatrice says slowly. Ava sits next to her, water dripping off the ends of her hair and onto Beatrice's arm. It's grounding, almost, an unsteady drip-drip-drip against her skin that demands her attention instead of the brick lodged behind her sternum.
"Is it the inspector?" Ava's good at this, good at handling Beatrice's panic, but it doesn't soothe her the way it normally does, and the difference pings uncomfortably in the back of Beatrice's head. "I know it's intimidating knowing they're going to be here, it's scaring the shit out of me too, but we got this, you know?" She winds her fingers between Beatrice's, familiar and grounding, and drags their hands up so she can press a kiss to Beatrice's knuckles.
"Yeah," Beatrice breathes out, blinking through her uncertainty. "It's just— intimidating."
It's not, something insists in the back of her head. It's not intimidating. She's always known that there would be restaurant critics and reviewers flocking to the restaurant; they were written up in the New York Times and Zagat alike in the last few months, not for the first time in either, and Ava had already earned a Michelin star the year before anyways. Beatrice had started at Silva Platta knowing that it would always be a magnet for the attention of the industry. It's not intimidation, but she doesn't know what it is, necessarily, that's so uncomfortable about the whole situation.
"It's gonna be fine," Ava says, reassuring and oblivious, and a different discomfort twists in Beatrice's stomach. "What's the worst that can happen? We don't get another star. Whatever. We're awesome, the restaurant is awesome. That's what matters."
"Right," Beatrice says in spite of herself. She pushes a smile onto her face, and tells herself she's imagining it when Ava's own smile flickers for a microsecond. "Exactly."
The moment vanishes and Ava is exuberant again, pressing another kiss to Beatrice's hand and bouncing off the bed, talking rapidly about getting to Mary's early. Beatrice follows, takes her own shower, offers her own interjections to Ava's ramble. The discomfort in her chest lingers, and she ignores it as best she can.
They don't tell the rest of the staff. It's not a question either of them entertains— they aren't supposed to know in the first place, and the anxiety it will cause is unfair to foist on the rest of them— and while it's unequivocally the right choice, it adds to the weight of the whole thing, leaves Beatrice feeling overstretched and brittle. She makes it three days before a crack surfaces: four days until the first likely date the inspector could be there, close enough to feel real but far enough out to stretch her thin.
It's nothing particularly problematic. One of her staff crystallizes caramel twice in a row, and where Beatrice has always gone out of her way to be the type of chef who holds her patience with her staff, something snaps and she maneuvers him and his ruined caramel away from the stovetop.
"I'll do it," she says shortly, too loud, too sharp, and the bustle around them quiets for a split second. She ignores the way Chanel's rapidfire chopping silences behind her as she dumps sugar into a pan. Movement and sound pick up again as she glares down at the sugar and does her best to ignore the uncertain cook at her side, holding a pan of ruined caramel and looking devastated.
"I'm sorry," she says. She doesn't look away from the caramel. "I— you've done nothing wrong." She sucks in a deep breath and straightens her back, her neck, settles her shoulders; he's still frozen at her side, and she steps away from the stovetop, takes the pan from his hand. "You're fine. You've got this."
She offers what is hopefully a sufficiently reassuring smile but in reality feels more like a strained grimace, and takes the pan to the dishwashing station to hand it off, and slips into her office. The door shuts with a quiet click and she drops her forehead against it, breathes in deep and holds the air in her chest until the ache in her lungs overwhelms the block of discomfort that's been sitting in her chest for days.
Her fingers twitch against the door handle. She needs to be out there, with her staff, with Ava. They have a full house and it's hectic and they don't have the capacity to be down a chef. She needs to hold herself together, hold herself in check; needs to shove this uncertainty away like she's done her whole life and carry on, needs to move forward, needs to settle.
Instead, she counts down from a hundred in her head. One hand clenches at the doorknob and fingertips on the others drum against her palm. She makes it to eighty and pauses, breathes, prods at the uncertainty with an analytical distance: she considers the stress of failing to get another Michelin star, and waits to see if it worsens.
It doesn't, and she counts down again. Sixty, and she thinks of the guilt at having advance warning that thousands of people in her shoes would kill for; a twinge, but barely. The restaurant business is cruel and cutthroat and there's a likely a thriving black market of information about restaurant inspectors.
Forty: failing Ava, failing the staff, forgetting how to make a puff pastry, somehow managing to screw up so spectacularly that not only do they not get another star but she gets the whole restaurant shut down. Another twinge, but mild: she's good, and she knows that she's good, and their staff is incredible and Ava is a force.
Twenty: Ava.
She pauses in her assessment, and her hand clenches around the doorknob unexpectedly, her eyes fluttering open.
It's Ava. The ache in her chest, the uncertainty, the fear: it's Ava. Beautiful, brilliant, prodigy Ava, who makes everything in Beatrice's life warmer and brighter and calmer. Wild, genius, terrifying Ava, who tackles everything head-on without hesitation, bold and unafraid and always ready to break the rules. Ava, who's been chattering for three days nonstop about trying new and interesting and unexpected things for the inspector, who's been experimenting with brand new dishes for hours each night after the restaurant closes. She spent months convincing Ava that it was crucial even on the day-to-day to maintain consistency and to stick with menu plans. Now there's a Michelin inspector on the horizon, the most prestigious possible honor available to a restaurant on the line, and Ava is burning with excitement.
It's Ava that's scaring her.
Nausea twists in her stomach, and Beatrice drops her head against the door.
She makes it through the rest of the night without incident. Ava catches her eye when she emerges from her office, eyebrows raised in silent question even as she doesn't hesitate in sauteeing a hoard of vegetables; Beatrice smiles as calmly as she can and nods, returns to check on the caramel. It's perfect this time, and the smile feels genuine when she nods approvingly at it. She pretends not to notice the way the rest of the staff side-eye her on and off throughout the night, and does her best to be open and approachable, to keep her voice even and calm and warm when she talks. They plate food and send it out, and the hours pass, and another successful night closes out and ends with the rest of the staff emptying out per usual.
There's a discussion incoming, Ava unsubtle as always in her concern, but they've been together— as coworkers, as friends, as whatever it is they are now, spending nights in one another's beds and mornings skipping out on workouts or extra sleep to spend more lazy time together— long enough that she won't say anything until there's no audience. Beatrice keeps her head down and focuses on making her preparations for tomorrow, on tidying away her work, on cleaning the countertops and then cleaning them again.
"Bea," Ava says cautiously. Beatrice doesn't look up from where she's scrubbing at a spot on the counter where Chanel prefers to work. It's not dirty, the flashes of dark on the steel dents from Chanel's knife, but she keeps at it anyways. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Beatrice says, a lie she knows Ava can see plainly. She doesn't know how to handle the fact that Ava— Ava who she wants to spend every minute with, Ava who has only ever been patient with her, Ava who has picked her way through every barrier Beatrice didn't know she'd constructed until she can burrow her way into Beatrice's life inextricably— is the reason she's been so uncomfortable for days. She trusts Ava with her life, with her body, with her heart and her anxiety and her uncertainty; at this point, there's no arguing otherwise. She trusts Ava with herself, but she doesn't know if she trusts Ava to handle this in a reasonable manner.
"You snapped at Jake," Ava points out. Her hands are shoved in her pockets, stiff in the way she is when she's uncertain, and Beatrice wants to apologize, wants to kiss her and hold onto her and apologize—for snapping at Jake, for putting the whole kitchen on edge, for not trusting her— but it all sticks in her throat.
"I apologized," is all she ends up saying.
"You don't snap at people," Ava says, pushing gently like always. "What's wrong? Is this about the Michelin—"
"No," Beatrice says over her, and winces immediately. "Yes. I don't know." The words sit heavy in her chest— I think you're doing this wrong, we should stick with what we know works, I think you're going to lose your shot at a second star— sticky and aching, unwavering, unable to make it out past her teeth. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize," Ava mutters. "You're—Jesus, Bea, everyone has an off day, it's fine. Nobody cares. You were a dick, you apologized, Jake is fine. But whatever it is—"
"I'm fine," Beatrice says without meaning to. Decades of habit, cold and unwavering, lock down in her chest. She won't make a fuss, won't make a mess, won't cause a problem. She turns to face Ava— bright beautiful Ava, the best thing Beatrice has ever held in her two hands—and swallows the ache the claws at the back of the habitual need to be quiet and calm and out of the way. "I think I just need sleep."
It's a pathetic excuse, a useless lie, and Ava's jaw clenches visibly from the other side of the kitchen. This small space, where Beatrice has had to relearn how to work without bumping elbows with people, has never felt so cavernous.
"Right," Ava says thinly. "Okay."
It jabs at Beatrice, the way Ava closes in on herself. Shoulder curling inwards, mouth turning down, eyebrows crushing in towards one another. Beatrice's fingers itch to reach for her, to touch and hold and have; she shoves them into her own pockets. Months of easing, of opening, of learning who she might have always been now that she's tangled up in someone so unrestrained and open, vanish into the clench of Ava's jaw, and Beatrice swallows and bites down on the inside of her cheek.
"I think I'm gonna just stay down here tonight," Ava says, light as anything, in direct contrast to the visibly heavy weight to her shoulders. "I wanna be early to Mary's tomorrow. She's got some— yeah." She shrugs, nods, shrugs again. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Ava—" Beatrice starts and then jerks back when nothing else comes out. She wants, she wants, but she doesn't know what it is she wants, and it catches in her throat because she wants to burst out with what's bothering her, wants to swallow it and never say anything that would ever hurt Ava, wants to touch and wants to run and wants and want and wants and doesn't know which one matters most. "Okay."
"Cool." Ava nods once more, presses her lips into a thin line. Visibly tries and fails to smile. "Lock up when you go, yeah? Later, babe."
She's out the door before Beatrice manages to open her mouth to even say something, and Beatrice is left alone.
The subway ride uptown has never felt quit so long, her apartment quite so big, her bed quite so empty.
There's a text waiting for her when she wakes up, timestamped at 5:34 that morning.
Heading to M's. Will handle the markets today. See you at work
No emojis, no exclamation points. Nothing of how Ava usually communicates, boisterous and charming and bright. Beatrice stares at it for long moments and drops her phone onto her chest. She considers texting Lilith, who will tell her she's being an idiot. Camila, will tell her that everything will be fine and she just needs to be honest with Ava. Chanel, who will threaten her with violence until she apologizes to Ava.
She groans and drops an arm over her eyes. She should get up, should go for her run, should be a responsible adult and eat breakfast and go to work and talk to her— her friend, her partner, her girlfriend, her coworker? Her Ava—and calmly explain her concerns and why they've made her uncomfortable, and find a resolution for it all.
Instead, she resets her alarm for three hours later and rolls over. Fuck running. Fuck breakfast. Fuck dealing with any of it. If Ava wants to shut down and push her away and handle the markets by herself, that's her problem.
The thought's barely coalesced before she's groaned and shoved herself upright. Ava didn't start this. It's not Ava's fault that Beatrice is a shitshow with the communicative capabilities of a grapefruit. Sure, Ava's her own type of shitshow, but she's always owned it, always been open about it. Beatrice knew what she was getting into when she joined the kitchen, and when she started whatever all this is with Ava.
"Fuck," she mutters into her empty bedroom. She glances at the time and stomps out of bed. If Ava was already heading to Mary's at 5:30 she'll be at the markets already, and it'll take Beatrice at least an hour to get there.
She climbs out of bed with sharp movements, angry at herself and angry at Ava and angry at Jillian's friend's husband whoever-the-hell who started this whole thing. Her jaw aches with the grind of her teeth against one another, but she manages to dress and make herself coffee and force herself to eat a banana, and then she's out the door and heading downtown to find Ava.
Ava's hauling way too much—bags of produce, what looks like an absurd amount of pork shoulder, possible a gallon of kimchi— when Beatrice catches sight of her. She pauses on the sidewalk, unaware that Beatrice can see her, and shifts the bags on her shoulders, grimaces, stretches her back, and Beatrice uproots from her spot up the block and hurries after her.
"Here," she says as she comes up alongside Ava, hands already reaching for some of the bags. "Let me."
"What the— oh." Ava stiffens, but she doesn't stop Beatrice from claiming some of the load. "Thanks."
"Of course," Beatrice says softly. "Are you okay?"
"Sure," Ava says, automatic and too fast, and an uncertain silence settles between them because she's lying and they both know it and Beatrice doesn't know how to approach that. Ava adjust her lightened load on her shoulders, bites at her thumbnail nervously, frowns when Beatrice can't find a way to open her mouth and speak like a grownup. "You ready to talk about whatever it is?"
"Oh," Beatrice mumbles. "I— okay."
"Okay," Ava echoes.
"We should— walk," Beatrice says hesitantly. She gestures stupidly at the food. "It's hot."
"Sure." Ava shrugs, guarded and stilted, and an irrational flash of indignation sparks in Beatrice's chest. Objectively, Ava has every right to be guarded. Subjectively, Beatrice is in this position because of Ava's propensity for ignoring rational paths forward, and she can't stop the indignation that she knows is unfair from rising in her chest.
They make it two blocks before Ava's patience evaporates. "Seriously, just— whatever it is, spit it out, will you?"
They've just missed the light, and a stream of taxis and Ubers block their way forward. Beatrice bites down on her tongue and keeps her eyes forward, watching cars and tourists go by.
"I," she starts, and then pauses, breathes, swallows. "I'm concerned about the inspector. I think we should be sticking with what we're all used to, what we know we're good at, instead of trying too many new things on short notice."
Ava turns sharply towards her, eyes narrowing. "What?"
"Experimenting in the face of a Michelin inspector is a bad idea," Beatrice manages to say evenly, in spite of the way her pulse is fluttering painfully in her chest. "We're on their shortlist for a reason and we should stick with that reason."
"We're on their shortlist because we're good at what we do," Ava says shortly. "I got the first one operating the way that I always have, and that includes trying new things."
"It's not the same when you're not a first year kitchen," Beatrice tries to argue. The traffic stops, and they both start walking on instinct.
"Maybe at big institutions like you're used to," Ava says thinly. She keeps her stare ahead as she marches on, determinedly not looking at Beatrice. "But trying new things is what works for me, for this kitchen. I already compromised with you on the regular menus, but now is not the time to play it safe."
"Now is exactly the time to play it safe." Beatrice's own frustration starts to mount. "Ava, this isn't just about you. Like it or not, your restaurant is about everyone who works in it. A second Michelin star will be lifechanging for the staff, too. It doesn't make sense to jeopardize that for the sake of your ego."
Ava jerks to a stop, and Beatrice follows a half second later, regret coating her tongue.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean that."
"No, I think you did," Ava says, her voice brittle and aching. "Sorry that my ego's getting in the way of your carefully constructed equilibrium, but you're the one who came here. This was my kitchen first. My people. My restaurant."
"I know it is," Beatrice says. "I just— I think you're one of the greatest chefs I've ever worked with, Ava, but your creativity can hold you back sometimes. There are times and places to lean into that, but I just don't think that this is one of them. We have an incredible menu right now. What's wrong with highlighting that?"
Ava glares at her, anger in the set of her jaw but hurt lurking in her eyes. She sets off walking again, not waiting for Beatrice to match her pace. A block passes in uncomfortable silence, and then another, before Ava finally speaks again.
"You're wrong," Ava says lowly as they close in on the restaurant. "I know what I'm doing."
"I think you know what you want," Beatrice ventures. "That doesn't mean it's going to work out."
"Hey." Chanel's voice startles them both, and Ava stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk. Beatrice reaches without meaning to, nearly dropping her own bags as she steadies Ava. Chanel, leaning against the door to the restaurant, raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the both of them. "Are you two still in your stupid little fight?"
"It's not stupid," Ava mutters. She shoves her bags into Chanel's arms. "Here, you stupid fucking amazon."
"What it is, it's fucking with work, so it's stupid when you're in this building," Chanel says sharply. She points at Ava, unlockign the door, and then at Beatrice, standing stupidly on the sidewalk.
"Fine." Ava turns around, folds her arms over her chest. She looks past Chanel and straight at Beatrice, whose stomach flutters familiarly at the stubborn spark in Ava's eyes, the obstinate lift of her chin. "Tiebreaker?"
Beatrice stares back, mouth dry, because Chanel will side with Ava, because Chanel is Ava's sous chef and was her friend long before Beatrice entered the scene, because Beatrice is right and it's not fair to bring in a partial third.
"Fine," Beatrice says shortly. "Fine." She can be an adult. She can swallow her frustration and agree to whatever the three of them decide on, can be mature and do the stupid thing if that's what her team wants.
"Okay." Ava nods briskly. "Get her up to speed." She vanishes inside, leaving Beatrice standing next to a forever-intimidating Chanel.
"If you fucked up," Chanel say, conversational and easy as she hefts the bags. "I'm going to vote with Ava and then I'm going to stab you."
She disappears inside as well, leaving Beatrice with laden arms and the realization that however nervous Ava had been about Lilith, Beatrice herself should've been at least as nervous about Chanel the whole time.
"Okay." Chanel pinches at the bridge of her nose. Ava's office is too small for all three of them, and Chanel looks like she's going to accidentally break holes into the walls with the sharp points of her elbows. "So you somehow know that there's going to be a Michelin inspector here in the next few days, and not only did you not tell me or anyone else so we can be prepared, you've been bitching at each other about who has the bigger better smarter plan?"
Beatrice, sitting stiffly in her usual chair across from Ava's desk, frowns. "It's not— we aren't bitching—"
"Girl." Chanel raises her eyebrows imperiously. "Yes you are."
"It's not stupid," Ava grumbles, her offense matching Beatrice's petulance, and for the first time since the stupid pot of caramel burned the day before, Beatrice feels a flash of warmth.
"It's dumb as shit," Chanel says bluntly. "But fine. You want a tiebreaker?"
"Yes," Beatrice says, even though it's the last thing she wants. She wants Ava to acknowledge that she has a right to be concerned, wants to be careful and mature and steady with the future of this restaurant. Chanel will side with Ava, but Beatrice is an adult and she can handle it.
"Yeah," Ava says with a sigh.
"Playing it completely safe is stupid," Chanel says, and Beatrice sighs. "This is a big opportunity, and we should take a big swing, and acting like we shouldn't is dumb and cowardly."
"Hey," Ava says abruptly, surging to her feet. "Don't— she's not cowardly—"
"You're also stupid," Chanel says over her, quick enough that Beatrice can barely process the fact that in spite of it all, Ava stood up for her. Literally, even; she's standing behind her desk with her hands clenched into fists, jaw clenched as she glares at Chanel. "We have a fucking good menu right now and shelving all that to try a bunch of new shit when a Michelin inspector is incoming is short-sighted and childish."
A wave of heat crests in Beatrice's chest, and she's on her feet as well, glaring at Chanel and trying to find the words to push back because they may be fighting right now but Ava is brilliant and has done something extraordinary with this place, and she deserves respect for it.
"Ah," Chanel says, a slow grin spreading across her face as she points sharply at Beatrice to cut her off before she can speak, and then to Ava, back and forth between them. "Would you look at that. One psych class at community college, thank you very much."
"What?" Beatrice says stupidly.
"Huh?" Ava sounds just as stupid, thankfully.
"You'll figure it out." Chanel rolls her eyes, then claps her hands together. "Okay. Duck carnitas stay, untouched. Whatever bonkers things you've got in your head, Ava, pick one. Bea, nix the blackberry sorbet and find a new flavor to compliment whatever weird shit Ava adds. Compromise, okay? Okay."
She claps her hands together and marches out of the office. Beatrice stares, mouth open, at the empty spot where she'd been standing, and then at the door, and then at Ava.
"Uh," Ava says. She blinks and shakes her head like a dog, and Beatrice's confusion fades into a wash of affection. "Um. What just happened?"
"You got Chaneled, bitch," Chanel yells from the kitchen.
"Fuck off!" Ava yells back, not looking away from Beatrice. Beatrice stares back, realization hitting her like a punch. She moves without realizing it, grabbing for Ava's wrist and tugging.
"Come with me," she rushes out before Ava can argue, and points firmly at Chanel to shut her up before she can say anything when she drags Ava out through the kitchen and out through the empty front of the restaurant, out onto the sidewalk far away from Chanel's shamelessly prying eyes.
"What—" Ava stumbles, following Beatrice's grip with a yelp as Beatrice guides them between an ancient newspaper box and a half-empty bike rack, just out of the neverending parade of foot traffic. There's an exasperated frown creasing her eyebrows, her arm limp in Beatrice's hold. It's not the first argument they've had, but it's the first one that they haven't found a way to resolve within five minutes.
"We need to talk," Beatrice blurts out before she can lose her nerve. Her stomach twists uncomfortably because this is too much, too soon, and they're in the middle of a fight that speaks to the core of the differences between them, Ava's adventurous nature and Beatrice's need to plan for eventualities, Ava's lack of concern for the possibility of disaster and Beatrice's need to control for every variable. It's too much, too soon, but if she doesn't say it now she's fairly certain she'll lose her nerve and it'll disappear into her own uncertainty for who knows how long.
Ava freezes in place, eyes wide and mouth pressing into a thin line. It's not a look Beatrice has seen from her before, something almost worried, almost scared, and it derails her momentarily because her hands want to reach for Ava, her whole body bending towards her like Ava's her center of gravity.
"What?" Ava says again. Flat this time, carefully emotionless, and Beatrice bites down on the inside of her cheek and pulls her hand back, shoves it into her pocket, desperate to make sure that Ava doesn't feel trapped in the moment because Ava hates being trapped.
"I need to tell you something," Beatrice tries again, but it doesn't come out any better than her first attempt, and she blows out a frustrated breath and glares up at the sky. She should be better at this, should be able to communicate like a functional human, but here she is once again stumbling over her words because keeping her thoughts in order is impossible when faced with Ava.
Ava folds her arms over her chest tightly, lifts her chin, squares her shoulders like she's expecting Beatrice to take a swing at her. Beatrice's whole body aches with the visual and she wants to touch her, wants to hold her, wants to kiss her and take her home and wake up next to her every morning even when they get into absurd fights over the best direction for the restaurant because Ava is extraordinary and carries surgical scars from the accident that killed her mother and a tattooed hashmark for every foster home she ever lost and is still the brightest and kindest person Beatrice has ever met, because Ava likes to says merci, madmoiselle to garlic cloves after crushing and peeling them, because Ava has found her way under Beatrice's skin in a way no one else ever has and Beatrice wants to spend the rest of her life keeping her there and learning the story behind every tattoo and weird garlic clove quirk that makes up Ava Silva.
"Look, if you're going to--"
"I think I'm in love with you," Beatrice blurts out, and then snaps her mouth shut when Ava's gapes open.
"What?" Ava says yet again, strangled this time, uncertain, because Ava's taken every step forward for them, has taken the small steps and waited for Beatrice to meet her there every time, has let Beatrice set pace and direction but always been the one with the balls to follow it every time.
"I think I'm in love with you." Her own voice sounds foreign to her, almost light, almost sure, and she wonders if she's the type of person who can confidently announce her love on the sidewalk between a newspaper box and a bike rack. She wonders if she's always been this person, if she just needed a chance, if there was always someone who loves and wants buried under too many years of hesitation and restraint.
"You—" Ava cuts off, gapes at her. "I thought you were— what the fuck, Beatrice?"
"I'm—sorry?" Beatrice's sudden burst of confidence wavers.
"Shit, Beatrice, I've been in love with you for months," Ava carries on, as if Beatrice hadn't even spoken. "I thought you were about to dump me!"
"You— what?"
"Nothing good ever comes after we need to talk!" Ava's hands fling out dramatically. A kid on a skateboard zooming down the sidewalk ducks smoothly under her flailing. "What else was I supposed to think—and we'd been fighting—"
A laugh bubbles out of Beatrice, unexpected and bright, and Ava's ramble cuts off with a smile that's just a bright. "Fuck, Bea," Ava says, half a laugh, and drags her hands over her face.
"You really— for months—"
"No taking it back now, babe," Ava says with a laugh of her own. She wraps her fingers around Beatrice's wrists and tugs her forward, steps in and presses up against her until Beatrice wraps her arms around her instinctively. "You're stuck with me now. No returns."
"I love you," Beatrice says, dazed, when Ava pushes up to press a kiss to her mouth. Familiar fingers twist into her hair, and her eyes flutter shut against her will.
"I love you, too, you idiot," Ava mumbles against the side of her neck, tucking her face in and breathing in deep. "And I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry," Beatrice says into Ava's hair. She grips tighter at Ava's back, just shy of too hard over scar tissue. "I should have just— said something, instead of stewing in it."
"Yeah, well, I probably shouldn't have shut down and gotten all pissy," Ava says. "We both fucked up."
"I can do better," Beatrice says, and then pauses when Ava makes a disgruntled noise. "We can do better," she amends, and shivers under the pleased noise from Ava it earns her. Something settles, suddenly quiet in her chest, as if the last few days of stress, the summer, the months with Ava, have all found a place to sit quiet in Beatrice's life, steady and sure and solid.
"Why does this feel like an ending?" Beatrice holds tighter around Ava, the world continuing to hustle around them. Ava pushes closer, hums against the steady metronome of Beatrice's pulse in her throat, smiles when it sets Beatrice's fingers to spasming at her back.
"Okay, Chumbawumba," Ava says with a laugh into Beatrice's neck. "Less philosophy, more telling me how you're ass over teakettle for me, please."
"I didn't—"
"You totally did," Ava says cheerfully, pulling back just enough for her smile to take up all of Beatrice's vision. "Thank god you did, too, because I'm also ass over teakettle for you."
"Oh," Beatrice says, faint and dazed. She doesn't move until Ava reaches back and grabs for her wrist, pulling it around and twisting herself around until she can check the watch on Beatrice's wrist. "What are you—"
"We've got two hours," Ava says, mischievous and charming.
"Two hours for what—"
"Less talking, more following." Ava grabs her hand and it only takes three steps for Beatrice to realize Ava's dragging them down the block towards her front door.
"Ava, we have to—"
"No you don't!" Chanel yells from the door of the restaurant. "Go away!"
Beatrice stumbles, attention snapping back forward and then back towards the restaurant, and she stumbles again when she sees Lilith making her way down the block towards Chanel.
"Ava," Beatrice says uselessly. "Lilith— Chanel—"
Ava pauses in unlocking her door and peers around Beatrice's shoulder, grin shifting into something knowing.
"Clean up when you're done, you heathens!" she yells down the block. Beatrice winces at the volume, and glances back just in time to see Lilith flip a middle finger at both of them before following Chanel into the restaurant.
Ava— miraculous Ava, genius Ava, obnoxious and brilliant and wonderful and kind Ava, with her tattoos and her scars and her unwavering need to keep moving forward— manages to unlock the door and yank it open, turning back to beam at Beatrice and kiss her quick and dirty before yanking her inside.
Beatrice follows, skin burning with anticipation where Ava's touches hers. They have two hours, and she spent all night without Ava, and want— the want that she thought for so long was never hers to feel, something that's not new anymore but still feel meaningful every time it pulses through her at Ava's smile, Ava's kiss, Ava's touch— swells in her stomach and chest where discomfort had sat for days, and she laughs giddily.
Ava leads them upstairs, her own laugh bright and charming, fingers tangled with Beatrice's, and Beatrice follows, ready to keep moving forward.