the opposite of faith

by explosivesky

Summary:

She wants Beatrice to fingerprint her, to tattoo her, to leave a mark so deep not even the Halo can rid her of it. Her muscles feel too tight, stretched uncomfortably over her bones. There is something ravenous inside of her, and Beatrice is going to set it free.

You are the only thing I've ever lived for, Beatrice says.

You are the only thing I've ever died for, Ava says, and even that wasn't enough to keep me from you.

Notes:

SAVE WARRIOR NUN. THEY'RE GAY AND THEY NEE DTO KISS MORE. THANK YOU

When Beatrice leaves the OCS, it is with the contradictory belief that it will only be for a short time - a trip, a vacation, a sabbatical - while also envisioning a loneliness that encompasses the rest of her life.

Ava is gone; that’s the truth. Her love is a different story - one with cuts so deep it may as well be using her bones as a canvas, as a calendar - and Beatrice carries it with her right out of the Cat’s Cradle, dodging sympathetic looks from her old friends and intrigued glances from the new recruits.

She’s only duly aware of the mythologizing around Ava’s disappearance and Adriel’s defeat. She knows it exists, knows Ava’s been painted something of a martyr: the last Warrior Nun, who took the devil back to Hell even though it meant losing herself to its fire, too. The first week after, she catches herself snapping at anyone who discusses the event as if they know what they’re talking about - how noble and heroic and brave Ava’d been, sacrificing herself for her Sisters - until she finds her grip tight around one of her new Sister’s wrists, tone glacial as she says, “She didn’t do it for you.”

The woman looks at her, a faint crease of confusion appearing between her brows. “Sister Beatrice, isn’t it?” she asks rhetorically, as if to remind Beatrice who she is. “Though you aren’t wearing a habit.”

“I’m no longer a nun,” Beatrice says. “I do not owe you the answer as to why.”

The woman says, “Well, why did the Halo-Bearer do it, then? Sacrifice herself.”

For me, Beatrice wants to say, her fingers loosening. She did it for me. So I’d live my life. So I’d stop wearing denial and shame as if it were a skin; so I’d look in the mirror and find a reflection I wouldn’t flinch away from. So that I could learn to love and be loved, except that she’s no longer here to love me.

Beatrice drops the woman’s wrist. It isn’t her fault, but it feels good to be angry, even if it’s with the wrong people. The only person Beatrice has to blame is herself (and God, but she does not yet know how to be furious with Him). “It doesn’t matter,” she says, and walks away without any further explanation.

That story does make the rounds. Camila finds her in Ava’s room, sitting on the floor with her back against the bed and her knees tucked up to her chest.

Camila says, “Beatrice,” and all Beatrice can do is cry.

–

(She sleeps on Ava’s bed, pretending they’re still in Switzerland - pretending she’s waiting for Ava to worm her way under the covers, entwine her legs with Beatrice’s and complain about her cold toes. Beatrice will wrap her up in her arms and act as if she doesn’t notice all the places skin presses against skin, and they’ll fall asleep, peaceful and alive.

Any minute now, Beatrice thinks every night, right up until she succumbs to exhaustion.)

–

When Beatrice leaves the OCS, she walks out with a single duffle bag and nothing else.

She’s never been materialistic. Whether due to the influence of her parents - their obsession with wealth and appearances, who loved their objects far more than they loved their daughter - or her religion and its emphasis on frugality, she isn’t quite sure. But the fact of the matter remains that her possessions are few and far between, and the most important of them aren’t even hers: they’re Ava’s.

The necklace she used to wear in Switzerland takes the place of a rosary, and Beatrice keeps one of her hair ties around her wrist like it’s a tattoo. Small, insignificant objects - to anyone who isn’t her, who doesn’t carry the weight of Ava’s love and sacrifice like she does.

“I know I can’t convince you to stay,” Mother Superion says, pulling her into a rare hug. “The hole she left is too great.”

“I’m sorry,” Beatrice says. “I can’t.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Mother Superion says, gently releasing her. “You never did, Beatrice.”

“I know,” Beatrice says, and swallows hard. “She made me realize that. And now she isn’t even here to see it.”

Mother Superion asks, “Are you angry with her?”

“Of course not,” Beatrice says, and only flinches a little when she continues: “I love her. She’s gone. How can I be angry?”

“Quite easily,” Mother Superion says. “You love her, and she’s gone.”

Beatrice is quiet for a moment. “That would be unfair of me. Monstrous.”

“No, Beatrice,” Mother Superion says. “It would only be human. Just human.”

When Beatrice leaves the OCS, she is not quite there, a half-ghost rattling the cage of somebody else’s corpse.

–

Beatrice sits in empty candlelit churches; somewhat of a ritual, if you will. Habits are hard to break, and she’s working as efficiently as she can, changing the familiar until it becomes unrecognizable.

She starts with time of day; no more Sunday services, no evening mass. She prefers the church this way, actually - heavy with silence, just herself and the few individuals whose problems are so great they call for a sidebar with God, removing the middlemen and murmuring their secrets directly into the ears of whatever’s listening.

Beatrice isn’t quite sure who that is, anymore, and stops praying to God entirely.

She prays to Ava.

Ava in her divine realm, Ava with her Halo, Ava with her faith in love and hope and family. Bea can’t think of anyone better to pray to than the person who could actually make them true.

Come home takes the place of Amen.

She doesn’t expect a response - it’s not as if she’d ever received one from God - but she finds comfort in the act nonetheless, as if writing a letter she never sends, or leaving notes in the margins of a book she’d borrowed. Ava, she says, I have found so much beauty in the world. I am in Venice, sinking into the sea. I watch the gondoliers navigate their boats expertly through the canals and the glassblowers tame fire to shape their sculptures and I think about their hands; I think about how lovely it must be to have calluses that come from art, from travel. I think about what mine have been used for, and how it’s changed from prayer, to combat, to you.

Ava, she says, in a quite desperate, hollow way, I liked my hands best when they were holding yours.

Come home.

–

She’s rarely approached by others; most seeking refuge in a church at the same odd hours tend to recognize the exigency of it, its desire for solitude. One late night, however, she lights a votive candle.

An Italian woman approaches her - after she’s spent a long time standing in front of the flames, clutching Ava’s necklace between her fingers - and says, “Pardon the disturbance, but I too have lost someone. May I pray with you?”

“Of course,” Beatrice replies, stepping to the side. “My apologies. I thought I was alone.”

“It’s alright,” the woman says, delicately lighting her own candle. “I understand. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice says around the walls being built in her throat. “I am sorry for yours, as well.”

“I will pray for you,” the woman says, clutching her rosary in her fingertips. “You and the one you’ve lost. May we both find peace.”

Beatrice hasn’t said her name in a month, but there are only so many ways to keep Ava alive on her own; that’s the price of memory and the selfishness of love. She says, “Her name was Ava. She wasn’t very religious. If you could…think of her. Just for a moment.”

The rest of her words are lost, as if she’s already given too much away and anything further might destroy her, unravel her one layer at a time - skin, nerve, muscle, bone - where Ava’s been embedded like shrapnel from some great explosion. Like the Big Bang, scattering stars into space; Ava kissing her had done much the same thing.

“Ava,” the woman repeats, her head bowed and her hands clasped. “If you wouldn’t mind doing the same for me. His name was Antonio.”

Beatrice presses her thumb into the ridge of the necklace’s metal frame until it hurts, wondering why the things we hold the closest are always the first to leave. Wondering why they take so much of us with them when they do.

–

(Why do we light candles? Beatrice asks aloud, not entirely sure that she means to.

The woman opens her eyes, fire dancing across the black of her pupils, and says: Their light has been taken from the universe. We use candles to put it back, even if only for awhile.

From that moment on, Beatrice lights a candle for Ava every single night.)

–

It’s a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon when the Ark opens its mouth wide and spits Ava out, jagged light striking like a row of sharp teeth. The portal doesn’t stay powered - it deposits her as if she’d opened and closed a door, and the entire process can’t have lasted more than five seconds, if the readings on Jillian’s computer are correct.

Her guards are already pointing their guns at the mystery woman from another dimension on the floor, but she’d recognize the Halo’s signature anywhere; that perfect circle of bright-gold metal glowing beneath her skin. She isn’t moving, and from Jillian’s position behind the glass walls, she can’t even tell if Ava’s breathing; is that why the Halo’s shining, as a signal for removal? A call, verifying that its host is dead?

“Stop!” she shouts, shoving her way past the guard standing at her glass door, an arm out as if to stop her from approaching. “Stop - it’s Ava - oh my god, Ava–”

Her team is understandably confused as she falls to her knees, pressing two of her fingers to Ava’s pulse point - it takes her far longer than it should’ve to feel the fluttering of her pulse, but her hands are shaking and her own heart is scrambling up her chest. She can’t tell if Ava looks older or not, if she’s changed in any intangible way - but she’s here. “Call Mother Superion at the Cat’s Cradle immediately,” she commands the man closest to her. “Tell her Ava has returned.” He hurries out of the room, and she directs the rest, “Help me get her to an examination room. Now.”

No broken bones, no cuts, no bruises, no scars - blood pressure normal, body temp slightly higher than it should be, but perhaps that’s to be expected - she’s seemingly just unconscious, like she’s finally collapsed at the end of a long, long journey.

Jillian smoothes her hair away from her forehead.

“Welcome home,” she whispers, but can’t stop herself from wondering what exactly it is she’s greeting.

–

Camila breaks several - if not all - traffic laws on their way to Jillian’s mansion.

“It feels wrong,” she murmurs as they follow a guard to the room, “being the first ones to see her.”

“I know,” Mother Superion says. The lines of her face are firm; somehow her scar feels thicker, more angular. “But we have to verify that it’s her. We have to be sure.”

Camila knows she’s right, of course - knows how much worse it would be to destroy whatever exists of Beatrice’s new life for a false alarm, rip any remaining hope she has left straight out of her. “I understand.”

But even glancing through the window, there’s no mistaking the woman in the bed.

She’s awake, at least, and she seems to be nodding in response to a question Jillian’s asked. When the door opens, her head whips to them, and she reaches out a hand to steady herself against the bed - she’s remarkably uncoordinated, even sitting down.

Her eyes. That’s what Camila notices first - how disappointed she is to see them, and how desperately she tries to hide that behind her lesser relief. And that’s how she knows it’s Ava without question.

Because of course Ava’s disappointed to see them without Beatrice, despite the love she carries and the loneliness she must have felt. Ava sacrificed herself for one person, and Camila has no doubt that she’s returned for that same person as well.

“Ava,” Mother Superion says, uncharacteristic tremble winding around her voice. “Is it really you?”

“Yeah,” Ava says, smiling as best she can despite her clear exhaustion. “I’m - I’m me. I’m home.”

Up-close, she is something of a resurrection: dirt beneath her fingernails, as if she’d clawed her way through earth; veins a strangely stark blue against her skin, the sky bottled up and devouring her blood. Half-moon shadows beneath her eyes. The Halo, burning like the sun.

Mother Superion meets Jillian’s gaze, but she only shakes her head imperceptibly as if to say, It’s beyond me.

That’s the core of it, Camila thinks; whatever’s inside of Ava is beyond all of them.

Or - alternatively - all of them but one.

“Beatrice,” she says. “We have to find Beatrice.”

None of them miss the way Ava’s breath bursts like a balloon, or how her entire body starts to shiver. Her hands clench around the sheets; for a moment, Camila swears the tips of her fingers glow like the Halo.

Ava says, “Venice. Beatrice is in Venice,” before passing out in Mother Superion’s arms, sweat dripping down her temple.

–

(She isn’t in bad health, Jillian explains after, monitoring Ava’s vitals. It’s like she’s struggling to adjust…like there’s something her body’s working to accommodate that wasn’t there before.

Camila asks, But you’ve found nothing? You’ve run tests?

Yes, Jillian confirms, and nothing. Her temperature’s a bit high, but physically, she’s fine. It’s her energy I’m more curious about.

Her energy?

The Halo’s readings, Jillian says. I’ve never seen the power levels fluctuate to such heights. It’s as if it’s attempting to stabilize her. And she’s had a difficult time answering my questions, which makes forming hypotheses nearly impossible.

Do you think she’s lying? Mother Superion asks sharply, wary of any paths to disaster and heartbreak.

No, Jillian says, eyes cast down. But I think there’s only one person she wants to tell.)

–

It isn’t difficult to find Beatrice. It’s not as if she’d been looking to disappear, cut herself off from the world and discard her past like an overworn coat - it’s the opposite. She’s embedded herself so fully in life that she cannot escape it, cannot pull up her hood and fade into intangibility. From God’s shadow into the sun’s light.

She allows the universe to embrace her, even though some days - without Ava - it feels as if it’s holding her hostage.

Point being, it isn’t too big of a shock when her phone vibrates in her coat pocket, Camila flashing across the screen. They’ve talked, once or twice; not about anything in particular, and certainly not about Ava - once, Camila’s on shift at five in the morning, and Beatrice describes the sunrise to her from her hike around the Amalfi Coast; the rays of light reflecting against the water, foam decorating the rocks. Another time, Camila calls and apologizes before releasing a furious river of Spanish - something about the new recruits - and ends with, Sorry, I don’t have time for confession, but I knew you’d understand.

Beatrice laughs at that, and surprised to hear herself do so, hangs up immediately.

Of course she understands: She’s the one who’d trained Ava. Whether or not that had been Camila’s insinuation doesn’t matter because Ava is everywhere in everything, dark matter between atoms and wind riling water into waves, and Beatrice could ball the world up in her fist like a piece of paper and still find more of her to miss.

She swipes up. It’s midday; she’s at a restaurant on the Rio della Misericordia, having a glass of wine and listening idly to the conversation around her. Venetian had caught her somewhat off-guard as a language; she finds it more similar to French than Italian, and though she’s only been there for a few weeks, she’s grasped a way to let it settle comfortably on her tongue.

“Camila,” she greets, mouthing a quick grasie to a server who refills her glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You need to come home,” Camila says breathlessly. “Now.”

Beatrice pauses, grip tightening around the stem. She won’t take the leap intuitively; her heart is a suit of armor, her heart is a broken dagger, her heart is a black hole. “Excuse me?” she says.

“Beatrice,” Camila says, “she’s back.”

The phone slips from her hand, clattering against the pavement. Oh, the double-edged blade of hope: How badly she wants to believe, but how treacherous it feels to do so. How easily she could press either side against her throat and bleed.

–

It takes Beatrice eight hours to reach the Cat’s Cradle, where Camila says Ava’s been moved after careful pleading on her part - Jillian agrees she’s more likely to rest better somewhere she feels at peace - and she’s taken over one of the convent’s guest houses, previously used to entertain higher members of the clergy who’d come to meet with the OCS.

Beatrice drops an exorbitant amount of money on the fastest flight to Málaga, and from there it’s another hour and a half by car; she spends nearly all of it worrying the same thumbnail between her teeth, lost in thought so loud that after the driver’s fifth failed attempt at conversation, he stops speaking completely.

By the time she arrives, it’s just past midnight; Camila meets her at the gate and stares. Her hair’s blonder than it was - it’s an ombre Ava had tried to convince her to get on their way to Switzerland, which she had staunchly declined at the time - and she’s wearing a caramel-colored peacoat over a long-sleeved black button-up, though the collar’s left open, exposing the angles of her neck and where they meet her collarbone. The shirt’s tucked into straight-legged black slacks, leading to a simple pair of white sneakers.

Camila says, “Life looks good on you.”

And Beatrice says, “I need to see her.”

Barely a nod. “Come with me.”

–

(Though Beatrice spent many of her years here - considered it more of a home than the one she grew up in - the path they take feels foreign, just as everything around her does. Flowers she swears have never bloomed, stained glass windows which have changed their color - even the stars above them glitter vibrantly, as though she can see through time to their births.

Camila takes her hand and squeezes.

You were in Venice, Camila says.

Yes, Beatrice responds. You knew that.

Ava knew, too, Camila says. We don’t know how, but she knew.

Beatrice’s hand automatically flexes at the sound of Ava’s name, pressing hard against Camila’s knuckles. What? she asks.

Maybe she was watching over you, Camila murmurs, just as you have always watched over her.)

–

The door to Ava’s room is cracked, and there is only silence within.

Camila whispers, “I’m on duty until three. I’ll check on you before then.”

“Wait.” Beatrice gestures to her duffle bag. “Where should I–”

“She’s in our nicest guest house, Beatrice,” Camila says, as if she’s stupid. “It’s a double bed. You’re not a nun anymore.”

The scandalization is more of an automatic response than a genuine reaction; there’s too much of Ava swimming around her head, breathing on the other side of a wall. “That’s not–”

“Beatrice.” Camila cuts her off. “Do you expect me to believe you’ll be capable of leaving her alone?”

That phrasing - the concept - keeps Beatrice’s mouth shut. Camila shoves her towards the door, and slowly backs away.

A part of Beatrice is terrified as she gently pushes the door open - what is it, exactly, that she's returning to? It can't be the same Ava who left her; the years she must've spent in Reya's realm will have left their mark, their age, their devastation–

–but Beatrice has spent far too many hours longing over the sharp planes of Ava's back to not recognize her immediately upon entering; she's sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the window, Halo glowing underneath her skin.

And Beatrice breathes out, “Ava.”

Ava's spine straightens, and she's on her feet so smoothly in a matter of moments that Beatrice can't quite reconcile it with the vision she'd been fed - Ava off-balance and exhausted, barely able to keep herself awake, let alone landing solidly on her feet.

The first thing Beatrice discerns is that her hair's a little longer; not by enough that any normal person would notice, but Beatrice is in love with her, and every detail had meticulously worked its way into her worship - she'd once spent hours sitting in the pews, thinking only of the way it felt to run her fingers through Ava's hair, scratch her nails against Ava's scalp - so it's no surprise how easily she catalogs this. What is a surprise is how it's one of the only differences; how the rest of her seems remarkably intact, from the softness of her face to the fluidity of her stance - always on the verge of dancing, or running away, or flying toward–

And Ava answers achingly, "Beatrice."

Something explodes between them - or implodes - a car crash, a fault line - a supernova, a sinkhole - a wound, reopening; a wave, settling back into the sea - the frantic collision of their bodies, how Ava throws herself into Beatrice's arms, burning like the North Star; how it's all Beatrice can do to catch her, recenter herself like gravity - the room collapses in, crumbling stone by stone; the moon pulls up the tide, covering its eyes; the fire descends along the hearth, devouring the air - light pours through every crevice, almost blinding in its brilliance.

Only one of these things is real, is happening around them, and it’s only when Beatrice opens her eyes - vision blurred through tears - that she sees the truth of Ava’s radiance, how the sun emits from her skin, how her Halo shines so bright it would’ve called every Tarask in existence to them if they’d still actively been looking.

“Bea,” Ava’s saying, again and again and again, “Bea, I missed you, fuck, I missed you–”

Beatrice pulls away, cups Ava’s face in her hands like catching pouring water. Ava’s smiling through her tears, just as beautiful as she’s always been - more so, now, with love so present and persuasive between them - and Beatrice chokes out, “I have to kiss you.”

“Please,” Ava begs, hands closing around the lapels of Beatrice’s coat, “oh, God, please–”

All the writers have it wrong, all the poets and lyricists; something that can be put into words is already incorrect by virtue of expression - by the sheer ego of assuming the words themselves exist - because nothing captures the feeling of Ava’s mouth against hers other than the kiss itself. Nobody will ever understand what it’s like to be Beatrice in this moment, kissing Ava, as the world previously crumpled in her palm blossoms once again to life; nobody will ever understand her when she explains how the voice of God is her name tumbling from Ava’s lips; how communion is parasitic and love is symbiotic, how body and blood should be mutually worshiped; how Sunday is not a day of rest but a day of devotion, and how Beatrice will spend every single one of them for the rest of her life making sure Ava knows how intensely she’s loved.

How that in itself is a strength, because loving a woman is so much harder than loving God, yet far more worthy of it.

“I love you,” Beatrice says, forehead resting against Ava’s, quickened breaths overtaking the silence of the room. “I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” Ava laughs, and Beatrice thumbs a tear away from beneath her eye. “Fuck. I know. I thought - I never thought love could be like that. But you.”

“Ava,” Beatrice says. Other hand dancing up Ava’s arm to her neck. “How are you here? How do you know?”

“Something happened to me,” Ava says, breath too close to Bea’s lips; there is no heat more distracting than that of Ava’s mouth. “I was healed, like we knew I would be, but there was more.”

“More of what?”

“You,” Ava murmurs. Their noses brush. “Your voice. I heard you praying. To me.”

“I left the OCS,” Bea whispers. “I’d intended to start living. But I wasn’t aware of how to do that with - without you.”

“You left the OCS,” Ava says, “but not your faith.”

“I gave that to you,” Beatrice says. “And even then…it wasn’t faith. It was knowing. You’re the - the only one I knew how to believe in. After everything.”

“Adriel was right about one thing,” Ava says. “Prayer can be powerful. And yours, Bea–” energy emits from the Halo, a light that spreads from her spine to her fingers to a gold that consumes her irises, a flare of power that has no discernable source except from within her– “made me a hell of a lot more than that.”

–

(Reya said something was calling me. She said…it was getting harder and harder to hold onto me, keep me as I was. She said if she let me go, I could follow it, but she wouldn’t be able to protect me from whatever it turned me into.

It was you, Beatrice. Your voice. And every step I felt stronger; every step I could see just a little more clearly.

But how, Beatrice says helplessly, fingers fluttering around Ava’s face. How did you find me?

I walked - sometimes I feel like I flew - until I reached a window. Or a doorway. It was like…like a cut in the fabric of the universe, or something. And through it was you - you sitting in the pews, clutching my necklace between your fingers, one of my hair ties tight around your wrist. I could hear you saying my name, and it pulled me through. Right through the Ark.

I’m not Lilith, Ava says. I don’t know what kept her going, what changed her. But you kept me safe. Beatrice, you brought me home.)

–

The two of them stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s arms, crying and laughing and kissing; letting go - even the barest amount - seems like an impossibility. Until Ava finally steps back, looks her up and down, and says, “Holy shit, Bea. You look…” She tugs her bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth, biting down. “Hot. You look hot.”

Embarrassingly, Beatrice blushes, blood flushing all the space between her freckles. “Please,” she says, mortified to hear herself demure. “I’m - it’s nothing. I know it’s not a big change, but it’s what I feel most comfortable in–”

“Beatrice,” Ava cuts her off, “are you insane? Do you seriously not know how good you look? Like, if we didn’t know each other and I saw you at a bar, I’d be on my hands and knees trying to get your number.”

“How theatrical,” Beatrice says, amused. “What’s done it - the hair?”

Ava rolls her eyes. It’s strange how it’s been two months to Beatrice, and however many years for Ava, and their dynamic remains so unchanged, their friendship withstanding its test of distance and time. She says, “No. Not just the hair, at least. It’s–” Her breath quickens; she slips her fingers delicately under the open collar of Beatrice’s shirt, thumb tracing the line of her collarbone. “Shit. It’s everything, Bea. You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.”

Beatrice says, “You are the only thing I’ve ever lived for.”

Now the fire is folding in on itself; the bed is in the process of unmaking. Ava nudges her cheek into Beatrice’s palm, lips brushing against her lifeline.

She replies softly, “Death isn’t even permanent enough to keep me away from you.”

When Beatrice kisses her again, it’s with the intention of a confession, a commitment, a disrobing. When Beatrice kisses her it's with the purpose of making the rug a place to pile her clothes, her coat hanging from her elbows. They are in a House of God and God is standing directly in front of her.

"We should shut the door," Ava murmurs against her insistent lips.

"Fuck," Beatrice says, and Ava shivers delightfully, pupils expanding wide. "Camila's going to check on us before three."

The revelation has absolutely no effect on the desperation of Ava’s kisses; she drops her chin, catches Beatrice’s bottom lip between her teeth and tugs - hard enough that Beatrice can feel the way it throbs after - and soothes it away with a brush of her tongue.

"I think she'll get the message," Ava says, staring intensely at Beatrice's swollen mouth; her skin is hot to the touch, almost feverish, and goosebumps erupt from her flesh.

It's almost a cause for concern. Beatrice asks, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," Ava says, eyes shining a little too bright to be natural. "It's like - like I'm feeling so much. Beyond…beyond love or lust or - I don't know - all the incredible things you make me feel. When you touch me…" She runs the tips of her fingers across Beatrice's cheek, down to the edge of her mouth. "...I feel so powerful. Like I could do anything."

She doesn't move her hand, night sky swallowing her irises. Beatrice can see her heartbeat thumping in the crook of her neck, like it's begging to be released from her body, and she tilts her head, parts her lips, and takes one of Ava's fingers into her mouth.

Ava's breath halts; so does her pulse.

Beatrice sucks. Grips Ava's palm in her own hand, maneuvers it so she can work her way to the thumb. Middle, index - she releases each with a wet pop - until she bites down gently on the pad of Ava's thumb, scraping it with her teeth.

"Oh," Ava whispers, looking like she's about to break herself open and pour. "Fuck."

"I feel it, too," Beatrice says, now pressing her lips to the inside of Ava's wrist, giving delicate chase to her veins. Something gnaws at the base of her skull, makes her light-headed, hungry to use her own teeth. She kisses the heel of Ava’s palm, her fractured lifeline, each of her knuckles. "There's something I'd like to do."

A transformation, almost complete. A resurrection and a prayer. Ava presses her damp thumb directly into the hollow of Beatrice's throat and says, "You've always had good instincts."

Beatrice finds the hem of her shirt, sliding it up and over her ribcage, her breasts, brushing over Ava's sensitive nipples as she does so. She says, "You'll do what I say," and it isn't a request or a question.

"Yes," Ava exhales, already soaking through her underwear, thighs sticky and damp. "I'll do anything you want."

"Then," Beatrice says strictly, "you'll be still, you'll be patient, and you won’t touch. Understood?"

"Fuck," Ava says, trembling violently, hands closing around Beatrice's collar as if to steady herself. Breath coming in small, quick bursts. There is something ravenous inside of her, and Beatrice is going to set it free. "I understand."

Ava's top meets the floor, along with her sweats. Beatrice presses her hand against Ava's cunt over her underwear, eyelashes fluttering as she feels them drenched in cum, sigh escaping her lips.

She slips them down Ava's legs, dismissive of the trail she leaves between Ava's thighs, and looks up at her, frustratingly composed. "Sit on the edge of the bed. Spread your legs."

Beatrice in her black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone. Beatrice with her hair loose and creating a painting of her face. Beatrice with her hand shining in the light, with her mouth wet in anticipation.

Beatrice with her fingers wrapping around Ava's knees, pulling her legs further apart, nosing through Ava's curls and inhaling against her cunt.

"Beatrice," Ava whispers, a force like an explosion boiling within her. "Fuck."

"You're soaked," Beatrice says, still refusing to lick. "Ava."

"I want you to fuck me," Ava says, on the verge of ruin and rebirth. "I want you to fuck me so bad it's like I'll die from it, except I can't fucking die. Please, Bea. Please."

Beatrice smiles - so lovely, the curves of her lips, and they'll look even better when Ava's cleaning her own cum from them - and gives Ava's clit the smallest flick with her tongue.

It's as if she's conductive, her body to Beatrice's worship, and she can't stop the gasp that shakes her bones, hips automatically following Beatrice's teasing test. Beatrice shifts her hands from Ava's knees to her lower back, her ass, and then she digs her nails into Ava's skin as she buries her mouth in Ava's cunt. Tongue flat against her clit, and then probing, down through her folds and dipping inside of her.

Ava's so wet she's sure Beatrice's chin is smeared with it, sure that each time she pauses to swallow it's because she's drinking - like blood, like wine - and she can't stop herself from making it worse, from grinding into Bea's mouth sloppily and frantically. She listens, though - she’s very good, keeping her hands to herself, palms flat against the bedspread as she leverages the angle - while Beatrice is the opposite, on an exploration, finding the indent of Ava’s hip and pressing roughly against it, and Ava loses any remaining semblance of self-control.

She wants Beatrice to fingerprint her, to tattoo her, to leave a mark so deep not even the Halo can rid her of it. Her muscles feel too tight, stretched uncomfortably over her bones. Heat blistering low in her navel, fully formed and tight and compressed.

"Can I come?" she asks, aching and frothing and pressure pulling her out to tide, but Beatrice doesn't respond, only sinks two fingers deep inside of her and hums; Ava may level the entire convent to the ground. "Please let me come. Please, baby, let me come. Please. Please–"

"Come," Beatrice commands and sucks furiously on her clit. Ava comes so hard she finds God, breathlessly breaking out of her own skin.

–

(Beatrice raises herself to her feet, back of her hand pressed against her mouth. Her cheeks and nose are red, and Ava grasps her wrist, pulls her closer, sees the mess she’s made of Beatrice’s lips and chin.

Let me, she says throatily, and Beatrice leans in.

Forget semantics - Ava has never loved herself more.)

–

But Beatrice has spent far too much of her life giving to deprive herself of taking - she has learned this lesson, that things disappear if you don't hold them close, if you don't kiss them, if you don't make them come - and she smoothly unzips her slacks, lets them pool around her feet with her underwear, and then she pushes Ava onto her back against the mattress.

Ava, still heaving and slick and canting her hips with memory, arms extended, legs firmly shut; Ava as if she's on the cross and awaiting the reward of Beatrice taking her final breath. Beatrice crawls over her, straddles her mouth, combs her fingers through Ava's hair - and Ava nearly blacks out entirely.

"Fuck," she whines, intoxicated, straining beneath Beatrice's weight. "Oh, fuck, yes, let me eat you out–"

Beatrice nudges her forward, settles her cunt over Ava's lips, free hand gripping the iron carvings of the headboard. Ava rises enthusiastically to the task - tongue sweeping everywhere she can reach it, desperate for every drop - cum coating her lips and chin, dripping to her neck. Beatrice's own lips part - eyes wide open, staring down at Ava’s shameless display of neediness as though witnessing a miracle - and then she's fucking Ava's mouth, grinding her hips mercilessly as she burns through Ava's name over and over.

Ava has never experienced this level of bliss in her life - Beatrice coming on her tongue, fingers pulling roughly at her hair, filling the room with noise unlike anything these walls have ever heard - and it’s doing something to her, her soul in a glass fracture pattern of lightning strikes, like she’s being charged. Electrified. Made whole.

Beatrice falls to the side; she's still in her shirt, buttons now all the way undone, breasts visible as she collapses. Ava leans over, nuzzling for her mouth, and Beatrice kisses herself from Ava's face, tasting exactly how sweet holiness can be.

What is worship if not the unending desire to devour, and the intricate pleasure that comes from it?

–

Camila never checks on them.

At least, not to their knowledge, though it’s entirely probable she’d heard a sound coming from their room she’d decided wasn’t worth investigating, and simply gone to bed - exactly what they aren’t doing.

Not for lack of trying. They’re both exhausted; Beatrice more so, after her day of panicked travel, while Ava is merely steeping in contentment - but they find it impossible to look away from each other, lying on their sides in bed, limbs entwined, lips close enough to kiss every time one of them feels like it (which is often).

“What was it like?” Beatrice asks, trailing her fingers against the line of Ava’s jaw. She almost expects her own hand to phase through - fall into empty air - watch Ava disappear as if in a dream. “How long was it?”

Ava licks her lips. “It’s hard to explain,” she starts slowly, contemplating her words. “In Reya’s realm, time is for the living - and mortal, I guess. But I was dying. Like Lilith. We weren’t living, and there was no way for us to…go forward in time. It was like being held in stasis, or something, until my body healed.” She shivers as Beatrice brushes the shell of her ear. “Not to mention the - the power you were giving me. I don’t even know if I was human enough to age while I was there.”

Beatrice hums thoughtfully, and twirls a strand of Ava’s hair between her thumb and index. “Your hair’s longer,” she notes. “But that’s it.”

“Hm,” Ava says, scrunching up her nose. “Maybe Jillian can carbon date me. Like a dinosaur.”

“She’d probably have the ability,” Beatrice concedes, but she’s smiling. “How old do you want to be?”

“Twenty,” Ava says, and sighs, scooching forward until she can bury her head against Beatrice’s chest. “I want to be exactly who I was, but this time, I want to be with you.”

“Well,” Beatrice says softly, adjusting the blankets over Ava’s shoulders, “I think we can make that happen.”

For the first night in a long time, Beatrice doesn’t have to pretend that Ava’s there in order to fall asleep. She doesn’t have to pretend that Ava’s in the other room, washing her face and brushing her teeth, or that she’s at the bar, caught up taking shots with friends. She doesn’t have to pretend she’s waiting for Ava to crawl in bed and beg for Beatrice’s body heat because she’s there - every inch of their bodies melding together, limbs entwined - but even then, Beatrice spends a long time running a hand up and down her back, staring at her peaceful expression as her breathing evens out, caught on the verge of sleep.

Beatrice lets her love do the talking, and whispers, “I’m yours. I want you to know that. I’m yours for the rest of my life - however long that may be - as well as every other.” She pauses, inhales unsteadily, and kisses Ava’s forehead. “In every life, Ava.”

Ava smiles sleepily. “In every life, Bea,” she echoes, and when Beatrice finally drifts off into slumber, it’s with the universe clutched tightly in her arms.

–

Nobody wakes them in the morning, and Beatrice had never set an alarm; it’s close to noon by the time they wake up, which is almost immeasurably late by convent standards.

“Whatever,” Ava says in response, stretching deliciously beside her; she lets out a soft sigh as she moves her hips, and Bea’s immediate response of eroticism is almost embarrassing. “We just got back. I’ve been gone for like, a hundred years or something. They can let me sleep in.”

“I’m sure that’s why you’re exhausted,” Beatrice says, reaching for her duffle bag and sliding it across the floor. “It’s completely understandable.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Ava says.

“No,” Beatrice replies, smirking. “Never, darling.”

“Oh.” Ava’s eyes widen; Beatrice turns around after a lengthy period of silence, one eyebrow raised. Ava says, “I like you calling me that.”

She’s blushing. It’s one of the first times Beatrice has ever seen her so flustered. Beatrice says, “Let me get this straight–”

“I think you mean ‘get this gay’–”

“–me giving you orders in bed doesn’t affect you, but calling you a simple term of endearment does?”

“First of all,” Ava says, holding up a finger, “you giving me orders affected me plenty, thanks very much. You felt the proof of that yourself. And secondly, fuck you.”

Beatrice laughs - laughs loudly and without restraint, with the freedom of a child, with the abandon of someone who hadn’t spent their formative years pretending as if they couldn’t feel anything - and Ava sucks in a breath, awed. Beatrice says, “If I’m remembering correctly, you called me baby.”

“Yeah, well,” Ava says, covering her face with her hand, “I was desperate. It just…slipped out.”

“I liked it,” Beatrice says, and Ava peaks at her through her fingers. “It was cute.”

“Cute,” Ava repeats, as if it’s an insult. “God. I literally came in your mouth and you think I’m cute. Fuck. You’ve got me so fucked up, Bea, it’s insane.”

“Hot,” Beatrice supplies instead. “Unimaginably attractive.”

“That’s better,” Ava says, grinning, and reaches for her arm, fingers wrapping around her elbow. “C’mere and kiss me.”

This is an order Beatrice is happy to follow.

–

(By the time they’re dressed appropriately and walking towards the main convent, lunch has long since passed. It’s around two - Ava says she can barely tell the hours apart at the moment, and what does time even matter when we’re finally together, Beatrice - to which Beatrice replies, But I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and Ava says, That’s not entirely true, baby, and Beatrice tugs her close, whispers in her ear, I’m not talking about pussy, Ava, and Ava dissolves into a fit of laughter so beautiful the clouds above stop crawling lazily by to watch.

I can’t believe you said that, Ava says, still giggling. And in a house of worship, no less.

Technically we’re in a garden of worship, Beatrice points out, and gestures to the courtyard.

Semantics.

Perhaps.

Bea, Ava says, I know a lot is coming for us. I know there’s a war, and I know we have to fight in it. But I don’t care about those things right now. Does that make me selfish? If all I care about is you?

Beatrice says, If you’re selfish, I shudder to think what that makes me.

I think we should be allowed, Ava says. I think we’ve earned it.

Beatrice smiles, and after making sure nobody’s around, touches her lips briefly to Ava’s.

I think so, too.)

–

They find Mother Superion in her office; despite the influx of new recruits, her daily schedule’s as sharp as ever, and Beatrice still remembers every detail of it.

She glances up as they enter the room, breaking into an uncharacteristically genuine smile, and rises from her chair. “Beatrice,” she says, extending her arms. “It is so good to see you again.”

Beatrice mirrors the embrace and sentiment. “Mother Superion,” she says. “And you.”

“Ava,” Mother Superion continues, pulling back to examine her. “You look far better than you did yesterday.”

“What a polite way of telling me I looked like shit,” Ava says, but she’s grinning. “Is that true, Bea? Did I look terrible when you saw me?”

Beatrice’s voice softens, and she says, “You’ve never looked anything less than beautiful to me.”

She isn’t changed enough by Ava’s return that she doesn’t at least flush warmly after - freckles once again a splash against their darkening background of skin - and Ava bites her smile to hold in it, looking down and away.

Mother Superion says, “You did look like shit.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Ava says.

“Now,” Mother Superion says, moving back around to her desk, “sit. I’m sure we have much to discuss. I’ll call Camila.”

When Camila arrives, she gives both Ava and Beatrice a distinctively knowing glance, corner of her mouth curling devilishly, and Beatrice nearly drops dead on the spot. It hadn’t mattered last night, not in the wake of love and all its blossoming, but here, in the brilliant daylight–

“Did you sleep well, Beatrice?” Camila asks innocently.

Beatrice keeps her mouth firmly shut.

Mother Superion says, “Yes, that is on my list of things to discuss - though not quite as urgent.”

Ava’s wearing a shit-eating grin, not the least bit apologetic; none of this is new to her. She’s always felt a little too at home in God’s house, as if the only inconvenience she’d ever had was His oppressive rules, such as ‘don’t swear’ and ‘at least fake a little respect, Ava.’ Though, Beatrice thinks, when you become a God yourself - after spending countless years being re-created by another one - the rules likely do seem a bit silly.

But they settle into business: the oncoming storm; the Devourer of Worlds. Reya’s place among the realms; the true nature of heaven and hell. Ava answers every question as best she can, though, she explains, the details are all a little hazy.

“It’s like - like looking up from underwater,” she says. “Everything is disoriented and wrong. I remember her city, but it’s difficult remembering what exactly I did there. Like being in a trance. I don’t think we’re able to comprehend it all because we’re not…like, we don’t have the capacity to understand. Until I left,” she finishes. “Until Beatrice called me.”

“What do you mean?” Camila asks.

“I prayed to her,” Beatrice says. “When I left the Church, I left God. But I needed something, and she was all I had.”

“And you heard her?” Mother Superion says.

Ava rubs her hand against the flat top of the wooden desk, fidgety as she searches for the simplest answers. “Yeah,” she says. “I don’t know what Reya did to Michael, but…I was different. She couldn’t influence me. She said she needed my help, and that I was becoming.”

“Becoming what?”

“That’s it,” Ava says, and shrugs. “Just becoming.”

Beatrice rests a hand on her shoulder. “Tell them about your power,” she says.

“I don’t know the specifics,” Ava says, “or the extent of what I can actually do. But prayer is…it’s like an energy source in their realm. That’s why Adriel knew how to harness it, make it his. And when Bea…” she trails off, clicks her tongue. “I don’t know. Her belief in me was so deep…Reya said she’d never seen anything like it. And I felt it, that’s the craziest thing. All this power - more than the Halo ever gave me.”

It’s a revelation that easily quiets the room, leaves them wandering through thought like a vast forest. Beatrice says, “It will require testing, I presume.”

“Which you will be tasked with,” Mother Superion says. “I presume I’m correct in my assumption that you will not be leaving again?”

“Yes,” Ava answers immediately for her, and Beatrice promptly shuts her mouth. “She’s staying with me.”

Camila hides a laugh behind a quick cough; somehow, Beatrice feels as if she’s being called whipped.

“Excellent,” Mother Superion says, rather unperturbed by the whole exchange. “We will keep you in the guest house, of course, separate from the rest of the Sisters, but you’ll be expected to join us for meals and training - when necessary. You’ll be integrated into the shift schedule, as well.”

Ava only nods as if the order is completely unsurprising to her, in spite of the acts they’d committed on holy ground. Beatrice, however, has some hurdles to overcome. She struggles with herself, trips over her tongue, only able to come out with: “Are you sure?”

Camila coughs again.

Mother Superion sighs. “Beatrice,” she says, “I promise you were never subtle. It was immediately clear when your devotion began changing course. At least, now, you are being honest.”

Somehow, in the span of three minutes, she’s been called whipped and too obviously gay to lie about it. Excellent.

Until Ava says with a smirk, “Yeah, last night was definitely the most honest Bea’s ever been.”

Camila says, “Yes, from the bits I heard, she sounded quite sure of herself.”

Beatrice says, “I would like this meeting to be adjourned.”

“We all want things in life, Beatrice,” Mother Superion says. “Will penance help?”

“Please,” Beatrice says, strained.

“Your penance is one Hail Mary for each unholy act,” Mother Superion says, and her mouth twitches.

Ava laughs hysterically all the way to the dining hall, filling every room they pass with light.

–

(I will make an announcement, Mother Superion says, to the Sisters. I will tell them Ava has returned, and the oncoming war we’ve been preparing for is a coming threat. You will likely be watched, Ava, out of curiosity - so please, carry yourself with dignity.

All the time? Ava says, sounding put-out.

God, no, Mother Superion says. I would never set you up for failure. When you’re alone, you may act however you’d like.

Heaven and Hell, Beatrice has decided, are actually rather interchangeable, depending on present company.)

–

There are plenty of familiar faces amongst the Sisters as Camila drags them around after their leftover lunch: Yasmine, who breaks down into sobs upon seeing them - she’d always been a little emotional, Beatrice remembers, not that it’s a weakness - and then hurriedly ushers them out of the library, as ‘tears aren’t good for the books’; Sister Dora, more muscular than ever, putting a group of trainees through their paces; Father Vincent, still atoning for every sin he’s ever committed, shoulders sagging under the weight of it. But he seems lighter when he looks at them, though his mouth barely lifts.

Ava says, “Don’t go worshiping me next. I don’t need that from you.”

“I doubt anyone needs that from me,” he says. “God is the only one gracious enough to accept.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ava says, nudging Beatrice’s arm with her elbow. “Get it?” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth. “Like the holy spirit?”

“Yes, I understood,” Beatrice says, grinning against her will. She’d hoped to remain stoic and unreadable on this tour, but that’s a challenge she seems to be failing fast, and she can’t say she minds.

“It is good to have you back, Ava,” Vincent says. “And you, Beatrice. I am forever in your debt.”

“We know,” Beatrice says. “And we will tell you when we intend to collect.”

A smile does unfurl from his mouth at that; he takes off his glasses, rubs their lenses with the fabric of his shirt. He says, “It seems that broken vows suit you very well, Beatrice.”

“I’ve heard,” she responds, inclining her head, and purposefully does not look at Ava whatsoever, whose thoughts are so loud she may as well be gleefully shouting them directly into Bea’s ear.

As they leave, Beatrice says preemptively, “Don’t say it. Please. I’ve been through enough today.”

Camila says over her shoulder, “Thank you,” while Ava grumbles.

But, even so - despite Bea’s somewhat stern warning - she links her fingers through Ava’s, letting their hands dangle between them as they walk. Ava squeezes every so often and smiles, as if just satisfied to know that Beatrice is there.

–

The rounds last until dinner, which is when Camila graciously allows them to sneak oranges and bread from the kitchens to avoid the questioning eyes of the dining hall. Beatrice peels one of the oranges as they walk back to their room, shortened nails struggling to find leverage, crushing a section of the orange as she does so; juice drips between her fingers.

She says softly, staring at her failure, “Being a lesbian has some disadvantages.”

Ava stops walking entirely, gazing at her in utter astonishment, and Beatrice falters, glancing over her shoulder. “What?” she asks, perplexed.

“You said it,” Ava says, recovering slightly; she takes a small step forward, like Beatrice will startle if she moves too fast, bolt into the night. “I’ve never heard you call yourself a lesbian before.”

“Oh,” Beatrice says, and shifts her weight uncomfortably between feet before sighing. She can’t contain the truth when Ava’s the one probing for it. “It’s because I haven’t. Not for a long, long time, at the very least.”

“How did it feel?”

She smiles somewhat uncertainly, as if allowing her heart to fight its battles plain across her face. “Strange,” she admits, orange still clutched in her hand. “Strange, but not…not wrong. Not bad.”

“Good,” Ava says softly, stepping back up to her side, “because it’s not. I’ve always wanted you to know that.”

“I know,” Beatrice says, thinking back to Sister Melanie’s story, to what you are is beautiful, to the way she held it inside of her chest for months and let it take root there. Now there are trees, she wants to say; now there is a forest. “It’s because of you. Everything is because of you.”

Ava rests her fingers against Beatrice’s wrist, reaching for the half-peeled orange. “Everything is because of you,” she disagrees, and proceeds to remove the peel with slightly less damage done to the actual fruit. “You made me, Beatrice. You taught me about family, and friendship, and love. You trained me until I could fight for myself, and you protected me every time I couldn’t.” She places a slice in Beatrice’s hand like an offering. “You’re the only thing that kept me alive. On the other side - in Reya’s realm…” she chews the inside of her lip. “It sucked, Bea. It felt like forever, but at the same time, I could picture you like I’d left you minutes ago. And when I heard you…sometimes I think that’s the only reason I lived at all. Because I heard your voice.”

Beatrice kisses her then, cupping her jaw in her empty hand - still sticky and stained with juice - and slants their mouths together, lets her lips part, kisses her with a bare and painful desperation that speaks to the aching loneliness the both of them must’ve felt; there is something to love she is working to unravel - something about an angry, fiery, burning desire to live - something about only knowing how badly you want it when the person you want to experience it with is gone.

Beatrice had never wanted to die, but she had never particularly wanted to live before, either. Ava had never wanted to die, but she’d craved life with a ferocity Beatrice had never seen in another human being before, and yet, and yet–

“I understand,” she says, pulling away the smallest inch. “I tried to live without you. It wasn’t life.”

“I know,” Ava says through a shaky exhale, tears bundled in her throat. “I tried to die for you. It wasn’t death, either.”

“Before you, I thought I wasn’t meant for love at all,” Beatrice starts, eyelids fluttering shut, forehead resting against Ava’s. “As if it were a train that would never reach my station, or one I’d watch pass by, headed to some other destination. I was afraid I wasn’t good at it, because if I was - surely that meant I’d be worthy of receiving it.” Ava makes a devastating noise in her throat, like she’s trying not to cry on Beatrice’s behalf. Beatrice whispers, attempting to control her own emotions, “Thank you. For loving me.”

“Beatrice,” Ava says, and a tear slips from her eye to Beatrice’s thumb, a coalescence of citrus and salt, “I don’t think anyone - anyone - has ever loved like you. I think it’s exactly what you were meant for.”

There is a poem here that they leave across the pavement: droplets of juice and tiny shavings of orange peel, a single slice that accidentally gets lost among the grass. There is a poem here about lovers and their hands and their hunger, a fragment that speaks to the sticky-sweet of tenderness and the sharp edge that has to dig for it. There is a poem here about learning where to cut without destroying what lies underneath, and it needs no one else to bleed to be worthy of it.

–

(By the time they arrive back to their room, darkness has fully descended across the sky; only one of the oranges remains, but the bread is warm when they break it apart, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. Ava sucks the citrus off of her fingers, pops fluffy pieces of bread into her mouth, laughs when Beatrice tries to rub dirt off of her jaw and only makes it worse. And then the firelight flickers, and the shadows of the room sharpen their teeth, and Ava’s eyes take on that strange glow - pupils expanding and gathering starlight - before tugging at the hem of Beatrice’s shirt.

I need it, Ava murmurs. I need you. I can feel it. Can’t you feel it?

Beatrice can, but she can’t let herself become a slave to power without order and priority. Instead, she runs the bath, and Ava watches her sit at its side, idly testing the temperature every few seconds and adjusting until steam is rising from the surface.

Come on, she says, and tilts her head, hair spilling beautifully toward the floor. Sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked; Ava inhales a breath and lets it make a home inside of her.

She ends up with her back pressed to Beatrice’s chest in the water, Beatrice’s fingers expertly working shampoo through her hair, massaging her scalp. She nearly dozes off from the humble pleasure of it, the feeling of being taken care of - not out of necessity, but out of love - and she makes sure to murmur the words over and over into Beatrice’s damp neck, until Beatrice has to shake her awake to get her to dunk, laughing lightly. If she could bottle the sound and drink it, Ava thinks it’d be more powerful than any drug.

And then Beatrice shifts jagged, like some kind of animal - runs her fingertips from Ava’s neck to her hip, dips between her thighs, lets the current she creates through movement be what touches Ava’s clit, rather than her own hand. Her mouth at the shell of Ava’s ear, breath hot and measured. Ava’s hit with that same feeling from the night previously - that endless void where power fuses to her soul, so full but so eager and wanton for more - and she hears herself start to beg, start to plead, start to promise.

Beatrice fucks her slowly, starts with two fingers until Ava’s ready for a third, and lets her other hand wrap around Ava’s throat, putting an exquisite pressure against both sides of her neck. Take it, Ava wants to say, take every breath, take every nerve, take every drop of blood; take my body and live inside of me, take me to a world where two people can share one space–

Beatrice tightens her grip and curls her fingers inside of Ava’s cunt. Water splashes against the rim of the tub. She murmurs, Do you want to come, Ava?

Yes, Ava gasps, yesyesyes, I want to come, please, I want to come–

Hmm, Beatrice says. Not good enough.

Please, Beatrice, please, baby, please, I’m trying so hard but I can’t stop, I can’t stop–

She tightens around Beatrice’s fingers, and Beatrice says softly, Then come. But know I’ll punish you later for this.

The threat makes Ava’s orgasm about a hundred times more powerful, her body spasming as she comes, white-knuckling the edge of the tub, nearly crying with relief; water spills across the floor, there is so much mess to love, so much to stain and clean and polish until it is new–

Beatrice finally releases her throat, and Ava breathes as if the air is something she can taste.)

–

"Okay, seriously," Ava says, in the now familiar position of curled up in Beatrice's arms in bed, "where are you getting this stuff? Did you watch a lot of porn? Were you fucking other girls while I was away? I mean, punish me?"

The low vibration of silent laughter in Beatrice's chest is exactly the response she'd hoped for; it’s a sign of acceptance, rather than awkwardness in the aftermath. Beatrice says, "I may have read some erotica. Out of curiosity."

"Erotica," Ava repeats, grinning delightedly. "Well, I love what it's done for your vocabulary."

Beatrice sweeps Ava's hair away from her cheek, presses a kiss to her forehead. For someone who's spent so much of her life repressed, Ava thinks her instincts for intimacy are spot on. Bea says, "Yes, I can tell. I almost lost feeling in my fingers earlier," and smirks. "You like the concept of being punished a little too much, I think."

Even now, Ava feels a pulse firing between them; feels herself in orbit, a moon waiting to dissolve against the pressure of gravity. She subtly shifts her hips closer to Bea's thigh, says, "Only when you're the one punishing me."

Bea's breath, suddenly hot against her ear. Arms tightening around Ava's back. Ava may have power, but she’s nothing beneath Beatrice’s hands, and she has more than one theory as to why. "Have you been bad, Ava?"

Her vision explodes - the roof is caving in, the floor is splitting open - fireworks are bouncing around the room, poisoning the air with smoke and color and light - she hooks a leg around Beatrice's thigh, hips jerking involuntarily - fingers gripping Bea's t-shirt so hard she's sure she's stretching the fabric–

And again, Beatrice is laughing.

"Fuck you," Ava groans, shoving her face even further into Beatrice's neck. "You're such an asshole. Oh my God, Bea."

"This is fun," Beatrice says, entirely too pleased with herself. It’s the first time Ava’s ever heard her describe something as fun, and it’s entirely at her expense. "You really can't control yourself, can you?"

Ava lifts herself onto her elbows, staring at Beatrice with what can only be described as utter disbelief. (There's affection there, too, and a well of pride, as if part of the disbelief is the joyous fact that Beatrice is hers.)

"Uh, of course not," she says, completely shameless, like Beatrice is an idiot for even questioning it. "Also, shut up."

Beatrice hums as Ava settles back down and says, "Something to work on, I suppose."

It's not as if Ava is particularly well-versed in sex herself, but she thinks there'll probably be a lot of edging in her future.

–

(When Reya said she was becoming, Ava highly doubts she expected this.)

–

They're formally re-introduced to the Sisters the following evening before supper, like a pair of feral animals meeting their already well-adjusted counterparts. And considering they can't seem to stop fucking in a convent, the description doesn't feel too great of an exaggeration.

Fortunately, neither of them have to speak - and by this, Ava means that Mother Superion expressly asked her to keep her mouth shut, lest she ruin the illusion of what the Halo-Bearer is supposed to represent - which suits the image they’re trying to maintain just fine. Beatrice stands straight and tall, inclines her head when her name is said, while Ava gives a small wave and a half-smile.

Everyone stares; Beatrice even catches the Sister she’d snapped at months before examining them both with an idle curiosity. Well, it’s to be expected; no doubt Ava is something of a miracle, a myth - if only they knew just how understated the rumors were.

Not that Beatrice even knows herself, yet, but that’s one of the many reasons they don’t stay for dinner, instead opting to take over the back garden while everyone is otherwise occupied.

“What feels different?” Beatrice asks, circling her slowly, hands clasped behind her back - this is her at her most analytical, staunchly in training mode. Ava’s reminded of their time in the Alps, Bea’s penetrative, systematic stare probing through every one of her movements, catching even the tiniest of flaws.

“Everything,” Ava says, eyes shut, feeling the earth beneath her like it’s rotating in her blood. The wind is hers to beckon; the water waits for a command. “The Halo’s mine, now. Like it’s part of me, instead of something I’m borrowing; like its limits are gone.”

Beatrice raises an eyebrow at that, stopping somewhere behind her right shoulder. “An infinite energy source?” she muses aloud.

“Almost,” Ava says. She focuses on the tips of her fingers, pressure centralizing and narrowing in. “Nobody has power without a source, though. Even Reya - she doesn’t have power here because she isn’t worshiped here.”

The implications hit Beatrice with such force that Ava swears the world itself takes a hit, spins subtly off its axis for a fraction of a moment. No movement; not even breath. And then Beatrice murmurs, “Am I what gives you power? Even now?”

“Yes,” Ava whispers, a delicate hum echoing around the base of her skull. “I think so.”

“But I don’t pray anymore,” Beatrice says.

“No,” Ava says, voice dropping an octave. “But you worship.”

For a long time, Beatrice doesn’t respond, merely stands and watches as Ava shifts her shoulders, rolls her head on her neck, gets a feel for how the power moves within her, where it lives and eats and begs for more. Beatrice’s jaw is a sharp blade, stance rigid, pupils dilated in the wake of the sunset and Ava’s rib cage expanding underneath her skin as she stretches.

“Where do you feel it?” Beatrice finally asks, no more than a murmur. She presses her palm directly against the middle of Ava’s spine, centered in the circle of the Halo.

“Everywhere.”

“Where do you feel it most?” she probes.

“My hands,” Ava says, cartographs her body as if a map; thinks of herself as an ancient sailor on the sea, storm-watching, monster-warning. “My wrists. My neck.” She tests her weight, curls her toes in her shoes. “The soles of my feet. My head.” And then: “My chest. Everywhere you touch me.”

Beatrice has yet to drop her hand.

“Show me,” she says, and Ava’s eyes burn gold in the night.

–

(The wind kicks up around them; Ava’s hair whips her face. It isn’t her irises that change, but her pupils - like light is leaking out of them, unable to be contained - and her fingers glow red, translucent, like they’re raised up to the sun and its rays are pushing through. The Halo only thrums against Beatrice’s hand, as if some kind of amplifier for the power that already exists inside of her.

The burst of energy she releases is so great that Beatrice is positive she’d have shattered every window, every bone, every faith of those around them if her precision and control had been any less, if she hadn’t had months of training under Beatrice’s cautious direction. It streaks toward the sky, vibrating the air around it, waves of hot-dark shimmering - like a Halo pulse, but infinitely stronger, and infinitely more terrifying.

Ava doing anything remotely close to this would’ve previously left her paralyzed. Instead she is standing, unaffected, boasting a victorious smile meant for legends and myths and religions and warnings - dare evil to come and evil will be vanquished, fall too far into ego and ego will vanquish you - hair in a whirlwind, veins streaked with gold, altogether something monstrous and divine.

And she is Beatrice’s; she belongs to Beatrice.

The truth of gods is not that they are morally superior, just or fair, right or wrong. The truth of gods is that they’re desperate to be controlled, just as bad as anyone.)

–

She is put to the test entirely by accident, two days later.

She convinces Beatrice to sneak out that night - neither of them are on shift, and she wants to dance, she wants to drink, she wants to make out with Beatrice where anyone can see them and know that Beatrice is hers.

There is an open possessiveness between them, as natural and necessary as blood. And a pride, too, somehow mutually apparent despite the fact that Beatrice herself has no miracles to boast of - no resurrection - no power.

“But that’s not true, is it?” Ava breathes against her mouth, smelling like whiskey and cherries. “You’re the most powerful of us all. Because I only listen to you.”

Beatrice captures her lips hotly, tongue sliding through her mouth, and Ava whimpers, pulls her closer. But Ava isn’t done - she breaks away, fingers digging into Beatrice’s hips. “I know it gets you off. I know how much you love it. You’re always so wet when you’re done with me,” she murmurs, nosing against Beatrice’s ear, and she flicks Beatrice’s earlobe with her tongue as if to tease her. “Admit it.”

“Of course it does,” Beatrice says, strobing lights colorful and quick enough to mask the glow deep in Ava’s eyes. “Of course I do. It’s you. It’s you.”

Ava kisses her against the bar, reminds Beatrice of a dream she had in Switzerland, once, of Ava doing exactly this, wearing her black halter top with her hair wild around her face; it doesn’t compare to the reality, and it’s exactly how Beatrice knows she’s real, knows they both are, knows she hasn’t lost herself to some grand delusion of a world where she isn’t lonely and lost.

And then Ava pulls back, gaze slightly unfocused, lips swollen and pink, and says, “Fuck.”

It’s not one of her turned-on fucks - Beatrice is all too aware of those - and something freezes in her stomach, something boils over. She says, “What is it?”

“Wraith,” Ava whispers, subtly glancing over her shoulder. “I can feel it. Man who just passed us, heading for the door.”

“I didn’t bring anything but normal knives,” Beatrice says. “Can you handle it?”

Ava smiles, widely and with teeth. Oh, she’s been waiting to be unleashed.

–

(They follow the man down an alley, where he stops abruptly and turns to them, his hand already in a fist. This is not Beatrice’s fight - this is a fight for her to observe, to note, to adjust for later. This is a test. This is an experiment.

His eyes, blackened and raw like the Devil; Ava’s in their brilliantly gleaming contrast, the sun hiding inside of her body. She catches his fist in her hand easily, as if it’s a toy, a stuffed animal, a ball - and then she pulls him closer, whispers shh, shh, I won’t hurt you.

And she doesn’t. Her hands take on that strange, translucent glow - light pooling in the tips of her fingers - and then she reaches inside of him, straight into his chest, and takes hold of whatever binds his soul.

It screeches in a way Beatrice has never heard before as she rips it out of him, its form adopting a marigold hue as if Ava’s light is infiltrating it like dust - and then it vanishes, bursting into a billion particles that dissipate into the air.

The man collapses, unconscious, but he’s not hurt - Beatrice verifies that herself.

And Ava looks at her, wraps her arms around Beatrice’s neck, and purrs, Tell me I was good, baby. Tell me I was good.

Darling, Beatrice says, you’re unfathomable.

And Beatrice kisses her like the world is beginning, ending, beginning again.)

–

They recount the experience to Mother Superion the next day, who doesn’t seem to care much that they snuck out after hours, as they apparently did it subtly enough as to not attract attention from their Sisters - but she is intrigued by Ava’s ability to rid their world of wraiths without Divinium.

“It is a step,” she says. “Able to purify those we’ve lost to darkness without pain, and without sacrifice. It is more than we ever could have hoped for.”

Ava says, “And it’s hot.” When both of them look at her, different levels of exasperated, she clarifies, “I’m speaking on your behalf, Bea. I know you won’t say it in present company, so I’ve decided I’ll just be complimenting myself from now on.”

“I see,” Beatrice says, hopefully containing her amusement. “And why must you do this at all?”

“Someone has to,” Ava says.

“It might be good for the other Sisters to see a demonstration of how you fight,” Mother Superion says, ignoring the interaction that has just transpired. “They are being trained, of course, but you are both far more advanced - I believe it would be beneficial for them to know what a real confrontation can look like.”

“We’re down, aren’t we, Bea?” Ava says. “We can spar. Maybe I’ll finally win.”

“No special abilities,” Beatrice says.

“Oh, bullshit,” Ava complains immediately. “Come on. I need this advantage.”

“I’m with Beatrice,” Mother Superion says. “No abilities. Show them a fair fight, Ava.”

These turn out to be famous last words.

–

The new recruits are gathered in the courtyard, kneeling on the mat as they wait for instruction. Mother Superion arrives with the Halo-Bearer and her - bodyguard? - in tow, one bounding along, the other walking with a firm stride. They all straighten immediately, intrigued, as the two of them - though notorious - have remained mostly out of sight since their introduction.

Mother Superion announces, "This is Ava, the Halo-Bearer. Beatrice is the one who trained her, and has been with us longer than most." She pauses, carefully considering her words. "They are not bound to vows as we are. You still owe them the utmost respect. Am I clear?"

All of them nod; someone makes a stifled noise of surprise that Ava grins at.

“They are here to demonstrate,” Mother Superion continues, tapping her cane along the ground before the trainees. “You will not have witnessed combat such as this until now. Pay attention.”

They watch as Ava sweeps her hair into a small, messy bun, and says, “Come and get it.”

Beatrice raises a single eyebrow. Mother Superion lifts her eyes to God, as if struck by sudden regret.

But Ava ends up being the one to throw the first punch; she’s smart and eager, whereas Beatrice is precise and quick, dodging easily as though she’s memorized exactly what Ava’s going to do next. It’d be more impressive if it weren’t so even between them - all the recruits are staring in awe at their sharp, decisive movements; how they gravitate in and out of each other’s space effortlessly without landing a single blow; how easily they slip through holds the recruits have barely begun to master.

Whatever the recruits are expecting to see, it isn’t this. For one - and perhaps most importantly - as heavily experienced and impressive as they are, the way the two of them fight is exceptionally sexually charged.

And then Ava pauses, murmurs something none of them can understand, but the falter in Beatrice’s position and posture is impossible to miss.

This must be it, they all think, reading the signs; Ava’s about to win, she’ll knock Beatrice’s legs out from under her and smoothly pin her to the floor–

Somehow the opposite occurs, though nobody’s quite sure how it happens; Ava’s suddenly flat on her back, one of Beatrice’s hands around her throat, the other wrapped around both of her wrists.

“Beatrice wins,” Mother Superion says flatly, though she sounds as if she needs a drink.

“You will often have opponents who try to distract you,” Beatrice says, wiping sweat from her brow as she helps Ava to her feet, “because they know they cannot win a fair fight. Recognize this tactic, and subvert it.”

As they leave, Ava actually pouts - in full view of everybody - and says, “You are such a b–”

“Language.” Beatrice’s interruption is perfectly timed, and they walk off bantering back-and-forth in a way so intimidatingly familiar that it feels somehow wrong to witness.

Mother Superion is left with only silence, and she sighs. “That was my mistake,” she says, though none of them quite understand what she’s talking about. “Let me be clear: That is not what I expect from the rest of you. I expect…slightly more decorum.”

–

Beatrice is starting to notice things.

She’d thought that she was the only one to be impacted by Ava - by her smile and her words, the spreading of her hands and their devious intentions - but as they walk back to the guest house, Ava harrumphing playfully beside her, she realizes how everything responds to Ava.

The world refracts like a kaleidoscope, fits itself in panes through the v of her fingers splitting. The colors gleam vibrant and rich wherever she walks, and her laugh makes the skies bubble and froth. This is Ava’s home and it is so delighted to have her in it, just as much as Beatrice is.

Maybe Ava feels it - life, how it feasts for her - and Beatrice, whom she hungers for - and that’s why she does it, why she shoves Bea against the back of the door upon entering the room, pupils blown wide and glittering like stardust. She says, “Bea,” and lets her mouth use its teeth against Beatrice’s pulse point, hammering in the crook of her neck. “Don’t you want to be taken care of for once?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” Beatrice says, which is somehow true; she’s never been short of purpose, and her current goal stands at its most selfish. “I’m happy. I’m happy with you.”

“I know,” Ava murmurs, hands undoing the buttons of Bea’s collared shirt. Her hair’s already come loose, brunette-blonde waxing rhyme down her shoulders. “I don’t doubt it. But I want to make you feel good, baby. I want to make you feel what I do when you touch me.”

It isn’t as though Beatrice is opposed to the idea - she’d fucked herself on Ava’s mouth the very first night, after all - but there’s something different about being the one begging, the one exposed, the one asking for pleasure instead of taking it. She doesn’t know where to start, how to become wild without the weight of fulfilled expectation.

It’s different, she thinks of saying; it’s different when I’m the one wanting. When I’m the one needy and dissatisfied and aching. When I’m exactly like they always said I’d be: so desperate for love I’d give up God just to let her taste me.

She says unsteadily, “I don’t know how.”

Ava brushes her hair away from her cheek, one hand cupping her face. Eyes molten and radiant. She murmurs, “Beatrice,” and her other hand dips low, works its way beneath Beatrice’s slacks, the waistband of her underwear, and says: “Let go.”

Head knocking against the wood, her own words swimming in her skull - how she’d told Ava the same thing so long ago, trapped in the walls of an unholy church - Ava slips a finger inside of her, moaning at the wet heat, and kisses her sloppily, without perfection and all its chains. Her palm rubs against Beatrice’s clit and her hips jerk automatically, searching for harder, searching for more, searching for pleasure entirely for the sake of it.

And it feels good.

“Fuck,” Beatrice breathes out, and Ava digs her teeth roughly into her bottom lip, working her fingers steadily. “Fuck, Ava–”

“I’ve got you,” Ava murmurs, pressing hard inside of her until the pressure builds, and Beatrice lets her lips part, her jaw drop, her lungs break - Ava’s hand is slick with cum - Beatrice grinds down, grips Ava’s shoulders tightly, pleads for release. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Come.”

She may have made Ava - given her faith and love and power - but Ava has unmade her into something else entirely.

–

(This is no movie; there is no script or score. Beatrice doesn’t cry afterwards, lamenting the love and lust she’d spent years believing built her into a home of something filthy. She doesn’t think of her parents and their disapproval, or her Catholic school teachers and their blatant distaste. She doesn’t think about the sermons and banners and laws, the pastors and preachers and therapists.

She thinks about the simple pleasure of Ava’s hand in hers, tying her to the earth.)

–

They’re sent out on more missions, now that Ava’s skills have been tested in more practical situations. Towns with small outbreaks; cities with suspicions. Ava tears the wraiths from their hosts, and the only blood she leaves is due to circumstance - a corridor too tight to survive a blast, or a group too big to cleanse all at once. She gets cocky, and careless, and bold - or, rather, she’s always been these things, and only once do they come back to haunt her.

Too many possessed; too busy flirting to notice. Beatrice has already rendered several unconscious - cleverly, and with a great deal of finesse - when Ava is caught unaware, skewered through with a clawed hand that must rip several of her internal organs.

But Ava is a God, and she does not fall without taking the final demon with her.

Beatrice falls, too. Falls to her knees and sobs, blood pooling through her fingers and onto the pavement. Of course she heals - just as she’s always done, and without the threat of Divinium - but it’s the fear that settles in Beatrice’s heart, the vision of an empty world and a faithless one, where she has no divinity left to pray to, no love left to hold her.

Ava says, “Bea,” with blood leaking from the corner of her mouth.

“Ava,” Beatrice says, hands fluttering around her wound, slowly closing up.

“I’m fine,” Ava says, but her grip is weak as she clutches Beatrice’s arm. “I’ll always be fine, as long as you’re here.”

And because it’s an old habit - because it’s a comfort - Beatrice whispers, “In this life and the next.”

“Not exactly,” Ava replies, grinning through her pain. “In this life and every other. You’re never getting rid of me.”

Beatrice will do more than hope. She’ll make sure of it.

–

Mother Superion is the one who finds her alone in the chapel at an ungodly hour of the evening, staring blankly at the cross. Beatrice is woven with rituals, some more successful than others, and she falls back to them when she needs them most.

“How is she?” Mother Superion asks, settling beside her in the pews.

“Resting,” Beatrice replies, twining the necklace around her fingers. “She’s fine. She heals - much faster than she did before.”

Mother Superion hums, recognizing an incomplete sentiment when she hears one. “And you are here because…?”

It doesn’t take much for the truth to spill out of her; fear has the debilitating capacity to either make us honest or better liars than we’ve ever been. “Sometimes I worry that I’ve become too narrow-sighted,” Beatrice confesses. “That my horizons should expand beyond her. But they don’t. I’m alive for her.”

“And this is a problem?” Mother Superion asks.

“Shouldn’t it be?”

“If it was your prayer that made her anew,” Mother Superion says, “then it is your duty to watch over her. The Church has changed, Beatrice, now that we have seen beyond the black and white of divinity. Ava is the Halo-Bearer, and she has a gift not of this realm. If you are anything,” she continues, “you are her Saint. You have become your namesake, Beatrice of Silva.”

–

(There is a reason gods need to be loved, Beatrice thinks later, curled around Ava in bed. She’s read every myth, every bible, from the Greeks to the Egyptians, knows every name of every god and the temples in which they worshiped. There is a reason gods need to be loved, beyond control and hunger and fear; beyond ruthlessness and manipulation and warring. Beyond jealousy and possessiveness and insecurity.

There is a reason gods needs to be loved, and its truth is almost stunning in its simplicity: because that is all anybody needs, to be loved, to know there is an offering for them in a dish, a flickering candle, a peeled orange, a hair tie and a necklace; all anybody needs is to know they are worthy of it, without proof or tangibility or service. There is a reason gods need to be loved, and it is because love is the only reason for anything to begin with.

Ava fumbles for warmth in her sleep, burying herself closer to Beatrice’s body, one leg thrown around her hips, a hand draped around her waist - and Beatrice no longer questions if she is worthy.

Beatrice’s God loves her back.)