Chapter Text
Tuesday is a normal day, until it abruptly is not. Beatrice is reading for next week’s seminar when Ava appears as if from thin air and slams her palm down onto the table next to Beatrice’s open book.
Beatrice does not jump. Few things surprise Beatrice. It is one of the things in which she prides herself most; she meets every situation head-on, eyes-open, mind already preparing a plan of attack.
The words that come tumbling out of Ava’s mouth prove to be an exception to that rule.
“I need you to give me a hickey,” Ava says, a little out of breath like she’s just run across campus to deliver this incredibly important mission.
“I…” Beatrice starts, brain going unfortunately muddled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I need you to give me a hickey,” Ava repeats, like Beatrice’s confusion was due to her teammate merely not hearing her fully, not that it’s a ludicrous string of words for Ava to direct at her.
“I—“ Beatrice furrows her brow, shakes her head, “— what?”
“A hickey.” The other girl helpfully points to a place on her neck halfway between her ear and her shoulder. “Like right here or something.”
Beatrice stares at the spot and, for exactly one second, imagines it. Imagines brushing Ava’s wind-tousled hair behind her shoulder and pressing her lips, the blunt edge of her teeth, her tongue to the area halfway between Ava’s jaw and shoulder and—
Beatrice slams her book closed far louder than she’d like to given that they’re in the library and she is desperately trying not to look like a flailing lesbian on the brink of a gay crisis.
Amazingly, her voice is only partially strangled when she asks, “Why?”
Ava flips her hair over her shoulder in a move disconcertingly similar to what Beatrice had just imagined and flops sideways into the seat next to Beatrice’s, one elbow on the back of the chair, one on Beatrice’s literature notes, knees pressing distractingly into the side of Beatrice’s thigh.
And, again, Beatrice prides herself on her quick-thinking, on keeping a level head in all situations, on being able to take in a wealth of facts and quickly and efficiently assimilate them into a cohesive argument or strategy. It’s her best skill, she’s been told (usually by Mary after a well-placed pass). It’s her best skill, and still. This–Ava’s absurd words and her body voluntarily and openly angled into Beatrice’s own–it’s… It’s a lot for her to handle all at once.
Though to be fair: Ava is a lot to handle. Something Beatrice has been learning and relearning ever since Mary dragged the small hellion sitting next to her onto the frisbee pitch last Fall.
Thankfully, Ava is talking, leaving Beatrice free to gather her disparate pieces before they go spinning out beyond the atmosphere.
“This guy in my geology seminar,” she’s saying quickly–of course quickly, Ava never does anything slowly so far as Beatrice has seen– “keeps giving me ‘The Eyes’ and I don't want it to be awkward because, like, I don’t want to date him, I just want his notes, see? But I don’t think he’d be as likely to give them to me if I just, hard no-ed, never-gonna-happen-ed him. Y’know?”
Actually, no. Beatrice does not know. She takes excellent notes and usually her concentration face is far too unapproachable for a classmate to ever mistake it for interest. Which is preferable, really. Much less awkward that way. And certainly much less… Whatever it is that Ava is going on about.
But Ava is looking at her so expectantly, like she assumes Beatrice must understand, like she out of all people is as magnetic as Ava just naturally tends to be.
Beatrice doesn’t want to leave her hanging. When it becomes apparent that that is all the explanation Ava thinks is necessary, she spins the wheels in her brain, desperate for some kind of traction.
Beatrice has had dreams like this (nightmares, really). Not this exactly, obviously (that would not be a nightmare, decidedly) but something similar. A professor calls on her in class to translate a section of text and Beatrice looks down only to find the words in front of her are not in any of the various languages she understands.
Beatrice abhors not understanding. It goes against the very core of who she holds herself out to be.
So, of course, leave it to Ava Silva to present her with an interaction that is both abrupt and wholly incomprehensible to Beatrice–two things Ava has shown herself to be time and time again since taking Beatrice’s life and ultimate frisbee team by storm.
And then of course, leave it to Ava Silva to, after essentially shaking Beatrice’s snowglobe of a brain, immediately look at Beatrice with those huge, expectant eyes that showcase every single emotion so clearly.
God in Heaven, that is a lot of hope to be on the receiving end of in the middle of the campus library at 2:43 in the afternoon. It makes Beatrice feel a bit dizzy, to be honest.
Beatrice takes a deep breath in, presses her palm and all five fingers flat into the solid wood of the table. Anything to gain some stability.
“And,” Beatrice says slowly, carefully, always carefully, testing each word like she would the river ice back home, “a hickey would... Help you?”
“Yes!” Ava nods enthusiastically, slapping the table for emphasis. At the jostling impact, one of Beatrice’s highlighters starts to roll away; Beatrice’s hand shoots out without a thought and catches it before it can make like her sanity and flee the scene.
“How. Exactly?”
Ava pauses for the first time since sitting down, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. Finally, Beatrice thinks. She’s not the only one confused by what is–
“How exactly do you give a hickey?”
“What?”
“What?”
They look at each other for a beat, before Beatrice clears her throat. “No.” Her ears feel like they’re on fire. “That’s not– Ava, no. How would giving you a hickey help you with this classmate of yours?”
“Oh!” Ava lets out a startled little guffaw, “For a minute there I– Never mind. It would help because then he’d get the picture that I’m, like, unavailable, but without me having to actually address it.” She accompanies the vague statement with some equally vague hand gestures.
“Are you? Unavailable?” Of the hundreds of questions swarming in her brain at the moment, this is the one Beatrice’s tongue apparently decides is most relevant to ask.
Ava shrugs, wiggling a little in her seat and wrinkling some of the papers trapped under her elbow. “To him, I am.”
“Right,” Beatrice says, turning back to the book in front of her and straightening the notes Ava has disrupted.
Never have 18th century misogynistic texts looked more appealing than in this moment, in the face of Ava’s current logic. At least Beatrice can piece a meaning together with this archaic vocabulary.
“And, I don’t suppose that simply telling him gently, but firmly that you only want to be friends would work, perhaps?“
“And risk hurting his feelings and jeopardizing my note supply?” Ava scoffs. “For such a studious person, you’re remarkably blase about me potentially failing this geology lecture.”
“If he isn’t adroit enough to accept when someone is or is not interested, then his notes can’t be that good.”
Ava rolls her eyes. “Well, it turns out that those things are not mutually exclusive.”
Beatrice isn’t so sure about that. She rubs her forehead, “What if Mary or I talked to him–”
Ava laughs, “And said what? ‘Our teammate needs your notes not your di-’”
“Language!” Beatrice cuts her friend off before she can finish the word she is certain was not about to be ‘dictionary.’
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Beatrice.”
Beatrice sighs heavily and studiously realigns the edges of her papers with her highlighter and pencil.
“Look, I let you run the show on the field.” Ava lifts an eyebrow that is a little too knowing, a little too accusing for Beatrice’s tastes. “Let me decide the game plan for this, yeah?”
Beatrice ignores that eyebrow and its implications in favor of flipping open her book again and finding the place she left off.
Ava leans forward–dear God, how is there anymore forward in which for her to lean?–and places both hands on Beatrice’s forearm as she says, “Just trust me. This will be better for everyone.”
Beatrice finds herself wanting to mutter an oath that would make her mother’s ears ring.
It’s the ‘trust me’ that gets her.
For how flighty Ava appears, she is surprisingly adept at reading people. Especially Beatrice. Or so it seems. But, perhaps, that is just confirmation bias. Beatrice has yet to allow herself to devote enough attention to the matter to study it thoroughly.
(It’s a direct echo of what Beatrice asked Ava to do when the excitable, impatient, yet absurdly talented freshman improbably made the team.
Surprisingly, when Beatrice had been the one saying those words, the situation had been no less fraught.
At the time, Lilith had been one step from kicking Ava’s ass for breaking yet another play. While Camila and Mary had worked on the hotheaded senior, Beatrice had taken it upon herself to speak to Ava. Typically, corralling newcomers was Shannon’s job, but since the older captain was studying abroad, the job fell on Beatrice’s uncertain shoulders. They were still ironing out the kinks of being a cohesive unit when Ava cannonballed into the mix.
Beatrice sidled up next to Ava’s pouting form on the sideline. “You just got here. Some of these girls have been playing for years. I know it’s hard to step into a team mid-stream, but you have to trust us. We may not be who you played with back home, but we’re pretty good.”
It wasn’t the last near-brawl, but it had been the start of something new. Or at least that was what Camila had decreed it to be after their first successful scrimmage.)
Ava’s words get her, because here’s the thing: Beatrice does trust Ava. The last season of playing Ultimate together has proven that.
As frenetic as Ava is, Beatrice knows she can be surprisingly capable and dependable in her unpredictability. Bea’s lost count of the ways Ava has stumped opposing teams with her unforeseeable moves on the field. Her methods may not be as painstakingly precise as Bea’s own, but. She will freely admit the girl has an eye for strategy. Of a sort.
And that's to say nothing of her trust in Ava as a friend. Somewhere along the way, Ava wormed her way into their tight knit group and became a staple in their social lives, even outside of team-related outings. When Beatrice had broken up with her ex a couple of months ago, it was Ava surprisingly out of everyone on the team who had been the most supportive and present when Beatrice needed her to be.
So. Yes. Beatrice clearly trusts Ava.
It’s just…
Beatrice isn’t sure she trusts Ava’s judgment in this particular situation.
And not just because her professed logic is questionable–though, really, what sort of roundabout solution is this? To say nothing of how uncertain, let alone unsustainable it is–but, because Beatrice is certain it is not based on a full, complete understanding of the situation. Even a good argument can be rendered impotent when built on unsteady ground.
The truth of the matter is that Ava simply does not have all the facts at her disposal.
The most glaringly relevant one being: that Beatrice has what Camila has diagnosed as “a big fat lesbian crush” on Ava. One which Beatrice has been desperately trying to crush (god, Ava really has been rubbing off on her; even in her head she’s mirroring her stupid puns) for some time now.
Beatrice is certain that if Ava knew her true feelings her friend wouldn’t have chosen her for this particular mission. She’d be no better than the very boy Ava is trying to outmaneuver.
It is with that harsh comparison glaring neon in her head that Beatrice rejects her impulse to immediately come to Ava’s aide.
Regardless of her own feelings, the impulse is strong. Ava asked her for help. And that’s what teammates, what friends do: they help each other. Ava helped Beatrice with her break-up, as messy and protracted an unenjoyable as that had been. All Ava is asking for is thirty seconds of Beatrice’s time.
And of course, a sizable chunk of her sanity. But that is neither here nor there.
Just the thought of pressing her mouth to Ava’s skin makes her blood rush like she’s running sprints and her thoughts go a little sunshine-fuzzy. She doesn’t want to imagine the effect of actually doing it would have on her.
It’s then that another important question occurs to Beatrice. “Why me?”
Ava looks at her like she’s just suggested the Pope is possessed. “Why not you?”
Beatrice tries very hard not to flush at that response, as grammatically poor as its construction may have been, Beatrice is surprised to find it no less affecting.
She presses her fingers to the edges of her book. She swallows the desire to plumb Ava’s words for every ounce of meaning. She stuffs her pleased little reaction down deep in one of her mind’s various hiding spots.
“Surely there is a pool of eligible partners that would jump at the chance to, to assist you with this certain task.”
Ava grins, “You make it sound like I’m asking you to be my partner in a presentation.”
Oh, if only it were that simple. “It is a type of collaborative transaction, yes. Or so you seem to think.”
“Well, yeah, but. Come on, Bea. It is a little more delicate than that.”
Beatrice widens her eyes and tilts her head as if to say, ‘exactly my point.’
Ava shifts in her chair, rests her foot on the rail underneath Beatrice’s own. “I don’t want just any person sucking on my neck.”
Ava’s lip twists in displeasure at the suggestion. A move Beatrice finds herself wanting to mirror. The thought of some random coed pawing at Ava, even for as disingenuous a reason as this, has Beatrice’s stomach twisting as well.
“Besides,” Ava adds, “then I’d have to deal with that person’s interest and it’d be the same problem all over again. Like one of those mobile strip things– Y’know, the drawings of the endless loops.”
“Möbius strip,” Beatrice corrects automatically, causing Ava to smile brightly. That smile that she reserves especially for when Beatrice’s nerdiness shows. (It is a smile Beatrice sees a lot.)
“Exactly.”
Beatrice has to look over Ava’s shoulder, focus on the spines of the books on the shelf behind her friend. That smile of Ava’s is just a little too sunshine-bright to think clearly while looking directly at.
Ava, now drumming her fingers on Beatrice’s forearm, is still talking. “So, you see, Bea: that’s why you’re my only choice. Don’t have to worry about any of that with you.”
And oh, she looks so adorably proud it twists something in Beatrice’s chest. Ava, bless her, damn her, looks like she’s just solved the rubik's cube that had been besting Beatrice.
She’s so pleased with herself, smiling at Beatrice with that insufferable, smug look that drives Mary up a wall. It’s so infectious Beatrice herself almost falls for it. Even knowing there is no actual reason for looking so triumphant, seeing as the issue is very much still an issue here, regardless of what Ava thinks.
Speaking of which, what does Ava think exactly? Masochistically, Beatrice needs to know, to understand all things including why Ava doesn’t view her as a person who runs a risk of romantic entanglement.
“Because I’m…” She prompts, leaving it hanging. Of the many descriptors available, she’s curious to see which Ava will choose.
A friend? Particularly nun-like? A girl?
A particularly mournful part of her offers the last option. As far as Beatrice knows, Ava has only ever shown concrete interest in boys. Or rather, one boy. But ever since he and his questionable friends dropped out last semester, Beatrice hasn’t seen Ava getting cozy with anyone.
Besides, if Ava was into girls, why would she think this was a reasonable proposition to request of Beatrice, her explicitly gay friend?
Actually…
Now that Beatrice is thinking about it, regardless of Ava’s sexuality is it not a little strange that she picked her? Yasmine or any of the few other straight girls they’re friends with would have been a far safer choice.
Or is that an antiquated, overly sexualized way of thinking? Is this just a hold-over from her catholic school days?
Thankfully, before Beatrice can flounder in that particular sea of anguish any longer, Ava reaches a hand out and saves her.
“Because I trust you,” Ava says emphatically. Like the answer is obvious. Like Beatrice should have known that already. Ava’s thumbs sweep encouragingly over the sleeve of Beatrice’s navy sweater.
Beatrice really wishes Ava would stop saying that. Every time is like a piece of kindling tossed on the already blazing fire in her heart. Any more and this crush will surely consume her whole.
“So, what do you say, Bea?” Ava bounces a little more in her seat, every bit the excitable puppy. “Will you do it?”
So badly, Beatrice wants to say ‘no.’ Really. She does. It’s the safer choice. The smarter choice. The more reasonable choice. All of which are her usual bailiwicks–or at least, they are in all matters not regarding the girl looking at her expectantly now.
So it’s only natural that what she says instead is, “Fine.”
Ava, of course, squeals in triumph. Beatrice, of course, quickly clamps a hand over her mouth in panic.
If Beatrice’s earlier book-slam didn’t disrupt everyone within a three aisle radius, Ava’s gleeful exclamation definitely will. Beatrice grimaces, flicking her eyes around them to make sure no irate librarians appear to remove them from the premises. Ava, undeterred as usual, merely grins from behind Beatrice’s fingers.
Oh.
Masking her reaction to the surprising feel of Ava’s lips against the pads of her fingers with a stern look, Beatrice drops her hand back to the safety of her lap where it flexes uselessly against the familiar fabric of her trousers.
“Thank you, thank you, thank youuuuu!” Ava sing-songs in what is blessedly a relatively quiet whisper for her.
“Of course,” Beatrice nods. Then nods to herself once more. Because this is what her life apparently is now. A series of tortuous hurdles to navigate and Beatrice nodding her way through them ad infinitum. Maybe her parents were right…
Nope. Beatrice settles her eyes back onto the text in front of her. Her current mental state is frayed enough as is, without revisiting the traumatic can of worms that is her relationship with her family.
It takes her a second to notice that Ava has not moved. Is still leaning expectantly into Beatrice’s personal space, one hand clutching the back of Bea’s chair, the other once more messing up Beatrice’s study materials.
“What–” Beatrice sputters, “You mean right now?”
“I mean…” Ava shrugs like she’s suggested they take a coffee break. “Why not?”
“Because this is a library, Ava. Not one of yours and Camila’s bacchanalian drama department parties?”
“Oh, come on,” Ava scoffs at Beatrice’s reticence, “don’t pull that nun charade with me, Bea.” And oh, that smile is way too knowing for Beatrice, really and truly. Before she can spiral too far, Ava’s expression shifts into something less dangerous, more obviously joking. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about making out in here.”
Beatrice has. She definitely has. Most recently: not but three minutes ago, actually.
But Beatrice would sooner take a frisbee to the face, skip a quiz-day in class, even, than admit it to the subject of said thoughts. She clings to the ever-familiar facade of propriety and says, “Ava, this is a place of learning,” in her best scolding tone. She’s very good at that tone. Another of her gifts, really.
Unfortunately, one of Ava’s gifts is ignoring any and all deterrents once she has decided on a course of action. Which is apparently what she has done now, if the wild waggle of her eyebrows is anything to go by.
Oh no. Beatrice knows that look. It usually precedes a break in the afore-agreed-upon-play or a disastrous prank. Both of which usually result in Lillith red-faced, come to think of it… Not that Lillith is here at the moment (small mercies). No, it’s just her, and, and Ava. And that mischievous look spreading across Ava’s grinning face.
Beatrice straightens her shoulders. Braces for the impact she senses is coming.
“Come on, Beeeea,” Ava wheedles. “There could be plenty of learning involved.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense.” She scrubs her hands across her face, tries to dispel the very present thought of making out in the library. With Ava. For real. Not because she’s trying to shake off some boy’s attention.
It’s amazing how effective the image is, even with Ava playing the part of a bad pornographic lead-in.
Pressing Ava up against the shelf. Feeling her body moving insistently against her own. Dragging her off to one of the study rooms for more privacy before her next class—
“Wait,” In the real here and now, somehow, amazingly, Beatrice’s mouth is still managing to participate in Ava’s chain of illogical phrases. “How did you even know I was here?”
Ava rolls her eyes, still grinning. “It’s Tuesday. You always hang out here between lunch and your Latin seminar.”
Beatrice is caught off guard by Ava’s matter of fact tone. That is… Completely accurate, yes. Beatrice didn’t realize her routine was so remarkable as to be noticed by her teammates.
“Speaking of which. I know you have class in a little while, so what do you say, Bea? Wanna give it to me now? Our own little quickie.” At Beatrice’s immediate flush, Ava quickly corrects, “Sorry, bad joke. Um, but if not now, I could come over later after practice tonight, but I’ll probably be kinda gross and sweaty tho–”
“No.” Beatrice cuts across herself more sharply than she intended to. Anything to stop Ava finishing her sentence and sending Beatrice’s brain down a fresh new tunnel of torture. “Now is– Now is acceptable. Let’s just… Let’s just get this over with so I can go back to this paper.”
“The enthusiastic response every girl wants to hear,” Ava deadpans. Or as deadpan as she can ever get with those eyes that are always conveying something–be it laughter, anger, or every emotion in between.
“Do you want me to give you a hickey or not, Ava?”
“Yes, please.”
Then with surprisingly little fanfare considering the length of the run-up to this point, Ava is hopping up into the table, heedless of Beatrice’s papers and books and fragile sanity, and dragging Beatrice to her feet to stand between her knees. Mother of God full of grace, their hips are close from this position.
They’re not even touching yet and Beatrice is feeling lightheaded. Maybe that’s just from how fast she stood up, though?
Ava hooks an ankle behind Beatrice’s leg to pull her closer. The result: Beatrice’s thighs lean into the edge of the table, bracketed by Ava’s knees.
Beatrice swallows. Definitely not vertigo.
“Come on, Bea, I don’t bite.” A broad, egregiously pleased smile stretches across Ava’s face. “That’s your job here, remember?”
Beatrice blushes to the tips of her ears at the reminder. If she gets this flustered by the suggestion alone, how is she going to actually be able to go through with the act itself?
Ava looks absolutely beyond delighted at her friend’s newfound tomato-esque complexion.
Beatrice has no idea what to do with her arms. What the Hell is she supposed to do with her arms? She hooks her hands in her pockets. There. That seems…appropriately casual.
“Wait. Beatrice, you have done this before, haven’t you?” Ava suddenly asks, eyes wide, when Beatrice makes no move, just continues to stand there stiff as the Queen’s Guards. All that’s missing is the beaver ha- Nope. Beatrice wipes the thought from her mind lest she somehow subconsciously set off a series of Ava-level beaver puns. “I thought you and—“
“Yes,” Beatrice answers before Ava can mention her ex-girlfriend's name. “I have. I just… Haven’t done it platonically.”
Ava snorts.
“I’ve never just left a hickey on someone without doing…” Beatrice clears her throat, attempts to clear her mind of the images clamoring forth at the thought. “Other stuff. I’m attempting to figure out the best way to execute this plan without crossing any boundaries.”
“So I’m not allowed to grab your ass while you’re doing this, then?”
Beatrice gives her a dark look to cover up the thrill racing down her spine at the suggestion.
“Kidding! I’m totally kidding,” Ava laughs. “There will be zero ass-grabbage. Scouts’ honor.” She holds up three fingers, then takes pity on Beatrice. “Here. May I?” At Beatrice’s reluctant nod, Ava gently pulls her hands from where they’re hiding, squeezes them once, and places them flat on the table on either side of her hips.
It puts them much closer together, Beatrice leaning into Ava’s space now. So much so that Ava has to tilt her head back to keep from bumping noses.
Oh.
“Good?” Ava asks quietly, palms running up Beatrice’s arms to rest comfortably on her elbows. For such a chaste touch, it has Beatrice’s blood running surprisingly hot, the movement carrying energy up her arms and down her spine.
No, Beatrice wants to grit out. Probably would, too, if her brain were anything other than a series of dial-up sounds. This – sharing breath with Ava, standing so close she can count every single one of her mockingly long eyelashes – is somehow so, so much worse than awkwardly standing there like a mannequin like she had been doing a few moments ago. Goodbye frying pan, hello fire.
Through the thick fabric of her sweater, Beatrice can just feel the beginning traces of heat from Ava’s hands. She’s torn between rejoicing over having worn long sleeves today and cursing over having worn long sleeves today; it means that she can’t feel Ava’s warm fingers against her own skin. Small blessings, small curses: same coin, different sides–
Wait.
How long has it been since Ava asked her question?
“Yeah,” Beatrice finally answers, voice low just like Ava’s had been.
Rather than focus on just how inviting the curve of Ava’s bottom lip is, Beatrice focuses on the task at hand. Helping Ava. Helping a friend.
She shouldn’t even be looking at Ava’s lips. They’re not even going to actually kiss. That certainly was not discussed as part of the plan of attack. Beatrice is simply going to give Ava a hickey. Nothing romantic. No big deal. Just… Going to put her mouth on the soft line of Ava’s neck with the express purpose of marking the pristine expanse of skin.
Beatrice swallows. Easy.
“So where did you—“ She gestures carefully with her chin to Ava’s throat. God above, they really are close.
For a long, honeyed moment, Ava just looks at Beatrice, her eyes going heavy-lidded at their closeness. Then she blinks. “Oh! Yeah, so he sits at the lab table to the left of me, so… My left, your right?”
Beatrice nods. Ava tilts her head to the right, baring the left side of her throat. Like a magnet, Beatrice’s gaze zeroes in on the chosen area.
Unthinkingly, she lifts her hand to brush Ava’s hair behind her shoulder.
(That’s a lie, she thinks very hard about the action, is very careful to keep her movements precise so as not to accidentally touch Ava’s neck or jaw in the process even though her fingertips are screaming for it. Ava shivers all the same.)
“Sorry,” Beatrice says, quickly returning her hand to the tabletop where it’s safe. (As safe as anything is in this situation.)
“S’okay.” Ava’s voice is just this side of shaky as Beatrice leans in. It causes the taller girl to still, lips just shy of actually brushing Ava’s body.
“Are you sure about this?”
She’s so close she can hear when Ava swallows before answering. “‘Course,” Ava gives Beatrice’s elbows a reassuring squeeze. “Like I said: I trust you.”
And really, after that, what else is there to say?
Beatrice lobs a quick prayer for strength heavenward and leans forward, pressing her lips to the maddeningly soft skin of Ava’s throat.