Chapter Text
It snows on Christmas Eve.
It’s the light and fluffy kind of snow that starts off as powdered-sugar dusting and steadily builds into a layer and then a blanket and then a pile. The kind that settles thick but can be blown away with a gust of wind. The kind that can transform any place in the world into a winter wonderland.
In the case of the quaint little town in the outskirts of Scotland that Beatrice is currently staying, this snow turns the streets into the set of a genuine Hallmark movie, fit for a postcard. There’s a small but lively holiday festival taking place downtown by the square where they’d decorated a massive Christmas tree, effortlessly completing the picture-perfect Eve for residents and visitors alike.
The Christmas spirit is alive and buzzing in the air, infectious cheer filling every heart in town with warm happiness. Every heart except for one.
Snow kicks up around Beatrice’s boots as she walks down the unshoveled sidewalk, a soft whisper of snowflakes following each heavily booted step. There’s almost six inches of it covering the ground now, but it’s barely a hindrance to her as she heads steadfast towards the festival.
Because Beatrice is on a mission. A crucial mission.
A mission that’s far more challenging than anything she’s ever carried out in the name of the Order, more dire than retrieving divinium from smugglers, more daunting than battling Adriel and his followers.
A mission…to enjoy Christmas.
A part of her wishes that she’s being dramatic, treating this casual little outing like a dreaded and ill-gotten errand, throwing an internal tantrum to prove to herself that she’s above this celebratory nonsense. Because if she’s being honest, Beatrice would take immature petulance over genuine reluctance any day; she’d spent years carefully learning to overcome the former and too many years desperately suppressing the latter.
She wants to believe that this objection towards attending the festival is only because she’d rather spend the time working on what she came to Scotland for instead of indulging in something as fleeting and insufficient as ‘holiday cheer,’ but she suspects that the true reason for her aversion is something else entirely — something she refuses to put a name to.
Really, it’s just Christmas. Just a quick trip to the festival and the marketplace to pick up a few gifts. It’s not the end of the world.
She would know that better than most.
It’s been months since Adriel’s demise. Months since the brainwashed were finally freed and the followers scattered like the roaches they were. Months since the Arc powered down for what seemed like the final time. The cult-sanctioned apocalypse had vanished as swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared, already fading from the news cycle like it never happened.
And yet…
And yet.
It happened. It happened, it’s over, and now Beatrice is here.
Here, in some remote town in Scotland, off the grid but much too close to her hometown to provide any real comfort, hunkered down in a tiny little rental cabin surrounded by piles of research and a handful of gadgets computing calculations Beatrice can’t even begin to comprehend. That’s Dr. Salvius’s side of the partnership, in any case. Beatrice is just here to do the legwork.
It’s been months since Adriel’s demise and the two of them haven’t had a restful night since. Jillian, driven by some vague notion that her son is still somewhere in the other realm, and Beatrice, driven by risky hope that maybe she'd find Ava, had joined forces to chase down what Jillian simplified as ‘temporal distortions’ across the continent in search of a ‘weak spot’ that could potentially be amplified by the Arc. Despite her advanced understanding of science, quantum physics was never Beatrice’s strong suit (and certainly not interdimensional portals), and she understands maybe an eighth of what Jillian is talking about at any given moment.
It’s a strange partnership — polite and professional and sometimes a little distant even though both of their motivations are so incredibly rooted in loss and love — but it works. Jillian doesn’t like leaving her lab, and Beatrice has always excelled at following orders.
But there’s only so much they can take; they’d been at this for what ironically feels like years now, with not much to show for it.
And now it’s Christmas Eve and Beatrice is no closer to locating Ava and Jillian is no closer to reuniting with Michael and both of them had been absolutely miserable during their daily check-in call a few hours ago.
“Maybe we should —”
“Call it a day,” Jillian had interrupted, finishing Beatrice’s sentence with the exact opposite of what she was about to suggest. “This location was a bust. I’m sorry, I thought for sure the scanners picked something up, but…” She trailed off with a deep sigh, and even over the phone Beatrice knew that Jillian was rubbing at her temples with the heels of her palms. She apologized again. “We can start again in the morning, maybe consider that minor disruption in Edinburg we were talking about earlier.”
“All right,” Beatrice conceded. “I’ll keep an eye on the scanners until then in case anything changes.”
There was a pregnant pause on the other end. “…But. It’s Christmas Eve.”
The immediate answer that came to Beatrice’s mind was a stubborn and annoyed ‘so?’ but she held it back in an effort to remain civil. Which led her to stammer out an unformed, “W-…well yes, but I don’t…that doesn’t really…”
“Beatrice. Go outside for once,” Jillian urged, not unkindly but with a certain amount of maternal sternness that couldn’t be ignored or denied. “You said there’s a holiday festival going on there, didn’t you? Take a break. Pick up some presents for your friends. Do something other than stare at screens all day.”
And so now Beatrice is here. Here here. Marching towards the Christmas festival in the middle of a snowstorm (exaggeration) so she doesn’t have to get yelled at (another exaggeration) for not having a life (accurate).
But there’s one part of Jillian’s suggestion that Beatrice can agree with: presents for friends. Before she’d left the Order to chase potential portals across Europe, Camila and Yasmine had cornered her with heartfelt parting gifts: Camila a beautiful ceramic switchblade with a gilded handle — easy to conceal and pass through metal detectors during her travel — and Yasmine, in one of the kindest acts Beatrice has received, her treasured heirloom necklace — the one with a bead of divinium set in the center.
Just in case, they had both said. In case of what, they never clarified. And Beatrice hasn’t had any real use for either gift. She treasures them nonetheless.
Obviously she won’t find anything at this tiny little market that could possibly compare to those gifts, but Beatrice figures it’s better than showing up empty-handed the next time she sees them. Besides, it’s good to have a tactile aspect to this enjoy Christmas mission she’d bestowed upon herself, something physical to focus on when the emotional starts to fail.
The streets get busier the closer she gets to the town square, and soon she’s dodging around last-minute shoppers and festival goers alike, refusing to let up on her brisk pace as she beelines for the festival. She also refuses to acknowledge how everyone else is with someone, either in pairs or in a group, and that she’s the only one traveling alone. She refuses to acknowledge it, but she turns down a less populated side street all the same. It’s a short cut. That’s what she tells herself.
Beatrice turns another corner and there’s a taxi idling on the curb up ahead, wispy fumes trailing skyward from the exhaust pipe as the engine grumbles against the cold air. There’s a woman, shivering in only a thin sweater and house slippers, leaning down towards the open window of the back seat.
“Thanks so much for coming over tonight,” she’s saying to whoever’s inside. “Call me when you get home, okay?”
The passenger mutters something that Beatrice doesn’t catch, and the woman smiles and responds endearingly, “Yes, dear. I love you too.”
Beatrice walks past the exchange as if the last few words didn’t just viciously stab through her heart. The taxi pulls away as she passes, and her eyes unintentionally meet the woman’s. They’re a little sad — clearly over whoever just left — but not irreparably so; she knows she’ll see that person again. Probably soon. Probably within a few days.
How long has it been since Beatrice saw that level of faith in the mirror?
Her gaze must have lingered too long, because the woman offers Beatrice a polite smile and a quiet “Merry Christmas.” Though she tries to return the sentiment, the words get stuck in Beatrice’s throat; she only manages to pull on a tight smile and nod before the woman disappears into an apartment building.
She presses on, her steps slower and heavier than they were thirty seconds ago.
It’s fine. She’s fine. She’s on a mission. She’s supposed to be enjoying Christmas. She’s going to enjoy Christmas.
But then Beatrice arrives at the town square and thinks that maybe this poor attempt at self-care is about to become a harsh lesson in wishful thinking.
The festival is small as expected from a town this size, but it makes up for it in enthusiasm. String lights of all colors and sizes surround the entire square, clearly marking the boundaries of the festival as if the closed-off streets surrounding it weren’t enough of a giveaway. There’s no shortage of holiday cliches. Light-up decorations. Buzzing marketplace. Carolers. Hot drinks, mulled wine, sugary snacks.
It’s also jam-packed with people, and Beatrice suspects that everyone in town is out and about tonight despite the snow. Parents with kids, taking pictures and smiling as they marvel at the decorated tree. Couples young and old, holding hands and sharing warm drinks. Groups of friends, laughing rancorously and goofing off. Families of all kinds, enjoying the festivities. Children running around starting snowball fights.
All of it so perfect and picturesque. Beatrice feels uncomfortably out of place.
She heads straight for the cluster of stalls, eager to get in and get out as fast as possible. Maybe it’d be smarter to turn around and head back now before she’s overwhelmed by the sheer cheerfulness of this place, but Beatrice has never been one to back out at the last minute. She’s here. She’s doing this.
She forces herself to slow down once she enters the marketplace area, actually taking the time to stop at each stall and scan through their wares for something that Camila or Yasmine might appreciate. It’s been so long since Beatrice shopped for gifts and she’s admittedly at a loss. Would they really care for any of these things? Everything is handmade and expertly-crafted and perfect for a casual present, but she realizes she doesn’t know the two of them well enough outside the context of the OCS to get them meaningful gifts.
Then again, she figures she doesn’t know anyone well enough for meaningful gifts.
Well. Now Beatrice feels like she’s making herself miserable on purpose.
She’s browsing a small outerwear stand when she sees it. A thick wool hat, artfully knitted and lined with fleece on the inside. Inexplicably drawn to it, Beatrice picks it up and revels in its comforting softness, and suddenly there’s no stopping the thought from forming, the image blooming from the darkest corners of her mind no matter how hard she tries to suppress it: this hat on Ava.
It’s a warm, earthy gray that would go perfectly with her hair. It has ear flaps and little pom-poms at the end of each string, complete with a large one at the top that Beatrice can’t resist squeezing ever so gently.
She can practically see Ava’s childish glee as she yanks on the hat with so much enthusiasm that it covers her eyes, beaming up at Beatrice as she lets her adjust it properly on her head.
“Let’s get matching ones!” Ava would then suggest, and Beatrice would deflect and say that she’s not a hat person, that she can’t have her sense of hearing muffled with the ear flaps. And Ava would laugh at her paranoia, and Beatrice would insist it’s for their own good, and Ava would…
…and…Ava…
Before she realizes what she’s doing, Beatrice is sidling up to the register and pulling out her wallet. She forces her expression to remain neutral as the clerk rings her up, though she’s not even sure what she’s trying to hide or from whom.
“Is this a gift?” the clerk asks. A perfectly unassuming question that leaves Beatrice speechless for a long second. Is it? “We offer complimentary gift bags and packaging if you want,” the clerk continues in response to her silence.
“Uh. I — yes,” Beatrice stammers. “Yes, please.”
She fumbles with her money as the clerk wraps up the hat with festively-patterned paper. Surely this is going too far, this buying-a-present-for-someone-who’s-gone act that’ll end with her carrying this hat around everywhere she goes from now on, a permanent reminder of what she’d lost. And getting it wrapped? For what?
But it’s done. It’s done, it’s paid for, and Beatrice is walking out purposefully with a gift bag in hand.
She expels a quick, frustrated breath. Of course she would do this. Waste money and time and emotional energy on silly sentimental keepsakes that she’ll have no real use for when she has people in this dimension that she needs to find presents for. This is her break time; she can’t spend it thinking about the one person she’s failed to find.
Which is a useless sentiment, because now that she’s opened up the floodgates, Beatrice can’t stop thinking about Ava. She can’t stop seeing her everywhere she looks, can’t stop hearing her laughter joining in with the others.
Ava, soaking in the Christmas lights. Taking hundreds of pictures of the tree and the decorations. Eating too many candy canes and making herself sick. Eyes filled with wonder.
Ava, pinballing around the market. Insisting on buying a trinket from every stall. Chatting up vendors with ease. Sneaking purchases to surprise Beatrice with later on.
Ava, marveling at the snow. Trying to catch a snowflake on her tongue. Inevitably packing a snowball and declaring war on Beatrice. Making a snow angel with about a dozen puns to go along with it.
Ava, by her side. Sharing her hot chocolate. Holding Beatrice’s hand. Smiling that achingly soft smile and looking at Beatrice with enough tenderness to melt the snow around them.
Ava, —
Just…Ava.
And Beatrice isn’t used to this, this wanting. She’d given that up long before she’d taken her vows, and to feel it now so viscerally for something she can’t have is nothing short of agony. But she wants for nothing else. Not the snow, the festival, the merriment and joy permeating the air. Not even the very concept of Christmas cheer. She’d gladly watch it all disappear if it meant she could have one thing in return.
They’re never yours.
Her gut clenches.
None of that can ever be. Even if Ava somehow returns unharmed and unchanged, this isn’t the kind of life they can share. Ava will always have a destiny. Beatrice will always have a duty. Alternate dimensions or not, there’s no universe where the two of them can stroll through a holiday festival hand in hand without a care in the world.
Suddenly very, very tired, Beatrice drifts off towards the edge of the square to a quiet corner by the river where she drops down heavily onto an empty park bench. Though her back is mercifully to the festivities, it’s a different kind of loneliness to look out at the dark river while merry music and laughter drift through the air behind her. Like she’s in another world, cut off from the rest of them, unable to join in.
Beatrice tips her head back. The snow is petering out and the clouds are fading, revealing a scattering of stars above. She stares up at the night sky — at its vast, endless expanse — and wonders if it’s big enough to hold all of her unspoken, unexpressed feelings should she empty herself of them right here. All of her sorrow. Her guilt. Her anger.
Her hopelessness.
Because it’s simple math when it comes down to it — if you add up the time Ava’s been gone and multiply it by the time difference between this world and the other, and if you calculate the fact that she was fatally wounded, and if you consider how fundamentally different Michael and Lilith were when they came back, and if you…if you…
They never last.
Beatrice releases a shuddering breath and watches it fog up in front of her before closing her eyes, letting the last of the falling snow settle on her eyelids and spread pinpricks of cold across her skin.
Faith had always come so easily to her. Even in times where all hope seemed lost and there was no logical light at the end of the tunnel, she was never without faith.
But that was before she’d experienced love — genuine love both given and received — and now that she’s felt it, she knows faith will never compare. And in turn, what is that love in comparison to the utter betrayal of being left behind? Left alone with the burdensome responsibility of living, not necessarily because she wants to, but because she was asked to.
Ava had told her in the next, and Beatrice aches to be there. In the next, in the after of all of this.
She knows she’s not supposed to want that. So, instead, she fights to remain here in the present and utters one small, vulnerable confession into the darkness.
“I wish you were here.”
Her words are met with crushing silence.
Well, it’s not like she expected some kind of miracle. She’d forsaken God, it’s only fair that He’s turning a deaf ear to her prayers.
As Beatrice opens her eyes to glare back up at the sky, she feels nothing but disappointed resignation coursing through her tired body. This is it. This is her life now. Chasing a ghost. Grasping at invisible, possibly nonexistent straws as she chases distortions in reality that may or may not yield a functional doorway to a figment of a memory.
Echoes of her failures and shortcomings rattle around in her head, culminating into a dull, whining ringing that pierces through her thoughts. It’s certainly not the first time she’s failed at something, but in the grand scheme of things, it feels like the biggest —
She frowns.
No, the ringing isn’t in her head. It’s coming from her…chest?
Beatrice touches a hand to her sternum, and it’s not until her fingers brush against the lump beneath her sweater that she remembers that she’s wearing Yasmine’s necklace.
The divinium.
She jerks into action, joints stiff from sitting so still for so long in the cold, and claws at her neck to pull out the pendant by its chain. She feels the slight buzzing resonance before she sees it, the familiar flash of blue, the comforting glow of the otherworldly metal.
Several pieces of information slam into her brain one after the other at the speed of light. The divinium glowing like it does in the presence of the Halo. Jillian’s scanners picking up a disruption in the area. The Halo having to be close enough to Beatrice to make this divinium glow.
She’s on her feet in a flash, feeling faint and a little bit insane as she frantically scans the crowd. Can it be? How can it be? What changed? Why here? Why now?
She looks down at the pendant again as if it has the ability to tell her where to go, like it’s some holy compass that can point her in the right direction. The only thing it does is glow a little brighter, and Beatrice breaks out in a sprint back towards the festival.
It’s like playing the world’s worst game of hot and cold, using this tiny piece of divinium to try and find the source. That’s all Beatrice can refer to it for now, the source, because she’s searched for too long and too hard and anything less than what she’s been looking for will surely break her, because she can’t bear to hope right now.
She weaves through the crowded square, somehow managing to avoid colliding into anyone as she keeps one eye fixed on the pendant to note even the most miniscule changes in its brightness. This is impossible; Beatrice is only one person, and not a very tall one at that. She needs to get somewhere high where she can look down and pick through faces in the crowd.
The pendant flashes bright without warning, so bright that several people glance over curiously to see what she’s holding. She’s never seen divinium shine like this. She has to be close. She has to be…she has to —
Beatrice stops breathing.
There.
There, across the square by the picnic area.
A small, hooded figure, meandering idly through the tables, hands in her pockets, clearly looking for someone. Beatrice can’t see her face, but Beatrice doesn’t need to see her face. She knows that shape even through the thick jacket. She knows that walk even with heavy boots weighing it down. She knows. She knows.
But she still doubts.
It could be a trick, some kind of hallucination or a figment of her imagination that she’d conjured up from all of her moping. Or worse, it could actually be her, but altered and changed in some subtle way that’ll hurt worse than losing her completely. Or this could all be a dream. It’s not like she hasn’t had dreams like this before, chasing a familiar figure through the crowd only to wake up grasping at empty air.
Then suddenly the figure turns towards Beatrice and their eyes lock, and Beatrice doesn’t know why she doubted even for a second.
Even at this distance, even with a whole crowd of people between them, Beatrice can see her mouth split into the biggest smile as it forms her name, her entire body lighting up as she immediately breaks into a run.
Ava. Unmistakable. Undeniable. Sprinting right at her.
Beatrice is running too, squeezing through the crowd as she fights to reach Ava as fast as possible, both of them running desperately towards each other like they’re shooting some cheesy scene in a rom-com. As they draw closer and closer, she knows — not just from the extensive martial arts training but also from all the months they’d spent together — that she’s the one who has to stop because Ava absolutely won’t, so she skids to a halt and braces for impact.
She still staggers a little when Ava crashes bodily into her, boots sliding back a dangerous inch along the slippery snow, but she holds fast and tight and wills herself not to fall. She can’t fall, not now.
Beatrice regains her footing as Ava hugs her so hard that she feels it in her bones, somehow managing to sink into Beatrice with relief while vibrating with unbridled excitement. She’s laughing in short, breathless gasps, her grip and her weight and the way she nuzzles into her neck so achingly familiar that Beatrice’s knees go weak.
“Hi,” she mutters.
Beatrice also huffs out a laugh at the understated greeting. “Hi,” she returns, and loosens her hold. She doesn’t want to let go, she’d be happy to stay like this forever, but she has to let go for at least for a few seconds because she needs to see Ava’s face right now.
Ignoring Ava’s half-hearted protests and the way she tries to prolong the embrace for just a second more, Beatrice pulls away so she can look at her properly. Nothing about her is different — no significant aging, no visible scars from the explosion. Same eyes, deep brown and full of life. Same smile, wide and joyous and, as always, aimed directly at her.
It’s really Ava. Her Ava. Unchanged, unmarred, and very much alive. Here in her arms.
Beatrice doesn’t know what to say. She’d been so focused on the how and not the when, on the search and not the reunion, that she’s wholly unprepared for this moment, and with Ava looking at her like she put the stars in the sky, her mouth struggles to form the most basic words.
She settles for an obvious, “You’re here.”
“I am,” Ava agrees, smiling from ear to ear, cheeks pink from the cold. “I mean, like. Finally, am I right? You were so hard to find.”
Despite the moment, Beatrice pauses as an indignant scoff rises from her throat. “Are you…? I’m sorry, I was hard to find? You’re joking.”
Ava laughs, bright and warm. “Well, okay. To be fair, I knew you were in this area somewhere! I was trying to track — I guess this,” she says, tapping the now blinding pendant, “but you move so fast, Bea. Like, you’re at one part of town one second and then you’re all the way on the other side the next and then you come here of all places, into this gigantic crowd and you’re still moving at the speed of sound like damn girl, slow down for once! And trust me, it’s not easy to track that thing, so it just took…took some time.”
She trails off as Beatrice touches a hand to her cheek, her eyes fluttering shut at the touch. “But, uh. Anyway, yeah,” she whispers, “I’m here.”
“You are,” Beatrice confirms.
It’s a moment. As Ava gazes at her with that sunny smile and tender look, Beatrice knows it’s the moment — a perfect one, really — where she can lean in to close that tiny gap between them, where she can complete this magical night with an equally magical…
The sounds of the festival come crashing back down on her from all sides. The moment’s still there, it could still happen, but Beatrice was never one for an audience, and they’ve been blocking the path for longer than she was comfortable with.
Besides, there’s no rush. Ava’s back, here by her side.
There’ll be time for that later.
So instead, Beatrice brushes her thumb along the corner of Ava’s mouth, watching it stretch into a smile full of understanding and unspoken promises.
“Merry Christmas, Ava,” she breathes out, and immediately holds it when Ava leans in to rest her forehead against hers.
“Merry Christmas, Bea.”