julesby10 - Tumblr blog

julesby10 · 2 years ago

Note

prompt: spidey bea and human torch ava I'm making you write it

The glow-in-the-dark hands of the alarm clock show the time to be just after midnight.

Illuminated by the lamp on her desk, Beatrice takes up the familiar rote of needle and thread to mend her suit from the various rips and tears. Tonight’s fight was quick, but brutal. She won the fight but not without her own casualties - the cuts and bruises on her body hurt, but they’ll heal by tomorrow.

The same can’t be said for her suit, unfortunately, which is why she’s sewing the rips and tears tonight.

Pinch, puncture; follow-through, tighten. Repeat. The repetitive motion of sewing is an oft-used exercise to ground herself after the dynamism of patrols and fights. Automatic, now, part of her nightly routine, but tonight she’s feeling more tired than she should be, and more than once she’s had to re-do her handiwork for how close or far it had been from the previous stitch.

A dog barking from a few doors down, muffled conversations from the couple next door. Sounds from the street below filter in through the window she left half-open; murmured chatter from pedestrians, the occasional static of tyres over wet asphalt.

Through the window and into the room, a small breeze wafts in, ruffling her hair and cooling the sweat on her face. It borders on cold; the weather seems unable to make up its mind between autumn and winter, but Beatrice is grateful that tonight it soothes instead of bites. The change in seasons however reminds her of the semester that she’s in the thick of, assignments and readings piling up and begging for her attention.

A sudden, sharp knock on the window and Beatrice startles, head snapping up, jumping off the chair and into a crouch, arm aimed halfway to the window to prep for a webshot, fingers poised over the trigger. When she sees who’s at the window though, her arm slackens, tense muscles relaxing.

Ava crouches outside her window on the fire escape. Her sneakers squeak on the grates, laces long and dragging over the black chucks that Beatrice knows she favours. Her hair is wind-ruffled from her flight over, and it doesn’t seem like she’s bothered by the chill in the air – always running hot, Ava’s opted for a crop top and light-wash skinny jeans. She grins at Beatrice through the glass and holds up a hand, fingers wiggling in greeting, her other hand on the strap of her tan backpack.

“Woah, Spidey! Good thing you’re against friendly fire, huh?”

The huff that leaves Beatrice is more relieved than annoyed. “Torch.” “‘Torch’? Bea! And here I thought we were friends.” Ava brings her hand to her chest and pretends to fall backwards, back almost hitting the railing behind her with how narrow the space is.

Beatrice, tired, doesn’t suppress her eye-roll, though she does stay her tongue from making a comment on friends.

She makes her way over to the window and jimmies it open. The fire escape is a commonly-used point of entry by necessity, and Beatrice knows from experience that it’s difficult to get it unstuck from the outside. Coupled with the rusty-looking railing, no building inhabitant is courageous enough to venture out, which more than guarantees that she gets in and out of her apartment without detection.

Beatrice barely opens the window wide enough before Ava moves forward, one leg over the ledge and ducking underneath the window to tumble in. The ancient landing of the fire escape grumbles with the shift in weight and the sound echoes to the stories below.

Ava makes her way across the room and lands heavily on the made bed, the mattress squeaking its disapproval underneath the sudden weight.

Now standing, Beatrice takes the opportunity to stretch her arms over her head. She bends to touch the floor with her palms and revels in the glorious stretch in her hamstrings and calves, ignoring the twinge in her muscles as she straightens and makes her way back to her desk, picking up her fallen suit from the ground. If she falls into her chair a little less gracefully than usual, Ava doesn’t remark on it.

The canvas flap of the bag is unlatched. Ava, brows furrowed, rummages in the pack with a focus like a hound on a scent trail, and Beatrice has to bite the inside of her cheek to tamp down her smile.

With a triumphant crow, she presents her spoils for the evening: a four-by-four Rubik's cube, coloured stickers worn and peeling, that she places on the quilt. A battered copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas thrown carelessly onto the bedspread, its heavily creased cover page making Beatrice wince internally.

Ava finally looks up and in her hand: a metal thermos, stainless steel silver and unassuming – extended towards Beatrice.

With a quiet thank you, Beatrice takes the thermos. Steam wafts up from the opening as she unscrews the lid, and the decadent aroma of coffee, expensive coffee, greets her tired senses. Her eyes flutter shut as she takes a sip, as the bitter flavour of it grounds her and rejuvenates her tired muscles in equal fervour, the warmth of it loosening the tightness in her shoulders and her back and returning them to their pseudo-limber forms.

She indulges herself with one more sip before once again taking up needle and fabric. A quick glance to her right shows Ava splayed out on the bed and entranced in the novel already, eyes roving over lines and thumb gently running transverse across the pages.

They exist in companionable silence. That is, until Ava pipes up, “Don’t you have an early class in the morning?”

Beatrice can feel the weight of Ava’s gaze on her. She must have swapped out her book for the Rubik's cube earlier; her hands don’t stop cede in their motion, the cube’s sides swivelling and clicking into place.

Beatrice hums noncommittally, backtracks on a stitch. “Something like that.”

The bed squeaks as Ava sits up and Beatrice hears the accompanying twin thumps as her elbows find purchase on the bedspread. “It’s that seminar with Vincent, right? Do you have to do this tonight?”

“Isn’t that why you brought me coffee?” Beatrice replies. She sees Ava scowl in the corner of her eye. Beatrice pauses her work and looks over at Ava fully. “Wait. How did you keep the flask and your other items from burning up? And your clothes, for that matter?” She’s certain that Ava flew over; the evidence of such may as well have been laid out on a platter for her.

“Were you eager for the alternative?” Ava husks.

Her voice is low; teasing. The change in tone is whiplash from the serenity of before, and all at once Beatrice feels the blood rush to her cheeks, and she ducks her head as her mouth works to stammer out a reply.

Thankfully, Ava seems to take pity on her. “My suit’s bulletproof and made of kevlar. I think Jillian also mentioned something about unstable molecules?” She can imagine the casual shrug that follows. “I’m not too sure, though I can ask her for you if you’d like.”

Beatrice’s hand jerks in her haste to answer, and she stifles the curse on her tongue as the needle pricks her finger. “Oh, no, that’s quite alright–”

“Bea,” Ava interrupts gently. Beatrice looks up, and she’s greeted with the sunny smile that Ava’s aimed her way. The Rubik's cube is stationary in her hands; half-done, colourful squares almost uniform.

“Jillian would love to pick your brain on material properties and other textile nerdiness,” Ava says. “You’re always welcome at Arqtech, and we’d love to have you there.” She picks at the worn edge of a red sticker and bites her bottom lip, before her teeth relinquish the flesh and she continues. Beatrice tries not to stare at the swell of it. “I’d love to have you there.”

There’s a sudden knot at Beatrice’s throat that makes itself known, the constriction of it tight like the ties she wore to the dinner parties where her parents rubbed elbows with political allies and blue bloods. Her presence then had been a tool for them, a way to form connections; a means to an end.

The pressure at her throat is present now, but in this space, it’s not nearly as unpleasant.

“Thank you, Ava. I’ll consider it,” Beatrice says, and she blames the gruffness in her voice to the late hour. To that, Ava only shoots her another warm grin, one that Beatrice mirrors a little shakily before going back to her mending. The rhythmic click-click-clack of the rubik’s cube soon starts up again, and they stay like that for a while.

It’s just past two in the morning when Beatrice finishes stitching the final rip. The needle pokes its head out of the fabric, and she winds the thread around it three times before pulling taut, careful to keep the knot flush to the cloth.

She snips the thread. Her hand goes out to reach for her lighter on her desk, but after fumbling for a few seconds and not feeling the familiar shape of it on the desk, she looks over, frowning when she doesn’t spot it. Dropping to her knees, Beatrice looks underneath the desk; maybe it fell off in her earlier shuffle.

“Here.”

A turn of her head and then suddenly she’s face-to-face with Ava, muscles tense and straining to avoid jerking back at the proximity.

Beatrice didn’t even hear her come near. Ava’s kneeling as well, the worn denim of her jeans meeting the rough of the carpet, body pitched forward slightly and leaning towards Beatrice.

Ava brings her hand up, fist half-formed. Beatrice is expecting to be presented with the vibrant yellow plastic of her disposable lighter, but among the slats of Ava’s fingers the lighter was not present.

Hand held equidistant between them both now, Ava brings her fingers together, thumb meeting middle finger. Her fingers snap, and Beatrice feels the friction of it run a mirrored course down her spine, although it’s hard to say if the heat that travels down each vertebrae surpasses that of the flame that now hangs suspended above Ava’s pinched fingers.

The light from her desk slants, edges; it doesn’t reach them here. The fire holds strong in an upwards laminar flow; a small handheld jet of flame, pale yellow and no bigger than a phalanx of a finger, and yet it still manages to bodily illuminate the space between them and bring to light the features of Ava’s face: elegant arches of eyebrows, gorgeous eyes, neat bow of her upper lip.

The flame is small, but Beatrice’s face warms, and she feels the heat of it caress her cheeks.

Ava extends her other hand, palm up. For a moment, Beatrice doesn’t understand why; she considers placing her own hand atop Ava’s before she shirks the thought off completely. The flame is small, it’s hot but bearable, but this close, if she were to touch Ava, she isn’t certain that she would be able to withstand the heat, isn’t convinced that the fire won’t spread from flame-tip and make its way down Ava’s hand and up her arm, traverse across shoulders and back to arm, to hand, to Beatrice, and set her ablaze.

(Would that be so bad? Ava’s always held a certain magnetism, an attraction that's counter-intuitive for one looking to avoid getting burned. She’s warm, always so warm; a quality intrinsic to her person that extends beyond the physical power that she yields. The heat of it bleeds into her smile, her humour, her kindness; it explodes in a nova blast when her ferocity shows in a fight, and radiates steady and protective like a hearth for the weary.

How can something with such destructive power simultaneously pose as an argument for healing and protection? Beatrice tells herself that this curious dichotomy is what brings her within range of Ava's gravitational pull: the itch to study and dissect, the thirst to understand.

Perhaps a closer examination will yield clearer answers. And so Beatrice longs to come close, to touch, and the desire to do so rips through her sternum almost violently, the suddenness and intensity of it surprising but no less welcome.)

She’s about to offer her hand in response to the invitation, but–

Both hands are occupied by the feel of smooth spandex. Beatrice realizes, belatedly, that to reach for Ava would mean to let go of the suit. She grips the fabric, feels the softness of it stretch and mold over her fists and, after a beat, relaxes. Looking down in the half-light, she squints to find the end of the thread, thumb smoothing over the cloth to find the knot that was made earlier. She pinches the spot to keep the place before handing it over to Ava, wordlessly, the flame still glowing radiant between them.

A small smile from Ava. The intensity of the flame must have increased by a fraction, because Beatrice feels the heat of it spread through her cheeks and down the back of her neck. Ava takes the suit from her and, carefully, she brings the flame closer until the tips of the thread shrink and melt.

With both of Ava’s hands occupied, Beatrice is the one that brings her fingers up to the stumped thread ends. One hand is placed underneath Ava’s to steady the hold while the other hovers over the melted polyester thread, and she presses the ends down firmly onto the fabric to seal the finished stitch onto the surface of the suit.

It’s done.

Beatrice inspects the workmanship under the glow of the flame; stretches the seam to test it and finds the strength of the mend to be satisfactory. It’ll hold.

The work is done, and yet –

The flame still burns.

She looks up to find Ava watching her, but Ava doesn’t shy away. The flame flickers, its body swaying back and forth between the two of them without rhythm, turbulence present, and the irregularity of its movements make shadows dance across Ava’s face. The fire moves in double-time as if making up for the rigidity from before, and it reveals and hides the dimensions of her face in a neat, net-zero sum.

The flame flickers. Closer to orange now, the hue of it is warmer and darker than the brightness of before. A little less luminous than previously, and it’s strange – it shouldn’t be hotter now than when it was bright-white, but somehow it is, it must be, because the heat against Beatrice’s cheeks is almost unbearable now, the cavern of her mouth dry like a desert storm, and when she swallows hard it doesn’t help at all, not even marginally, the scrape of it unforgiving against the roughness of her throat.

Beatrice leans in, sure that her face is flushing something fierce but unable to find the energy to withhold herself, and when her nose brushes against Ava’s, the small gasp that leaves her is a confession of sorts; when their lips meet, the admission is sealed between them like a secret.

A brief beat of separation. When they come together again, more sure this time, the sigh that escapes Beatrice is echoed in her mouth by Ava. She takes Ava’s bottom lip between her own and tastes the remnants of vanilla chapstick, and that familiar element alone makes the experience exponentially sweeter, sharper. Her hand foregoes fabric to rest on the nape of Ava’s neck, thumb brushing over the soft skin of her jaw and, with a slight nudge, she brings them closer together.

They break apart. Beatrice takes stock, with some difficulty, that all the air seems to have left her lungs, traded in for a roaring inferno that she now nurses inside her chest. Just as well, she thinks – fire can’t grow without a source of oxygen, and her body must have known that for it to cut off the supply.

Her lungs burn anyway. They crave for air.

(Beatrice wonders if it would be so detrimental to consume Ava, and to be consumed in turn. Surely, some kind of cosmic balance would be kept in their doing so.)

She takes one deep, shuddering breath. When that doesn't take her in a fit of combustion, she takes yet another, until her breathing comes in even-spaced intervals in an attempt to right the balance.

Her body’s doing its best to keep her alive but stil,l Beatrice leans forward, her grip on Ava’s neck tightening. Her impeccable balance is nowhere to be found.

One of her hands still cups Ava’s. It’s burning hot; not about to burst into flames, but the distinct fever-like body temperature is noticeable, almost like her control over her powers slips around Beatrice. Self-satisfaction is a rare indulgence for Beatrice; the feeling is almost foreign, but she’s not able to miss it with the way the heat licks at her belly, as it radiates from its epicenter on the left side of her chest.

“You’re heating up,” Beatrice says. The laugh that leaves Ava is breathless, disbelieving. “Can you blame me?” she replies. And then: “Is your suit – um. I held it a bit close to the flame. Sorry.”

Beatrice bends her head to examine the fabric: a small mark on the surface of the spandex near the thread-end. The dark blue of the material, combined with the waning light from the flame, makes it difficult to verify the extent of the damage. She runs a fingertip over it and tries to focus on the silkiness of the cloth instead of the tenderness of Ava’s skin.

Where the burn is, it still feels soft like the rest of the fabric – the damage is superficial.

She looks back up at Ava. “It’s fine. Thank you for helping.”

“Anytime,” Ava says, and Beatrice knows that the sentiment is truthful to the edges, buoyant in its honesty; it saturates the boundaries that define objects, and solidifies the parameters of subjects of a less physical nature, too.

Her throat tightens again in an imitation from earlier. Beatrice is flattered, but wholly unsatisfied. She feels greedy. She’s craving more; wants more.

She leans in and Ava does as well, and they’re about to meet at halfway but Beatrice's stomach growls and her body goes stiff as mortification freezes her in place. Ava only chuckles softly though, and she completes the circuit by kissing the corner of Beatrice’s mouth, then her chin, before resting their foreheads together.

“You’ve gotta be starving after tonight,” Ava says softly. “I think the Thai place down the street is still open at this time.” Her breath washes hot and damp over Beatrice’s lips, and Beatrice has to actively stop her body from succumbing to the intense urge to continue where they left off.

“I am.” Beatrice clears her throat, swallows once. “It is.” And it’s true – she’s been there so many times over the past few weeks that the owners have her order memorized.

Ava grins. “Alright then! My treat, let’s go.” The flame in her hand is extinguished with a flourish of folding fingers and she stands, extending a hand to Beatrice.

Even now, offers towards her are aplenty. (Beatrice tries not to think about being undeserving.) And now that Ava’s mentioned it, she realizes that yes, she’s hungry – inside her there’s an ache to soothe, a void to be filled; a hunger of a different kind, though not at all what Ava was making reference to.

(She tries not to think about that, either.)

Beatrice scoops up the suit from the floor as she takes Ava’s proffered hand. A quick jaunt of her limbs and she’s upright, and she folds her costume and places it on the desk in one smooth motion before reaching for her wallet and keys. Her phone, she holds in one hand. “Dr. Salvius won’t notice the missing funds from her pocket?”

There’s a particularly mischievous glint in Ava’s eyes. She doesn’t say anything, but she grins with teeth as her arm links through Beatrice’s before leading them out the door.

236 notes · View notes