#root

“Softer than I thought.”

Beatrice swallows, tries to decide what to do with her hands. “Pardon?”

“You.” Ava shifts, settles, face pressed to the soft grooves of Beatrice’s combat habit. Her words are rapidly dwindling as returning sleep laps at her, already gliding into some incoherent dream. “Comfortable here.”

And Beatrice loses herself for just a second, blood surging, breath hitching. On fire, beneath her skin. Aching deep. The flawed wanting - the sheer wanting of a flaw.

Three pairs of eyes come to rest on the two of them and then quickly dart away. Mary’s linger for the longest.

Ava doesn’t notice the attention; she’s already gone slack again, breathing slowly, mind somewhere far away from their escape. There’s some measure of salvation in that - but there’s no salvation in the burning in Beatrice’s core.

Only the single hand holding onto Beatrice’s clothes stays tight.