fic: love thy neighbor
chapter title: crawl inside, wait by the light of the moon
note: Another day, another AU - but this time make it collaborative! A dual effort by @kendrene and I to bring you some 'new neighbor AU' goodness and we are stoked about it.
The third time she hears someone curse loud enough to be heard through the walls, Beatrice gives up on the book she’s reading. It wasn’t very engaging to begin with, but she was going to give it considerable effort as it was the only book Lilith would even entertain for this month’s book club.
A voice not unlike Mary’s whispers that she can find the summary online and Lilith will be none the wiser. But she ignores that voice. She’ll just… try again. At another time. When whoever has moved into the apartment next to hers isn’t educating her on curses in… she thinks she recognized the Portuguese word for shit, but her rudimentary Portuguese greetings were reserved for her parents’ counterparts from Brazil and they certainly never used that kind of language with her.
The person - a woman, she assumes - swears again. Beatrice makes a face. Her last neighbor had been quiet, even in his death. She hadn’t noticed he was deceased until she knocked politely at his door to return his mail. And even then, the whole affair had been quick, neat, and silent.
This woman is none of those things, based on the fact that Beatrice has been dealing with this racket for what seems like hours and the various, numerous boxes spilling out into the hallway that start in front of Beatrice’s door and continue right into the next apartment. Some of them are open and most have large letters scribbled on them in marker, but no matter how she turns her head, Beatrice can’t make out any of the words.
“Hello?” she calls into the hallway, one foot still solidly in her own apartment. it’s never seemed so cramped here before now. “Excuse me?”
Something heavy and metallic drops and then there’s another curse - definitely merda this time - and the sound of something hopping in her direction. Beatrice pulls back, nearly ducking into her apartment and closing the door quickly, but before she can, a woman appears in the hallway, holding one foot in her hand as she balances precariously on the other.
“Oh. Wow.”
Beatrice frowns. “I’m sorry?”
The woman smiles crookedly. “I said, oh. Ow.”
No you didn’t, Beatrice wants to argue. But she doesn’t even know this woman. She looks young, hair cut to her chin and half pulled back, a cutoff shirt hanging off her frame and just above her navel. Her frown deepens. The woman looks hardly older than a university student. And Beatrice already lived through university-aged girls before; she has no intention of doing it again.
No, this won’t do.
She thinks about the diplomatic approach: introduce herself, how long she’s been living here, slip in a comment or two about the decorum of the third floor that she’s purposefully cultivated by surrounding herself with retirees. Her parents would approve of that. But the woman is still smiling, head tipped in curiosity now, and she’s waiting expectantly for Beatrice to say something.
Can you keep it down? Beatrice is sure those are the words she settles on saying, once the thought process behind them completes. While it would work best to be polite, the banging and the cursing did go on for some time. And, judging from the number of unopened boxes still awaiting in the hall, there may be a whole sleepless night of noise ahead. Unless Beatrice puts her foot down. Like, now.
“You look like you could use a hand,” is what comes out of her mouth instead, the moment the new girl’s fingers grip firm around her own. Her hand. Beatrice has never been more conscious of the tiny, bird-fragile bones moving within it, the play of sinew under her skin. The thunder of her pulse trapped against a palm that’s warm, but not sweaty. Calloused but not rough.
“Boy, could I!” Her new neighbor pumps their joined hands up and down, and it’s a miracle she manages to do so while remaining upright. Her other hand is still clutching her foot - the crash Beatrice heard tied to that, clearly - so she’s balanced on one leg, precarious, like some weird, noisy bird.
Although, what she really reminds Beatrice of, is an overenthusiastic dog.
“Guess I should give you your hand back before I can use it, uh?” Heat scalds Beatrice’s chest, spilling past her collar. She clears her throat, staring at the space between them. New girl is indeed still gripping her hand. Beatrice slowly lets go.
“It might speed things along, yes.”
New girl steps back with a grin, both feet back on the ground, and points at a pile of boxes. “Wanna start with those?’ Of course she picked the furthest stack from her door.
“Sure,” Beatrice grabs one of the boxes at random, balances another on top. Finally, with her nose practically merged to the cardboard, she can spell out a word. It reads: rocks.
Odd.
//
Much later that night, the evening sky an indigo smudge framed by the bars of the fire escape outside her window, Beatrice is in bed and cannot fall asleep. It’s not that there’s noise. Ava - that’s new neighbor’s name - has pinky-promised she would tone it down, and to her credit she’s managed.
Beatrice can hear her at times, the natural order of things in a building where walls are no thicker than wet wipes. It’s neighborly sounds: the shower running, a TV turned on low. The snatch of a song hummed tragically off tune.
They’re different sounds, is the thing. Sounds she’s not had time to grow used to. Old Mr. Whittaker - Witkins? - he didn’t sing. He rarely even used his TV. How he moved around the apartment had been different, too. Beatrice can’t be 100% sure, but she’s pretty certain Ava actually skips from room to room.
A version of Call Me Maybe so mangled it barely resembles the original tune reaches her ears, and Beatrice is tempted to go close the window. She likes letting the late spring breeze in, though, that it smells of green things in bloom and summer to come. Plus, the fire escape is only accessible to tenants, locked on ground level behind a gate that opens with a code, so the whole arrangement is really quite secure.
Eventually the off-key singing stops. All sounds of traffic die. Beatrice falls gradually asleep, but the weight on her chest - the sense of unease that comes with having her routine so thoroughly disrupted - doesn’t lessen at all.
A weight on her chest wakes her, struggling to breathe, in the dead of the night.
“Vince.” A voice she’s become painfully familiar with, whisper-hisses right outside the window. “Vincent, come the fuck out of there, now.”
Meow.
Beatrice freezes, immobilized. Every muscle group tenses in a methodical, frequently-practiced manner, starting with her toes up into the joints of her knees and into her hips. They’re tight, coiled, ready to jump at this sudden intrusion and disengage with this attacker.
But her training fails her as the weight on her chest shifts and slides. She inhales, air like ice in her lungs, as something pin-sharp digs into her bare collarbone.
In the dark, it takes her an excruciatingly long moment to put an image to the sensation on her chest as her eyes adjust to the sliver of moonlight coming in through the window.
The open window.
Where Ava, the woman who seems to be entirely made of catastrophes, is trying to wiggle under the frame, one hand outstretched as she hisses, her own voice cat-like.
The cat on her chest merely shuffles closer to the hollow of her throat as pointed claws sink further into her skin. They’ll leave a mark. Thick, soft fur sticks to her bottom lip and she strains her head backward so she doesn’t accidentally breathe it in. It seems to only invite the cat closer as it slides, boneless, into the space she creates.
“Excuse me,” she says quietly into the cat’s fur.
It purrs loudly, an odd sensation against her breastbone, not entirely unpleasant.
“Vincent,” Ava hisses again. “I’ll send you back, don’t think I won’t.” Something rattles, the point of a knee against glass, and Ava makes a pained noise in the back of her throat.
“I’m- shit.” There’s a loud shuffling noise and a deep groan as shadows dance across her bedroom wall and create a large, crouched and pointed shape.
Beatrice turns her head as Ava crawls in through the window, body contorting in a way that it shouldn’t. There’s a low hiss, a slight growl. Ava wiggles through the opening, landing on her hands, her legs suspended outside above the fire escape for a moment before they slip in after the rest of her body as she collapses into a heap on the floor.
Beatrice feels the floor shake as Ava lands hard on top of it. The cat - Vincent - doesn’t seem bothered by the noise, purring loudly and nosing his way into the curve of her neck.
“I’m so sorry,” Ava whispers, voice strained. “Oh my God, Vincent.” The backs of her knuckles dig into Beatrice’s skin as she wiggles her way under Vincent.
That sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant either, but Beatrice doesn’t linger on that, all of her attention on the way Vincent’s claws dig into her skin and hold on. He yowls, scrambling out of Ava’s arms and darting away in the darkness.
Air rushes back into Beatrice’s lungs. She blinks at the ceiling until she looks back down at her chest. Ava is staring at her hands, still over Beatrice’s sternum, face pinched in thought.
“Excuse me,” she says again.
Ava, unlike Vincent, startles and takes a staggering step backwards. She trips over Beatrice’s slippers, placed parallel to her bed, and falls. The floor shakes again.
"Are you okay?"
For the second time in the span of a few short hours, Beatrice ends up saying something she immediately regrets. She should be angry. She’s furious. She’s -
Ava sits up, peeking over the edge of the bed, and refracted moonlight falls across her face. It casts a silvery aura around her, a nimbus, a halo. Her forehead is still scrunched up, in pain perhaps, but when she notices that Beatrice is staring, her expression changes.
“Is it too late to say I’m sorry again?” Ava offers a sheepish grin, a small shrug.
“It’s too late.” Ava winces, and because a sensation close to the kind of regret one might feel after scolding a child spears through a part of Beatrice she wasn’t aware existed, she hastens to add. “Timewise. It’s - what time is it, actually?” The cold, clipped tones of her initial reaction had made her sound too much like her mother.
“Uhm.” Ava’s eyes flick to the digital clock on the nightstand. “You don’t wanna know.”
Beatrice sighs. Then sneezes.
“Oh, shit, are you allergic?”
“I don’t know.” Another sneeze. “I never had a cat climb on me before.”
“Yeah.” Ava shifts to her knees. “About that.”
“You’re sorry?”
“He’s new.”
“Like you?” A thud, followed by the roll of something heavy across the kitchen’s floor, prevents Ava from replying. She just peers through the open door of Beatrice’s bedroom, mouth open, eyes wide. A second louder thud reverberates through the apartment. The distinctly metallic sound of tin cans dropping on tile.
“I think Vincent got into your cupboards. We should probably -” Beatrice is already out of bed, flicking lights on as she goes. “ - get him.” Ava scrambles in her wake.
In the kitchen they waste a good half hour and two cans of premium Albacore tuna trying to coax Vincent out from the cabinet under the sink.
“It’s not his fault, really.” Ava tells her, somewhat muffled, while she twists her upper-body around spare bottles of dish soap and stove detergent. She’s got a knack for wiggling into tight spots, Beatrice thinks, crouched behind her with a flashlight. Hopefully, Ava’s head is wedged so far up the crawl space beneath the sink she cannot hear the sharp intake of air subsequent to that thought.
Beatrice runs a hand through her bed-tousled hair and vows to never let her mind wander in that direction again.
“Right.”
“I mean it!” Hiss. “I got him from the shelter. Poor Vince, was all alone.”
“I am starting to see why.”
“You don’t understand.” Ava shimmies back, emerging from the bowels of the cabinet with a scratch on her cheek but absent a cat. “They wanted to put him down.” Her bottom lip quakes slightly, and she blinks up at Beatrice rapid-fire, like the idea dislodged a landslide of other memories inside her. “I couldn’t leave him behind.” She scrubs at her cheek, and her fingers come away red. “How much cleaning stuff do you own, anyway?”
“Well, you must use beeswax for wood. And cast iron pots require -” Beatrice’s teeth snap shut around the rest of a tirade Ava probably has no interest in. “It doesn’t matter. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m… sorry?”
“Don’t be. Just come here.” Beatrice stands, extending a hand and hauling Ava to her feet. “Wash your face in the sink. I’ll grab the first aid-kit.”
“But Vincent…”
“He’s safe enough in there. Leave him until after we’ve cleaned this.”
She takes a moment longer with the first-aid kit than she needs to, poking around the cabinet it’s logically stored in like she hasn’t recently restocked the one bandage she’s used in the last month. Ava is none the wiser, standing at the sink and staring at the dark gray microfiber hand towel Beatrice keeps next to it, lost in thought.
Beatrice takes a moment to drink in the sight of Ava.
Her head is bowed, the overhead light sliding across her shoulders, bare except for the thin strip of fabric that holds her tank top in place. For a moment, she looks as if some otherworldly light is emanating from her, brightening her apartment in a way Beatrice has never seen before.
Ava bends over the sink, turning on the tap with a flick of her wrist. She cups her hands, lets the water pool in white palms, and brings it to her face slowly. It runs off her cheeks in rivulets, beads of cool water sliding down her neck and gathering in the hollow of her throat.
Beatrice’s own throat goes traitorously dry, air locking tight in her lungs. A gauze pad wrinkles in her hand, the plastic loud in this vacuum she feels stuck in.
Ava turns her head and Beatrice can’t hide her sudden inhale behind a bottle of dish detergent this time.
“I found it.” Her voice feels unknown, like she’s just forming her mouth around the words correctly for the first time. She holds up the gauze in one hand, a small tube of antibiotic in the other. “Sit.”
Ava presses her face into the towel and Beatrice files a thought away for later. She holds it up; Beatrice shakes her head and Ava drops it next to the sink. Her slide into the chair is with a grace that rivals her rather abrupt entry into Beatrice’s bedroom.
She rises above Ava like a dark tower, eclipsing the sun. Her fingers curl under Ava’s chin, lifting gently. Their eyes meet briefly, Ava’s a honey gold and brown, before she focuses on the thin scratch across her cheek. She turns Ava’s head, studying it carefully.
“It won’t scar.”
Ava lets out a thin stream of air Beatrice feels against the back of her hand. “Thank God for that. It’s my primary moneymaker.” She smiles at the blank look in return. “I work at the university. The… the rocks? Nothing?”
Beatrice frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. What do… rocks have to do with your face?”
“I’m the one who does the fundraising. People don’t like to pay for-” She grins a little, voice pitched low as she mimics the way Beatrice said, “rocks.” Her voice returns to its natural register. “Unless there’s a pretty face selling it to them. And my department is made up of men who found the first rock, so they won’t do”
For a brief moment, she wonders if making a charitable donation to the Geology department at the local university might get her anything in return.
“So, do you teach about rocks, too?” Beatrice asks to distract herself while needlessly re-arranging the contents of the first aid kit she’s already set down on the table in a line. Gauze pads, Neosporin, the box of kids’ bandaids she was forced to get the last time she’d been to the pharmacy, as they’d run out of anything else. It’s a rather minor scratch to take care of. Beatrice really doesn’t need to triple-check what she’s just double-checked in her head.
She’s stalling.
“Uh-uh.” Ava slouches a little in the chair, legs stretching out in front of her. “A few. Mostly introductory courses. I like that I get students to really think about what’s under their feet. About what dirt and rocks are made of, how they’re formed.”
Beatrice blinks down at her hands, hovering inches from the piece of sterile gauze she meant to daub disinfectant on. She’s hung on the tone of Ava’s voice, talking about her job. There’s a subterranean current to it, a note that invites Beatrice in deep. Joy. Awe. For an adult to retain this level of wonder, it’s a rare thing. Like a vein of precious mineral, wrought from the underbelly of the earth out into the light.
“What about you?” Ava is asking. Beatrice blinks to find that her hands knew what to do on their own. Ava’s chin is again trapped in the cage of her fingers, and Beatrice can feel her jaw moving, pressing into the palm of her hand when she talks. She tries hard not to think of the way Ava’s breath paints feather-soft strokes on her skin. Of the curve of Ava’s cheek that for some reason she aches to explore.
“Do you play doctor often?” There is a teasing lilt to Ava’s voice, a crinkle around her mouth. It is a joke.
“Only when my neighbors sneak through my bedroom’s window at night.”
“Yeah, not my best moment, I’ll admit.”
“You could say,” Beatrice dabs disinfectant over the scratch, inwardly wincing in sympathy at Ava’s slight flinch. “That we got off on a rocky start.”
“Oh, wow.” This time, there’s no doubt, not that there was any the first. Beatrice heard right. “I think I might be in love.”
The tub of Neosporin she’s been squeezing cream out of goes flying, skidding to a halt by the cabinet where Vincent is still hiding. Intrigued, the cat hops outside and circles it, sniffing.
“Oh, no.” Beatrice feels horrible for overreacting. Ava certainly didn’t mean anything, She couldn’t have been. It wasn’t an attempt to flirt. “If he licks that he’s gonna be sick.”
“Vince, I told you the five second rule doesn’t always apply.” As soon as Ava stands, Vincent makes himself big with a hiss. “Fine, get sick then. See if I care.” A slight tremor puts chink sin her tone. It’s clear that she does.
“Let me try and get it away from him.” Beatrice suggests. She doesn’t particularly care for a scratch or a bite, but the mess is her fault in the first place. She should be the one to fix it. “If I can just—”
Crouching low, never breaking eye contact with Vince, Beatrice extends a hand slowly. Her fingers brush against the tub of cream. Tighten around it. She’s beginning to pull her arm back when Vincent headbutts it, a purr vibrating out of him.
“Oh, he really does like you, doesn’t he?” Ava says behind her. “Then again, who wouldn’t?” And Beatrice, who’s always kept her cool in the face of unexpected market crashes, almost loses it all over again.
“I’ve never had any- “She’s going to say positive but she thinks twice. “I’ve never had any interactions with cats before.” She’s still crouched, hand extended as Vincent rubs up against her arm. “He’s very… soft.”
“You don’t feel itchy or anything, do you?”
Beatrice looks back over her shoulder, mouth pinched in a frown. Ava looks intent, more serious than she has in the hours Beatrice has known her.
“Or your throat closing, or anything? I’m not a doctor but I watched a guy have an allergic reaction to shrimp once. I didn’t know what to do then and I’ll be honest, I haven’t brushed up on anything since then.”
Beatrice feels a flicker deep in her chest, a sort of affection she didn’t know was possible in such a short amount of time. “If I was going to have an anaphylaxis allergy to cats, we would have known when he was sitting on my chest.” She slowly retracts her arm and Vincent simply moves along with her, winding around her legs instead.
“He, uh, really likes you,” Ava says. There’s a bit of a pout in her voice, mirrored in the shape of her mouth. “He doesn’t like me that much.”
Beatrice tries to remember where she was with the Neosporin. Ah, yes. She continues to squeeze it out onto the gauze. She’ll apply a bit to the wound, then put a bandage on it. She’s successful this time, hands firm around the tub. Of course, Ava doesn’t say anything to distract her.
“Surely he liked you at the shelter.” She tips Ava’s chin back again. She has mesmerizing eyes this close up. Like circles of golden honey. Her cheeks flush.
“Well, not really,” Ava admits in halting words. Beatrice’s hand slips from her chin and Ava grabs it, holding it against her skin.
Beatrice’s fingers nearly go slack again at the sensation. She prides herself on her ability to maintain herself, though no one would believe her if they saw her now. Ava’s words register. “No?”
“Nope.” Ava’s mouth pops the p. “But he was there, being passed over for kittens. I couldn’t just leave him.” Her voice is trembling again and Beatrice wants to go in and find the source of it, to make it stop. It affects her in a way she can’t quite describe.
It’s unlike her. Everything since she’s met Ava has been unlike her.
“I’m sure he’ll come around,” she says quietly. She feels him against her legs, moving between them and Ava’s. She’s suddenly aware of how she’s positioned herself, standing between Ava’s legs. The inside of Ava’s knee is hot against her leg through her thin pajama pants.
“Or we’ll have to split custody.” Ava smiles. Beatrice feels it in her hand, still trapped against Ava’s chin. “We’d be tied for life.”
Beatrice’s chest shudders at the thought. It sounds terrifying and appealing. She’s unsure of where this is coming from - she’s known Ava Silva for less than 24 hours and the majority of their time together has been one disaster to the next. But there’s something intriguing about her, like she’s made up a complicated number system Beatrice wants to take apart and turn around in her mind.
She files the thought away to be revisited later. Later, once Ava is back at her own place. Later after she’s latched the bedroom window shut and put a little distance between herself and a night that somehow feels like a dream.
“I’m sorry for the kids’ band aid.” Beatrice applies it over the cut with care, again taking a moment longer than is necessary with things to smooth it across Ava’s cheek and make sure that it’ll stick. Yellow ducklings swim on it, the band aid’s background vibrant blue.
“Regular band aids are boring.” Ava doesn’t try to stop her from retreating this time around, and another small shiver ripples through her. It feels like something of a crack. Like the minuscule hairline fractures that sometimes appear on drinking glasses right before they break. Beatrice doesn’t think she’d have known what to do had Ava leaned into her touch again. Still, a part of her wishes Ava had.
“Uhm, anyway.” She takes a step back and towards the sink, meaning to wash her hands. “I never answered your question about my job.”
Ava’s gaze on her back is as tangible as touch.
“Tell me?”
“I’m afraid it’s a bit like adult band aids.” Beatrice clears her throat, forcing more words out. “Boring I mean.”
“I still wanna know.”
“Finance.” Beatrice has no idea why she’s so nervous about it. She’s never felt this on edge about telling someone what her job is before. It may not be the most exciting career one can have, or what she would have picked were there not so many expectations weighing her down, but she’s worked hard for it. The youngest associate at her consultancy firm in more than ten years, with the prospect of rapidly climbing the ranks. She should be proud of it.
She is.
“Numbers uh?” Ava hops off the chair and stretches. The t-shirt she’s wearing rides up, exposing the enticing strip of skin at her navel. Beatrice looks quickly away. “Like Wall Street and stuff?”
“Nothing that grand.” Vincent, who’s kept on following her, paws at her leg and meows. “I try to steer people away from risky investments, mostly.”
“Maybe my department should hire you.” Ava begins creeping forward. “Whatever money we get through fundraising is always gone so fast. It’s like the Geology department is built on a sinkhole that eats cash.”
Finally within striking distance of the cat, Ava lunges. Her fingers close around his scruff, and she lifts him up, firm but trying not to hurt him. “Ah! Gotcha!”
Vincent’s meowing reaches ear-splitting on the decibel scale. His front paws extend in Beatrice’s direction. She gently scritches the top of his head, and that seems to calm him enough for Ava to get a better hold.
“Do you want me to—” Beatrice says, when Vincent digs sharp claws into the bare skin of Ava’s forearm.
“Maybe you could—”
They pause, the cat suspended between them, then Beatrice extends her arms and Vincent leaps straight into them, nuzzling into her chest. She gets the impression Ava might want to join, too.
“Maybe I can bring him to your apartment for you?"
"Would you? I feel horrible asking but he's—" Ava's mouth sours. "Yeah."
"I don't mind, promise." So what if she's a bit sad at the prospect of Ava leaving? It's not like Vince is gonna sneak into her apartment every single night. She can be sad. It means nothing. It's fine. "Lead the way?"
"Okay, but we have to go the long way round." Ava nods at the door to the bedroom and Beatrice's heart skips several beats. "I don't have my keys."
Oh.
God.
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