Chapter Text
SIMON
It’s just. The last time Baz and I did more than kiss it - it didn’t exactly end well.
It was our second-to-last night in Fiona’s flat. She was due back from her super-secret spy assignment somewhere in Estonia (we weren’t supposed to know where) at the end of the week and Baz had to drive back to his parents’ that Friday, so they could drive him back to Watford on Saturday.
That whole week had been pretty great. I’d crashed with Baz at Fiona’s and Penny came by most days to hang out with us -- mostly so she could remind Baz that he was only coming in head of the class because she’d decided not to return. They spent a lot of time batting obscure magickal references back and forth over coffee or while we were riding the Tube or wandering around the shops on Oxford Street or through the galleries at the British Museum. I liked listening to them being friends; their words never seem to dry up, voices tumbling over each other like a good-natured rugby scrum.
While they talked, I got to pay attention to the way Baz’s fingers felt laced with my own (and how he stopped pulling away when I grabbed at his hand in public midway through our first day in London). And think about how nice it felt when he pressed himself up behind me on the escalator at Primark (and how he hmmmed under his breath against my shoulder when I pressed back). And watch the way his eyes changed color when I slid a hand up his thigh under the table of the Costa Coffee (and how he’d adjust his seat so his legs fell open just a bit wider).
“This is one of those times where I think you should try paying attention to what you want, Simon,” Rayshauna had told me over the Skype connection during our appointment the week before Baz was due to come down from Watford.
I’d told her, in one of our early sessions, about the lists of things I haven’t let myself think about, about how thinking about them hurts too much. So she’s been trying to help me not stop myself from wanting something just because I’m worried I won’t be able to have it.
“It’s important for you to be able to say what you want and don’t want, Simon,” she reminds me. She says the Mage manipulated me into depending on him, that he granted me access to the things I wanted and needed -- the food at Watford, the room I shared with Baz, my friends, his attention -- on the condition that I let him control my future.
It’s been hard to think about the Mage like that. So mostly, I try not to think about the Mage.
Instead, I focus on the breathing exercises that Rayshauna has been teaching me, and practice making decisions for myself that aren’t based on what I think Dr. Wellbelove, or Martin and Mitali, or Rayshauna, or even Baz, or Penny want me to do.
That’s why I said no to university (because I didn’t want to go).
And why I said yes to living with Penny (because I like how we get on. I like having her around).
And why I’m saying yes, yes, yes to Baz (because I want to, want him).
The problem with the second-to-last night of our holiday in London wasn’t that I didn’t know what I wanted (Baz), and it also wasn’t that I didn’t say what I wanted (I did). And it was pretty bloody obvious that Baz wanted me back (he was sitting across my lap letting me suck hickeys across the pale skin of his collarbones). We’d stripped to the waist and I’d let Baz unspell my wings -- something we’d discovered on the second night he really enjoyed -- and he was running his palms over the bony, furred humerus to the joint and back.
It wasn’t the first time Baz’s fangs had popped when we’re snogging. The previous afternoon, when we’d been making out in the kitchen while the lasagna was in the oven, his game face had made an appearance and Baz had just panted Stop against my mouth, his hand against my chest. I’d stopped. And stayed still, very still, while he disentangled himself from me, where I was backed up against the counter, and carefully, deliberately walked to the fridge and knocked back a pint of blood without even bothering to heat it up first.
At the time, Baz thought -- and Penny had concurred -- that his problem was he hadn’t had blood since the night before, and we had supper in the oven, and he was just hungry, and one thing had led to another and --
But this time, Baz had been extra careful to feed well during dinner. And he’d even nursed another pint of blood while we watched “Once More With Feeling,” Baz’s legs across my lap and my tail curled around his waist.
Then Penny had left to catch the Tube home and he’d asked, “Can I unspell your wings?”
That night was the first time Baz actually draw blood before either of us realized what was happening.
He only nicked me. I think. I mean, there was only a scratch on my neck. When I had the chance, later, to look in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth. A thin, shallow scratch slightly deeper at one end where he’d started to press his fangs into the artery before pulling back.
Before yanking himself away from me.
Before walking without a word into the hall, where I heard him pull his jacket roughly from the hook and his keys off the hall stand, before slamming out the door and into the night.
He hadn’t even put on his shoes.
Fiona’s flat felt unbearably empty after he’d gone.
For the first minute or two after he left, I sat really still and counted my breaths -- in… and out. in...and out. -- and listened to my pulse slowing down. I could still feel Baz’s hands on my wings and his lips on my neck. My dick felt cold, suddenly, even though I was still wearing my pants and jeans, and my skin felt tight all over.
The place where Baz had started to bite me was starting to sting like a bad sunburn, and I could feel heat spreading outward from where his left fang had punctured my skin. I considered, briefly, calling 999 in case I’d been poisoned. Baz would probably break up with me if I let myself die or be turned by vampire saliva.
But what would I tell the EMTs -- “So what did you say you’ve been bitten by?”
“Um, my boyfriend? the vampire?”
“Uh-huh. So … what have you taken exactly? Can you estimate how long the drugs have been in your system?”
So I didn’t call 999. And the sunburn didn’t get worse. And the warmth actually spread like really expensive whiskey -- the kind the Wellbeloves serve on Burn’s Night -- down through my belly all the way to my toes.
And Baz did come back. After a bit.
After I’d brushed my teeth and put a plaster on my neck and pulled my pajamas on.
He wouldn’t talk about where he’d gone or what he’d done while he was out. And he wouldn’t look at the plaster on my neck when he thought I was watching (and couldn’t stop looking at it when he thought I wouldn’t see).
I’d worried that maybe he'd refuse to sleep with me. But I tried saying what I wanted -- “Baz, I want you here on the couch with me.” -- and it worked because he came over to the couch where I was wrapped in one of Fiona’s tatty crocheted blankets and let me hold him against my chest while I fell asleep with my cheek pressed up against his shoulder blade.
When I woke up the next morning he was already in the kitchen making a pot of coffee and by the giant circles under his eyes I didn’t think he’d slept at all.
Since that night, I’ve spent a lot of time wanting to punch something.
Sometimes Baz.
I think he’s worrying too much.
He thinks I’m not worrying enough.
In three sodding libraries’ worth of magickal texts -- Watford, the Grimm-Pitches, the Bunces -- not to mention the whole of the magickal Internet we haven’t been able to find any trustworthy information about which of the two of us is right.
It’s all been theoretical since April anyway, since Baz went back for the last six weeks of term and the two of us were back to nightly telephone calls where I listened to the sound of his voice and imagined him holding me safe beneath the duvet as I drifted off to sleep.
Until I’d got the idea to come up to Watford for the leavers ball.
And then I’d remembered the Roommate’s Anathema, and realized that maybe there was a way after all. A way we could try … try something more than kissing where Baz knew he couldn’t hurt me.
Which is why I’m standing here in Watford’s drafty ballroom in a borrowed suit thinking about how vampires have sex in front of the dean of students.
Finally -- just as Miss Possibelf’s reserve of former student stories is running dry -- I catch sight of Baz, sandwich plate in hand, hovering by the drinks table like he’s trying to decide if I need rescuing from the dean. Crowley, please. I feel my tail twitch with pleasure as he approaches, my shoulders relaxing from the defensive hunch they’ve fallen into in Baz’s absence. I’m glad I came tonight, for Baz, but Watford doesn’t feel like home anymore and I’m still working out how I feel about that. Without Baz to focus on, I’ve started to feel like everyone was staring at me, probably blaming me for the Mage’s death (I blame myself for the Mage’s death, even if I didn’t mean to do it, even if I’m glad he’s dead), probably blaming me for all the dead spots I didn’t even know I was creating. There are too many shadows in this ballroom, and too many complicated memories.
“Basilton,” Miss Possibelf is saying, and then Baz is there with the right social niceties and before I can steal my favorite sandwich from the plate Baz is pulling me away from what’s left of the ball and out into the twilight of the courtyard.
It’s a warm night, and clear, with a waxing moon already high in the sky. I run awkwardly into Baz when he pauses to take a deep breath and look up at the stars emerging in the gathering darkness. I feel the lump of something tucked under Baz’ arm that he’s magicked out of sight -- and then see, once I’m looking for it, the cobalt blue of a wine bottle, one I recognize from the open bar inside.
“Sneak,” I say, poking his arm, “You stole a bottle of wine!”
Baz snorts. “Hardly stealing, given what my parents paid for me to attend here.”
“Which is why you’re hiding it.”
I haven’t been up to our rooms -- our former rooms -- since the night I killed the Mage, and it feels a bit funny to be climbing the Tower stairs for the first time since I left Watford. I hadn’t really let myself think about what it would be like because I was afraid if I did I wouldn’t be able to walk through the front gate, like Penny who’d gotten queasy just opening the gates for me this afternoon.
Some nights, I wake up from nightmares in which Penny isn’t there to make the Mage listen and Baz kills him instead, or the Mage kills Baz, and always, always I can’t get anyone to listen to me, listen when I tell them it wasn’t Baz’s fault.
Rayshauna tells me it’s normal not to know how I feel about what happened, and normal for what I feel to change over time. We’ve talked a little about the Mage being my father, but -- I can’t even begin to piece together what that means to me right now.
Since Easter we’ve talked a lot more about Baz being my boyfriend and a vampire, and Rayshauna has promised to see what she can to help us. Baz has a standing offer of weekly confidential Skype sessions when he wants them -- I know his family can afford to pay, and if his father refuses I think Daphne might actually overrule him this time and make sure they’re covered. If not, I’ve told Baz I would pay for them myself.
Baz says he won’t let me but -- I have some money, now, from the Mage, and it seems like the Mage should pay to help Baz get better, since it was the Mage who killed Baz’s mum and made Baz a vampire.
We get to the top of the stairs and Baz’s hands are full so I say, “Here,” and reach to steal his tiepin before he can protest. With the Watford seal and our class year on it, the pin is more flash than the one he usually wears; the Coven sent it to him for being top of the class. Before I can think about it too much, I stab the point of the pin into my thumb just deep enough to draw blood so I can press my hand to the doorjamb and remind the room who I am.
I don’t actually know if it will work; the Watford gates didn’t recognize me at all this afternoon and Penny had to get out of the car and make sure I was through the gates before she left. But whatever giving up my stolen powers did, it doesn’t seem to have made my blood so different that the room can’t recognize me: the door clicks open and swings silently inward on its well-oiled hinges. Maybe the front gates don’t know I belong, but the Tower still thinks that I’m one of its own.
Which means that the Roommate’s Anathema should still be in binding effect. I feel the palms of my hands break out in sweaty relief.
Baz’s nostrils flare at the scent of blood and he raises an eyebrow as he steps past me into the room.
I grin and hold my thumb up -- “Taste?” I ask, because I’m feeling slightly reckless from the glass of champagne I drank earlier, and from the blood actually working.
Baz rolls his eyes at me. “Clean up after yourself, Snow, if you must do things the inelegant way.”
But I can tell that I’ve distracted him by the way he doesn’t actually make eye contact while I put my thumb in my mouth and suck it clean.
Then I stand in the doorway, hesitating. It’s disorienting to see the room almost bare, what used to be my bed neatly made up with Watford bed linens, Baz’s overnight bag sitting on it, along with a few items he’d obviously pulled out to get ready for the ball scattered around. All my posters and school supplies are gone (what I didn’t take with me when I moved to the Bunces, Baz has packed and sent home with his parents); the doors of Baz’s wardrobe are open showing empty shelves and hangers.
I expect if I went into the toilet his usual toiletries would be pared down to a minimum -- although judging from the way he smelled on the dance floor tonight, he made sure not to pack my favorite shaving lotion, the one from Lush, that makes him smell like honey and chamomile tea.
“Well?” he says, arching an eyebrow at my hesitation, “I went to all this trouble to procure your favorite sandwiches and abscond with alcohol -- yet you’re going to to waste the evening standing indecisively in the doorway?”
He sets the plate and bottle down on his now-empty desk, pausing to untie and pull off his shoes, then pads over to the mini fridge for a jam jar of blood.