Work Text:
-BAZ-
“A bloke is about to come in. You haven’t seen me and I’m not meant to work today.”
“What?”
I look up from the pile of books I’m holding just in time to see Simon come tearing in the door and across the shop. He’s practically drenched from the rain, and looks like a thundercloud himself. The bells above the door are clanging with the force of his entrance.
“You haven’t seen me!” he calls, nearly avoiding taking down the display I spent an hour on yesterday with the corner of his bookbag.
“But you’re supposed to—”
“Jesus Christ, just get rid of him, Baz!” he shouts, his voice cracking slightly as he yanks open the door to the storage room. It slams shut behind him. I stand frozen and stare after him.
He’s almost never yelled at me like that. Honestly, no. Never. He’s never spoken to me like that.
The bell over the door chimes just as I hear the faint sound of the door to the close opening, then closing again. Simon’s gone—I don’t know where he went, but he’s no longer in the building.
I put down my pile of books and head toward the front of the store. I really don’t want to deal with customers right now. I have absolute buckets worth of work to do in the office today, and Simon was meant to man the floor for me, as I’m not even scheduled to be on. But apparently that’s not happening. I try to swallow my annoyance at the fact that my work will have to wait because of Simon’s fit.
“Welcome to Hades Press,” I say to the man browsing a shelf at the front. He’s bundled for the rain in an exquisite Barbour jacket, but his wavy bronze hair is wet and sticking to his forehead a bit.
“Afternoon,” he says, smiling. His accent is thick. Glaswegian. “I’m looking for Simon. Is he in today?”
I’m roaringly pissed at my boyfriend, and I plan to chew him out later, but I’m still loyal, so I shake my head.
“No, sorry. Simon’s not scheduled for today,” I lie. The man tugs on his wiry beard and chuckles.
“Ach! Bad luck. Will he be in tomorrow, by any chance?”
“He’s not scheduled,” I lie again. “Would you like me to pass on a message?”
“You’re Basil, right?” he asks, smiling. “I saw a write up on you. Impressive, this,” he says, rapping his finger on the counter and gesturing to the store with his other. “You’ve done well.”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “Did you want me to pass something on to Simon?”
The man raps his knuckles to the counter again. I want him to stop touching my store.
“Aye, that would be grand. Would you tell him I came by? I’m an old teacher of his. I wanted to catch up.”
I nod curtly.
“What name should I give him?”
The man smiles and thumbs at a book.
“Oh just tell him Davy came by. He’ll know who I am.”
My shoulders go rigid. My eyes flash up to him, to his bronze hair and thick beard and back down to the hand that’s tapping on my counter and I have to fight down every impulse that’s telling me to pick up the stapler and nail his fucking hand to the counter. Instead I meet his eyes.
“Out,” I say, my tone flat. “Get out. Do not come back.”
“What?” he says, the sound thick in his mouth. His accent is so much like Simon’s. So thick, just like his is when he’s tired, or angry. Or scared.
“I said get out,” I repeat, pointing at the door. “Do not come back here. Do not speak to him. I don’t want to see you on this street or I’ll have you removed for harassment. Do you understand me?”
I do my best to imitate my father, to pitch my voice lower and borrow his precise tone of disgust. Davy stares at me, then sighs heavily.
“I didn’t want it to be this way. Tell him I came to make amends, yeah?”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” I snap back. “Out of my shop, Mr. Mage.”
“Son, I don’t know what he’s told you—”
“You’re aware that my father publishes your books, yes?” I say, cutting him off. “My father is incredibly fond of Simon. And he’s particularly vindictive, when he decides to be. Out.”
His expression darkens and he nods, taps his finger again, and then leaves the shop.
When the bell chimes, I realise my hands are shaking.
I count to ten and then flip the sign on the door and grab my jacket, practically bounding up the four flights to get to our flat.
I pause for a deep breath before I go in.
The first thing I hear is one of my Nick Cave records playing from the living room, and I follow the noise. Simon is on the couch, his legs folded, Agatha in his lap, staring out the window. I cross my arms and lean against the frame of the door and just watch.
How I react in the next few minutes is crucial. This is one of those big Relationship Tests. And thus far I haven’t been very good at passing those.
“I’m going to call for tikka masala,” I say slowly, and he blinks up at me. “And then we’re going to plan a murder.”
He blinks again and then looks down at his lap.
“He came in, then?” he asks. His voice is stilted. Too calm. Too slow.
“I threw him out,” I respond sharply. “And possibly threatened his publishing contract. I may have referenced my father’s fondness for you and proclivity toward vengeance.”
Simon exhales slowly and I see his hand bunch in the blanket.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I wish you’d just said I wasn’t in.”
“Simon—”
“I really wish you hadn’t threatened him,” he says, his eyes closing and his chest rising and falling.
“What did you expect? He comes in here—”
“I just asked you to tell him I wasn’t in—”
“After everything, and you think I’m not going to—”
“It wasn’t your place!” he explodes suddenly, flying up from the couch. Agatha scatters. “You had no right threatening him or talking to him about me! This isn’t your fight!”
The force of his anger causes me to step back, and I’m acutely reminded of the time he lashed out and punched me. That was a year ago, though. He’s not that person.
I’ve never thought he would strike me again, but I felt a tinge of fear when he sprung from the sofa.
“Simon,” I start, my voice treacherously soft, “how could I not? You’re my—”
“Your what?” he snarls. “Your live in pet? Your charity case? I don’t need your sympathy Basil. I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
“I have no idea where this is coming from,” I say, throwing my hands up. “You’re not my charity case, you’re my boyfriend, and that monster pulled you apart.”
He opens his mouth to retort but I shake my head, stepping closer. “No. No. Your turn to listen, you already got to shout. How dare you tell me it wasn’t my place to throw him from my store? Not my place? Simon, who holds you when you wake up screaming from memories of what that man has done? I know you can fight your own battles but don’t you ever fucking tell me I can’t fight for you. And how dare you insinuate you’re some sad sack I pulled in off the street.”
He looks ready to punch me and I almost wish he would, so this anger would break. But instead he steps back.
“I just needed time,” he whispers. “I know what I’m going to say to him but I just needed a chance to prepare myself.”
“You don’t owe him anything, you don’t owe him an explanation,” I snarl. He’s deflated and calmed down, but I can’t yet.
“I need to. I...I need to for me,” he says, and that’s what breaks my anger. I move toward him and cup his elbow gently, and he looks up at me, his chin jutted. Ready to fight the world.
“I’ll come with you,” I say. “I’ll be there for support.”
He shakes his head and grasps at my hand lightly.
“No...no. You’d kill him.” He laughs a bit and then puts his head against my shoulder. “You’d kill him and I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”
I run my fingers through the curls on the nape of his neck. He’s right. I’m not crackling with rage any longer, but I am still buzzing with nervous anger. Seeing him again would tip that over.
“Simon...” I start. This is delicate. “I’ve heard you in your sleep. I don’t know if I’m comfortable...”
“That’s not him,” he says tightly. “That’s not....” He lets out a heavy sigh and slowly begins to thump his head into my shoulder.
We don’t talk about the nightmares. We don’t talk about his childhood. Anything from before he came to Edinburgh is strictly off the table. He once mentioned that he’d gone to boarding school for a time, but that’s it. His life has effectively been reduced to Before Edinburgh and After Edinburgh, just as mine has become divided by Before Simon and After Simon.
“Things with Davy were bad, but he didn’t...he didn’t like, torture me,” Simon says, letting out a weak, huffing laugh and shrugging. “There were some things—a hand in a door, a too sharp cuff to the head. Things were worse before him, actually. When I was young, and then when I got older and started fighting. It’s just that...things with him were supposed to be better. He was supposed to be the answer, you know? Protect me. Instead it was just a different kind of hell. And then at school when things started getting bad and the other boys were giving me shit...”
He trails off, and I barely want to breathe. He’s never opened up this much, and I don’t want to spook him.
“He didn’t stop it, basically. He was headmaster. He could have. But he didn’t. Just told me I shouldn’t be different. That the way I am and the way I act was inviting it. Told me to fit in.”
It’s all both better and worse than I had always assumed, honestly. And I feel a bit sick. I was a boy in boarding school who taunted others for be different. Mine was a defence mechanism—a bitter, mean spirited safeguard to ensure I wasn’t the one tormented. Of course Simon would never do that. He may hit back, but he never hits first.
Well. Almost never.
He moves away from me and faces the window. It’s still raining; there’s a layer of drizzle dripping down the panes of glass. We’re not touching any longer, and I hate it. I reach for him and lightly touch the back of his jumper, capturing the worn fabric between my fingers. It’s one of his—he’s not wearing my clothes for once. I wish he was. I want to wrap him up in my arms and pull him to our bed and let him fall asleep in one of my old shirts with my fingers in his hair.
But that’s not what he wants right now. It might be what he needs—it’s what I need—but it’s not what he wants. He wants to be strong, so I let him.
“What are you going to say to him?” I say instead of pulling him to me. I watch his shoulders hunch.
“I’m going to tell him about my life,” he says. “I’m going to tell him that I’m happy, even if it’s not the way he wanted. I’m going to tell him I’m going to keep on carrying on.”
I watch his hand come up and I know he’s pushing back tears. He does this. He cries—it caught me by surprise, the first time, but he’s a crier. He tries to hide it though.
“I think that sounds like a good plan,” I say, because I don’t know what else to respond. “But...don’t let him back in.”
“I would never,” he growls, turning on me. His brow is furrowed. “Cutting him out was the best thing I ever did.” He looks hard and cold and perfect. My perfect sunshine boy, who shines with a blistering vengeance that could burn everything in sight.
“At least talk to him at the store, while I’m around, yeah?” I’m needling. But I don’t want him alone. “You can do it in the office. Or at Ebbs?”
He stares at me for a long moment then nods.
“Aye...yeah I’ll do it at the store.” Our eyes meet, and I nod at this small concession, and then I can’t hold back anymore, and I cross the room and go to him.
“Thank you,” I say, playing my fingers at his hip. There’s a tense anxiety in the room and a rock in my gut and it feels as though I shouldn’t—or aren’t allowed to—touch him, but I have to. I sit down on the sofa and pat the spot next to me, but instead he drops to the floor and leans back against my knee, resting his head against my thigh. My hands go to his hair immediately.
“So...” he says, turning his face to mumble into my leg. I feel a sigh go through him, and then he raises his head slightly, just enough so I can hear him. “What was that about tikka masala?”
-SIMON-
When the bell above the door chimes, my stomach jumps to my throat. I don’t want to look up, but I have to. I’ve got to face him sooner or later, and I was the one who sent him an email and told him to come here. He’s here because of me. I just need to buck up and face him.
I take a deep breath and stand up from the table I’ve been sitting at in the back.
It’s just Fiona.
She gives me an overly bright smile from where she’s leaning against the counter, talking to Baz in a hushed voice, and I try to smile back but fail. I guess she knows, then. I shouldn’t be surprised that Baz told her. And she has to know, or else she wouldn’t be whispering. She’d have barged right on in, screaming and cursing as usual.
I don’t know why we’re being so quiet, but we are. The whole shop has had this odd hush over it for the majority of the afternoon, and Baz and I have been dancing around each other silently. He’s been tight-lipped and snippy, but I know it’s just because he’s nervous. I know he wants to support me, but doesn’t really know how.
He tried to talk me out of it again this morning, and he was a properly manipulative prick about it. He brought me tea and sat at the end of the bed and pulled my feet into his lap and rubbed them and I was already suspicious about how nice he was being when he casually goes, “I was thinking of driving up to Montrose to visit my grandmother. What would you think of coming with and making a weekend of it? We could close up early today and visit Aberdeen.”
He rubbed my foot casually, like this idea had just suddenly sprung into his head and we lived in a world where Baz would skip class and close the shop to go visit a grandmum I know for a fact he hates. He also hates vacations, and hates driving with me as a passenger and hates Aberdeen.
“Am no going to Aberdeen,” I said into my pillow. I said it softly, though. I knew why he was doing it, even if it was fucking annoying. “I’ve got to go to class,” I said, sitting up and pulling my foot away. He looked pissed as hell, ready to go off on me, but he let it go.
He still looks angry, but at least he’s not saying anything about it.
The bell rings again and my pulse spikes. This is it, I’m sure. I force myself to look up.
I only saw Davy in passing yesterday. I’d spotted him from the street and made a break for it, and I’d spent ten minutes wondering if I’d only seen some bloke who looked similar to him, and it hadn’t been him at all. I hadn’t been able to keep that hope very long though, and this is the worst confirmation. He’s really here.
It’s only been two years since I saw him, so I don’t know why I thought he would look different, but he doesn’t. Same wavy hair, same stupid moustache. Still overdressed, like he’s going on a highland hunting party and didn’t get the memo that no one under 50 wears tweed anymore.
He pulls off his hat and shakes the rain off of it and makes his way over to the front counter. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I notice that he approaches Baz hesitantly, like he’s afraid of him. Baz is tight-lipped and silent, and simply points at me. Fiona nearly growls from her spot next to him, and I realise that she’s here just to look intimidating.
If I weren’t stressed out of my fucking mind right now, I’d be really appreciating my weird little family.
I stand clumsily, nearly knocking my chair over, but I don’t look back at it as I cross the store.
“Davy,” I say. My voice nearly croaks, and my hands are slightly shaking, but I meet his eyes.
“Simon,” he responds. He feels awkward, I can tell, and I’m glad for it. It’s rare to get him knocked off balance. But then he smiles, and my stomach sinks. “Thank you for leaving that message for me. I’ve been wanting to catch up with you. I thought coffee?”
I see Baz’s eyes flick to me, and I shake my head.
“No,” I say. My voice still isn’t right. “I do want to talk to you, but we can do it here. Let’s go to the office.”
I try to pitch my voice lower and act like Baz would. Baz wouldn’t be intimidated by the man in front of me. Baz isn’t intimidated by him, so I shouldn’t be either. Davy looks like he’s going to argue, but I point to the open door of the back office, and he nods as I gesture for him to walk ahead.
Fiona pushes off from the counter and heads toward the door, and for a moment I think she’s leaving, but instead she just flips the open sign round to closed. I meet Baz’s eyes and hold my hand out instinctively, just for a moment, and he takes it immediately, giving it a small squeeze before dropping it and stepping away, back behind the counter, and starts staring too intently at the recent order forms.
I take a deep breath, try to steady myself, and follow my foster father into the office.
I close the door behind me with a small click and quickly sit in the only chair in the room, effectively forcing him to stand. It’s a power move; I saw Malcolm Grimm do it once while arguing with someone, and it stuck out in my head how cool he looked.
I don’t think I look like that, but I do it anyway.
“Why are you here?” I ask. It catches him off guard, and he smiles and tugs on his beard.
“I was in the city visiting family,” he says, pulling his mouth into a familiar crooked grin, “and I wanted to see you. It’s been too long, son.”
“You don’t have family in the city, and I’m not your son,” I say, the words spilling out. Thirty seconds in and I’ve already managed to say more to Davy than I ever could. It’s a good start. He blinks and hums and chuckles awkwardly.
“I have you, Simon,” he says, splaying his hands. “I saw a write up about your friend Basil, with the photo of you in The Guardian . You’re interning at Pitch Publishing? That’s wonderful, boy. Really wonderful. I wish you had told me.”
“Baz is my boyfriend,” I say, meeting his eyes and daring him to be surprised. He shouldn’t be. He knows; he’s known almost from the beginning what I am, and he was always disapproving of it. He was always telling me to ignore it. That it didn’t matter, because I still could like girls. But he’s not paying my bills or sending me to school or running my life anymore, and his disapproval means nothing to me. I almost welcome it now.
“Ah,” he says. His voice is tighter, deeper, suddenly, and there’s a flinch in my chest as I remind myself I am not sixteen anymore, and this man’s opinion does not matter.
Through the door I hear static, and then the sound of The Smiths floods through the speakers. Something inside me loosens, and I can breathe again.
“I’m glad you came,” I say, my voice rough. My accent is thicker than it has been in months, from a combination of his accent and the intense anxiety making it difficult to speak, and as a result the words practically fall out of my mouth. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“You know my number,” Davy says.
“Am no gonna call you,” I say gruffly. I pinch the inside of my leg then take a deep breath. “Am gonna say what I need to, and then am gonna need you to leave, aye?”
Davy sighs and rubs his hand over his eyes, and I feel like I’ve been punched as I realise where I get that mannerism from.
“If we’re going to speak, can we speak properly? None of this slang, let’s speak English.”
“Aye, let’s speak properly then,” I say, my hands starting to shake with anger. I look past Davy and focus on the music coming from the other side of the door.
“I’ve no idea why you’re here, but this’ll be the last time we see each other. I came here to get away from you, and to build myself a life on my own. I take care of myself, just like I’ve always had to, because no one ever did it for me. Even when people were meant to, they didn’t. You didn’t.”
Davy opens his mouth but I shake my head. I’m still sitting. I’m still calm. Things are alright.
“I don’t give a shit if you knew my mum or if you wanted the best for me, because it doesn’t matter. You didn’t do anything. You used me, and that’s over. I don’t care what you want from me or from my life.”
“Simon, this is exactly what I want from you,” he interrupts. “You’ve done so well. Working with Pitch Publishing? Following my footsteps at uni, you may even—”
“No,” I say, sharply. “You don’t get to talk about that. You don’t get to be involved in that.”
“Why?” He asks. He seems genuinely confused.
I hold up my right hand and splay my fingers, and point at my pinky, which is sticking out in an odd angle.
“Because of this,” I say. “Because I built this life myself. And I don’t need you. And I don’t want you. I have a family, and you aren’t part of it. And when you walk out of that door, I’m not going to think about you again, Davy. Because you don’t matter.”
I stand up and push past him and open the door of the office. I don’t look out at Baz. Not yet.
“It was good to see you, Mr. Mage,” I say stiffly, holding the door. He stares at me and for the millionth time in my life I wish I knew what he was thinking. He looks at me, then his eyes glance out the door, at the counter where Baz and Fiona are standing, looking at something on Fiona’s phone. His eyes fall on Baz for a moment too long, and I remember his reaction when he walked in the store. He’s scared of Baz.
Good. He should be.
Davy finally makes up his mind and brushes past me, shoving his hands into his pockets as he shoulders out the door, the bell jingling slightly behind him. I haven’t moved from my spot by the office door, and it feels like years before Baz and Fiona turn to me, eyes wide. The store is deadly silent.
“Pub?” Fiona says finally, and I exhale. Baz nods curtly, types something into the register, then closes the drawer with a quick snap. I still haven’t moved. I’m not sure if I can move, actually, until Baz comes over and hooks his pinky through mine.
“Come on, Snow,” he says softly, giving me one of his rare, sweet smiles. “You need a pint.”
“I need ten,” I mutter. “And a nice long sleep.”
“Well let’s get you steaming, and then I’ll tuck you into bed, how about that?” He says, throwing one arm around my neck and dragging me toward the door. Fiona bumps into my other side, and I lean my head against Baz.
“I’m proud of you, boyo,” Fiona says. “And also, if you want me to kill him, I’ll totally do it.”
“Get in line,” Baz snaps, and turns his head to put his lips to my hair.
“You were brilliant, really,” he whispers. “Terrifying. Also, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry.”
“Please stop,” Fiona grimaces. “I’ve had to listen to and see my fair share of your revolting affection, can we just have one night? One night.”
I move my head to the other side to bump into Fiona, and she winks at me.
“I need to call Pen,” I say suddenly, coming up short just before we reach the door. “I told her I’d tell her what happened.”
“She’s meeting us at the pub,” Baz says, reaching over my head to grab my jacket off the hook by the door, and then steering me outside.
It’s almost December, and it’s frigid. The sky is an endless, unceasing blue, glinting off the sandstone buildings on either side of us. A brisk wind races its way down the street, whistling through chimneys, and I breathe deeply.
I’ve got Fiona on one side and Baz on the other. Penny will be with me soon, and I’ll be safe and warm in my city with my family, where no one can fucking touch me ever again.
It feels good.
It feels really good.