Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Say, say, my playmate

Won't you lay hands on me

Mirror my melody

Transfer my tragedy?

-”Wolf Like Me” by TV on the Radio

Baz

I’m walking across the great lawn when it hits me from behind, sending me crashing to the ground and my violin case flying. “That’s a 200-year-old Stradivarius you resplendent fuck," I snarl as I roll over to see what’s attacking me. I look up at a huge set of dull yellow, razor sharp fangs. “You’re drooling on my lapels, you monster,” I gasp as I feel for my wand, which conveniently has landed just out of my reach.

An otherworldly growl accompanies jaws snapping at my throat. I’m tapping into my vampire strength, pushing its face away as my stupid wand skids further away. Fuck. Fine, this is just a dog, clearly, I can fight this thing off, but Merlin, it smells like a carcass, I think, as I attempt to wrestle if off of me.

The dog yelps as something slams into it like a steam train, and it tumbles off of me into the grass. I scramble to my feet and find Simon Snow grappling with an impossibly large, impossibly shaggy and malodorous dog.

“Where the fuck did you come from, Snow?” I gasp, trying to regain composure.  “Did your science experiment get loose?”

“Fuck off, Baz.” Simon grunts, putting the dog into some sort of headlock. “This thing is were .”

“Don’t be an idiot, Snow.” I reply. “That’s probably someone’s emotional support dog, it’s just excited. You’re trying to kill someone’s pet.”

“Fuck. Off.” The dog’s teeth snap within a hairsbreadth of Simon’s perfect face. He’s forced to let go and sends the dog skidding with a carefully placed kick.

The dog tumbles but gets up and advances slowly on Simon. Hackles raised, huge amber eyes staring him down. He’s emitting a perfectly sinister low grumble. Panting, Simon points his finger at the dog and gasps, “play dead.”

Immediately, the dog ceases snarling, shakes its head like it’s confused, then slumps to the ground.

Simon nudges it with his toe.

“Crowley, Snow. Did you kill it?” How did he even do that ? That’s not even a spell. He didn’t use his wand.

“Thought it might stun him.” Simon seems dejected.

“Way to go for the nuclear option.” I quip. “I suppose you should look for the ID tag so you can notify the owner that you killed Fluffy.”

“It. Was. Were.” Simon is staring down at the body. He’s sounding a little less cocky, thoughtfully rubbing a small patch of bronze stubble on his chin.

“It was excited,” I correct.

We are disturbed by a sound, like sand gently pouring from a bag, followed by a mournful howl so faint that I’m not sure I actually heard it. We both stare at the body of the dog as it dematerializes into a pile of fine ash that blows away in the breeze that comes up from nowhere.

“Did you do that?” I ask Simon.

“No. I thought it was you,” He responds.

It’s only then, that I notice the smell. Like homemade cinnamon buns, and bacon. Like copper and smoke and heaven and hell and Simon .

My fangs pop as I step away from the thin line of crimson that is threading down Snow’s forearm. My heart is a kickdrum in my chest.

“Simon.” I choke out. Looking at the ground. Trying to keep the panic out of my voice. I want to run to him. I need to run away. Hug him or eat him. His smell is choking out everything I’m trying to think. I can feel his cross, even from here. Fuck. “Your arm.”

“Wha--?” Simon looks down as a dark red drop rolls off his wrist and lands on a brilliant green blade of grass. The color drains from his face. He’s almost as pale as I am. His blue eyes meet my grey ones, holding for just a moment.

Then he turns around and immediately starts to run.

***

It’s dusk when I get back from the catacombs. There are spiderwebs in my hair and blood on my collar. Smelling Simon’s blood awoke more than just thirst. I feel a yearning, an ache. A longing far beyond what had previously been just an adolescent crush. This is something altogether different. This is a want that’s bottomless and fathomless. I want Simon Snow, inside and out. All of him.

Merlin and Morganna. How am I supposed to live like this? The person I want most in the whole world is not only my mortal enemy, but he may or may not be turning into a werewolf. Fan-fucking-tastic. Further proof that God hates me.

I pause outside our room at Mummer’s house to breathe and calm my racing thoughts. I take a deep breath and open the door. Simon is sitting on his bed, head in his hands, a bandage around his right bicep.

“How’s the body hair situation?” I quip.

“Can you please, please, please just fuck off?” Simon rakes his hands through his hair and looks up at the ceiling. His eyes are rimmed with red and his pallor is more grey than tawny.

I sit next to him. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“So,” I say, cocking my head his direction. “You’ve been bitten by what may or may not have been a werewolf.”

“Way to state the obvious, Baz .” Simon is positively growling. It’s delicious. He has the audacity to roll his eyes at me. I ignore it.

“Do you feel any different?” I press. “Any…stirrings? Increased interest in cats? Irresistible desire to catch a ball with your mouth?”

“How about an irresistible desire to punch you in the face?”

I choose to ignore this too. I deserve an award for my kindness.

“Well, I imagine the lycanthropy won’t kick in until the next full moon, right?” I remind him, helpfully.

Simon growls again, gets up and begins pacing the room. “That’s just great. What am I supposed to do until then?”

I cross my legs and cock an eyebrow at him as I  Lean back onto my elbows. I’m still on his bed. I lower my eyebrows. What exactly am I doing here?

“I suppose,” I respond, “we wait.”

Chapter Text

I saw the crescent.

You saw the whole of the moon.

-The Waterboys

Baz

Google is a magical thing. Thank Merlin there is at least rudimentary computer access in the Watford library. Granted, it’s dial-up. How does that even still exist?

I admit, aside from basic astrology and vague musings regarding American moon landing conspiracy theories, I really haven’t given much thought to the moon. The phases. How long it’s actually “full.” It’s not like the moon has any effect on my condition. Simon’s impending “condition” is altogether different.

I can’t remember ever feeling this happy. I mean, Simon isn’t happy, he’s positively miserable. He’s off his food, just picks at his plate. Even his beloved scones aren’t piquing his interest. But I, on the other hand, am practically giddy at the thought of not being the only monster around here anymore. I’m finding it hard to maintain my facade of constant disdain for Snow, when all I really want to do is commiserate about the ups and downs of being a dark creature. Granted, he isn’t a dark creature yet, now is he?

As the date of the full moon approaches, I’m finding myself obsessing about Snow even more than usual. Is his patchy facial hair thickening up a little? Is he shaving more often? Do his cheeks look fuller? I should counsel him about the onset of fangs. The first few times are a bitch. I’ve never met a werewolf, is the transformation painful? Where does his human mind go when he’s a wolf?

Simon is growing more irritable and frazzled as the big night approaches. He’s not sleeping much. When he does it’s all sweat and shouting and fear.  Tonight, he jolts up panting, after a particularly violent nightmare. He rakes a hand through his hair, lit with the blue glow of the waxing gibbous moon. (I’m an expert at moon phases now.)

“I’ll help you.” I murmur, so softly, only a werewolf or vampire could hear.

“Help me what?” Simon responds. Irritably.

“With your transformation.”  The moon goes full tomorrow.

“Fuck off, Baz.” Simon hisses. “I’m not transforming into anything. This whole thing is bollocks.” Simon flings his sheets aside and stalks out the door. He slams it so hard a picture falls off the wall by my bed—my mother, at her leavers ceremony. In her cap and gown, face shining with pride and a rosy future. A fine crack slivers across the glass.

I cast off my blankets, put on my cloak, and go after Snow.

I find Simon at the ramparts, silhouetted against the rising moon. He’s got his chin out, shoulders back, arms flexed, and hands balled into fists. Like he’s going to pull the glowering orb from the sky and pound it to rubble. Like he’s going to grab fate by its hairy shoulders and tear it limb from limb. Simon Snow, always ready to go down fighting.

I leave him there, staring down the moon, and go back to our room.

***

The next day Snow doesn’t get up for class.

Bunce flits into my face in the dining hall at afternoon tea.

“What have you done with Simon?” She buzzes, face pinched, hair billowing in an intimidating purple halo around her face.

“I’m not his keeper, Bunce. I thought that was your job?”

“Simon isn’t eating, he’s skipping class and looks a disaster. You’re looking both dodgy and smug. Spill.” Bunce retorts.

“The misadventures of your dumber half are none of my concern.” I turn on my heel and stomp out of the dining hall.

Why hasn’t he told Bunce? I ponder, hands in my pockets as I make my way back to Mummer’s house. I make sure to glare at anyone who dares look my way, it’s a form of stress relief. She’s his best friend. His only friend. A problem shared is a problem halved and whatnot.

My mind stops its spinning on as soon as I step into our room. The curtains are drawn and the space is stuffy. The heaving mountain of blankets (my blankets, wtf?) on his bed belie Snow’s location. “Get up you loaf; your sidekick is looking for you.” I sneer.

No response.

“Get up, I’m not having Bunce yapping at my heels over –” I stride to the bed and lift the sheet. Simon’s face is wrong. It’s pale, blotchy with a hint of grey. His hair is soaked in sweat and matted to his head. He’s shivering.

“‘M freezing, Baz. Fuck off.” Simon moans.

I place a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up, Snow.” My heart is pounding in my chest as I feel a traitorous prickling in my eyes. This is no time to cry, but Crowley, this is happening.

Oh Simon. I allow myself to gently push his damp curls from his forehead. He doesn’t notice. 

I get up and begin pacing the room. How does this even work? Will it hurt? I searched the Watford library for all the Werewolf information I could find, but the world of Mages frowns on lycanthropy much as it does on vampirism. Beyond the Werewolf Code of Conduct of 1637 (which nobody signed), tomes of accounts of how to kill them (apparently, they’re flammable too, go figure), and lists of famous werewolves in history (Thoreau, Einstein, Twain, among others), reliable information is scarce. Just a few anecdotes on failed attempts at countercurses and some balderdash about premenstrual talismans using their fur. Nothing useful.

It occurs to me that there is a good chance I’m about to be trapped in a tower with a werewolf. I’m not sure how I feel about this. Is this how Simon finishes me off? The final battle? Death by werewolf? Will he even know what he did? Will he care?

Crowley, what if he bites me? Can I be a vampire and a werewolf? What a nightmare. 

Darkness has settled on the room. I haven’t bothered to turn on the lights. I don’t need them. In the gloaming, Simon’s breathing has settled, he seems almost calm.

I settle onto my bed to await the moonrise. My mind uneasy and thoughts swirling. Anxiety crawling like worms under my skin.

A moment or hours later, the night air is pierced by a sound I never want to hear again. Simon screams and curls into himself. He tries to get up but falls to the floor. Without a thought I go to him, but I don’t believe he knows I’m there. I’ve got an arm around his shoulder, steadying him. He’s on his knees, face in my chest. My other hand is carding through his hair. “It’s ok.” I whisper, “I’ve got you.” He doesn’t hear me. He won’t stop screaming.

His voice is going hoarse, sobbing as he shakes me off and falls to his hands and knees. There is a wet creak and snap of bones breaking and flesh tearing. His back arches as his scream melts to a long howl, drenched in sorrow. I’m crouched on the floor, breathing in gasps, tears streaming down my face. I think I’m going to throw up.

I look up into a huge pair of ice-blue eyes. A long, dark muzzle, teeth like knives. Moonlit bronze fur with a bit of a curl. He lets out a low, menacing snarl, his eyes locked on mine. I feel the hair on my neck rise and my fangs pop. He growls again, like thunder, then leaps over my head and out the window in one fluid movement.  Disappearing into the waiting night, leaving me alone. The only sound in the room, the tumbled beating of my heart.

Chapter Text

You and me have a disease,
You affect me, you infect me,
I'm afflicted, you're addicted,
You and me, you and me

- "Infected" by Bad Religion   

Panting, I scramble to the window. The night seems to be holding its breath, silently waiting as a quiet splash draws my eyes to the moat. The merwolves are eerily calm, almost reverent, as they bear witness to the hulking bronze figure that cuts through the water. The creature emerges from the moat, shaking off moonlit water droplets. He howls again, sending my heart into a renewed frenzy. The wolf then turns and runs into the forest.

I wipe my hands across my face, then rake them through my hair.

What should I do? What should I do?

Should I go after him? Leave him be? Where is he going? Does he even know?

The drawbridge is closed. I’m too frazzled to manage a spell to get around it. Sleep isn’t an option tonight. My eye catches on the pile of books Malfoy sent over. At least Hogwarts still has a fully stocked library, not the Children’s Garden of Verses we have here at Watford. I take a copy of “Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them,” a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and settle onto my bed to try and focus on the pages.

***

Sunrise turns the room pink as I realize I’ve been reading the same paragraph for half an hour. I have no idea what it says. The only information I’ve retained from this exercise is that the full moon phase can last up to about four days. The transformation seems to last longer in the newly Turned. Also, there is a potion called Wolfsbane that helps lessen the effects of the Lycanthropy.

A heavy thunk, followed by the clatter of gears indicates the drawbridge is coming down.

I snap the book shut with one hand and stand up.

Time to find a werewolf.

***

It’s a good thing it’s the weekend. I certainly wouldn’t miss class to hike through the woods after this imbecile. Branches slap my face as I stomp along, following Snow’s tracks. He’s left an obvious trail of broken limbs, scratched soil and huge footprints. My vampire senses come in handy as well. His scent is different in this form. He still smells like smoke, but now there’s a wildness, a smell of petrichor and moss with hints of musk.

My mind is a swirl of thoughts, but I can’t settle on any single one. Simon, the Chosen One, Watford’s golden boy is now a monster. Technically, he’s not allowed to exist. Neither am I, for that matter, I’m well versed in keeping my secret. The question is what’s Simon going to do with this information? He’s so damned good, he could very well just turn himself in to the mage as soon as he resumes his human form. I’ll be damned to hell twice over before I let him throw his life away like that. I will stop him, even if I have to put a collar on him and chain him to the bed. (That actually sounds appealing, regardless of his reaction to his new condition.)

Simon’s scent gets stronger as I approach a dried creek bed. I slow down, treading lightly across scattered stones and debris, trying not to make a sound. An angry squirrel chitters at me from a branch above my head. If I had the time or inclination, I’d drain him out of spite. At least squirrel blood tastes better than rat.

I stop short as I come around a boulder, on the other side is the hulking form of Simon Snow. Rather, the were version of him. His breath is till heaving, but he seems to be asleep. During the frenzied events of last night, I hadn’t a chance to really get a look at him.  He’s huge, probably the size of a Shetland pony. He doesn’t exactly look wolfish, his muzzle is not so pointed, his ears flop down. He looks like, well he looks like an overgrown, shaggy, bronze-furred Golden Retriever. For snakes sake, of course Simon Snow would turn into a Golden; cheerful, loyal, lovely dogs that they are. He’s too good to even be a proper monster. Crowley. I roll my eyes and shake my head in wonder.

Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice. Not quite so Golden-esque then.

Before I can pull my wand from my sleeve, he lunges at me, but immediately falls to the ground. He growls again and turns to bite at something behind him. I step back to a safer distance and see that the beast’s foot is caught in some kind of debris. Snow flails and thrashes, but eventually collapses, exhausted, panting.

I try to approach him, now that he’s tired, and am met once again with that malevolent, dead stare and a mouth full of giant teeth. And, I might add, horrific dog breath.  I back away into the forest to think. That thing, it is Simon. I can’t exactly leave him out here for the next three days, but how can I spell him free and somewhere safe until he goes back to human form? There are dog training spells, but what would “atta boy” do to the human part of his brain? I suppose I could spell him to sleep, but how do I get him back to our room? I don’t have the magic to transport him.

What if I could get him to trust me? Physically, he’s a giant pet dog. What’s the best way to train a dog? Positive reinforcement: Food. What’s the way to Simon Snow’s heart? Food. 

I turn and run back to Watford. It’s time to call in a favor with Cook Pritchard.

***

Thank magic no one is around when I haul the giant wicker picnic basket Cook Pritchard loaded up for me across the great lawn. She gave me enough food for an army. The woman was well chuffed that I was having a picnic with “friends.” She acted as if I hadn’t any friends.  “Well that’s lovely, Basilton, so nice to see you coming out of your shell.” Cook even tucked a small bottle of dandelion wine into the basket, “to help break the ice.” She actually winked at me. I wanted to implode.

I have friends. Sure, half of them are family, but still. You only need one or two friends, anything more isn’t worth the effort.

I carry the basket through the wood. I feel like I’m on my way to a goth Victorian picnic. I stop periodically to drain a few squirrels, just for spite.  The resident dryad side eyes me as I pass her thicket. I ignore her.

“What do you seek, blood eater?” She hisses. Twirling her ridiculous umbrella. Butterflies swirl lazily around her mossy hair.

“None of your business.” I reply.

“Your pistil is a wolf.” She remarks.

“He’s not my anything.” I snarl, “And he’s not a wolf, he’s a Golden Retriever.”

“The Chosen One is an abomination,” she presses. “The children of the moon must die.”

I light a fire in my palm. “Is that so?” I drop my voice to a menace, “maybe I should take out this whole forest in the process.”

 “Do what you must. The forest will regrow. He cannot live.” She calls my bluff.

“You know what? You can fuck off.” I say, frustrated.

She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise my hand. “Enough. We’re done here.” I sling the giant basket over my shoulder and stomp away.

I’ll be staked before I take advice from a woodland creature holding a parasol. Snow has as much of a right to live as I do. More so, he’s not dead. Fuck the dryad.

I finally make it back to the creek bed. Dog-Simon looks vaguely defeated, laying on his side, his back leg stretched behind him. I can see a length of rusty wire wrapped around his foot. He’s awake, wary eyes never leaving mine, a low growl rumbles in his chest.

I settle myself on the ground a safe distance away. I’m wearing my school-issue green Watford football trackie bottoms and sweatshirt. Coach Mac will probably not appreciate werewolf damage to the practice uniform. My trainers are caked with mud. I sigh. The things I do for love.

The basket creaks as I open it. The sound makes Snow get up and retreat as far as the wire around his leg will let him. His tail is down, ears back; he’s panting lightly.

I pull out the bottle of dandelion wine and take a swig, to calm my nerves. It’s bitter, with a faint floral overtone, and just enough bite to warm my chest. I take a deep breath and survey the contents of my picnic. The basket is overflowing with roast beef sandwiches, sour cherry scones, roast chicken, bacon butties, jellies, and inexplicably a layered trifle. She must have magicked it all in there.

It’s just me and the dog, and I missed breakfast, so I help myself to a roast beef sandwich. Snow’s ears tip forward and he sits down. Sniffing the air.

I toss a bit of my sandwich at him, he scrambles away with a surprised bark. Almost immediately, he cautiously noses forward, sniffing at the roast beef. He sits down again, without eating it and resumes watching me, panting. His teeth are huge.

“For fucks sake, Simon, it’s not like it’s poisoned.”

The dog’s ears perk up and he cocks his head at me. His mouth is closed, brows almost furrowed in concentration.

“Go on then lad,” I press, “roast beef is your favorite.” I remind myself to breathe.

Snow resumes panting, but lowers his nose again at the food. He nudges it, then takes an experimental bite. Apparently satisfied that the offering wasn’t going to kill him, the great dog swallows the rest. Licking his lips, he retreats to his original position, as far away from me as he can get.

I toss half a sandwich into his orbit.

“There you go Snow, I know you can’t walk away from half a sandwich.”

Once again Dog-Simon sits, cocks his head and looks at me. I’m probably imagining it, but his eyelids almost seem to squeeze a bit, in concentration. He cautiously walks my way, never taking his eyes off me, and eats the sandwich half in one bite. This time he doesn’t shy away, he sits, panting again and watches me.

I toss him the other half of the sandwich, which he catches in the air and eats with more gusto. He’s watching me again, this time I get a weak tail wag.

I unwrap the roast chicken and throw the whole thing at him. It lands with an unceremonious plop, a leg breaking free. Simon stands and practically inhales the whole thing. His tail is wagging faster now.

We go on like this for the duration of the afternoon. I’m slowly inching closer, I can almost touch his muzzle now. He seems more relaxed, the panting has stopped. His ears are forward, tail wagging freely. His eyes have gone softer, from ice to sky.

I reach into the basket for a sour cherry scone, I’ve been saving these for this moment. I scoot even closer, holding it in my hand this time. He’s so close, he could easily rip my throat out. It’s not often I have to worry about someone ripping out my throat. It’s refreshing, really. I suppose there are worse ways to die.

“Simon, we’re going to have to work together to figure this mess out. If there is any part of you that can hear me, let me help you. I mean, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but…” My voice tapers off. Why would he trust me? Crowley, I’ve done nothing but torment him for the last 6 years.

A gentle breeze ruffles the golden leaves above me. “We be of one blood, ye and I.” I murmur. A warm rush of surprise washes over me. Where the fuck did that even come from? Kipling was a powerful magician, but is that even a spell? Leave it to me to channel my favorite childhood book in times of duress.

I take a breath and hold out the scone. Simon noses forward, sniffs, and carefully takes the scone from my hand. He doesn’t move away. I keep my eyes on him as I slowly reach for the basket and remove another scone. I hold it in my hand, when he takes it, I reach out with my other hand and run it behind his ear, rubbing along his jaw.  He stiffens, but continues to eat the scone. “These are your favourite,” I whisper, scratching behind his ear, rubbing slowly along his neck and shoulder. Eventually, I find myself out of scones and scratching his stomach, while his tongue lolls and he scratches his back leg lazily.

I take a break because my hands are cramping from all the petting. I really hope he doesn’t remember any of this. I shake my hands and look at the grime under my nails. I’m going to need a manicure.

Simon stands and gives a mighty shake from his nose to his feathered, rudder-like tail. He utters a sharp bark, like he’s decided something, then proceeds to try and climb into my lap, his huge pink tongue lapping my face.

“Merlin and Morgana, you giant thumping git, get off. I push him away, but not too far. He knocks me to the ground and licks my whole face. For snakes sake, you’re disgusting, I get to my feet wiping saliva off my chin and trying not to smile. Simon’s tail is wagging so hard his whole body is wiggling and he’s rubbing along my side, trying to get me to scratch his back. I oblige for a moment.

“Snow, stop, let’s get your leg untangled.”  He stands so quietly as I extricate his leg from the wire, that I can’t help but wonder if he understood me.

Once freed, Simon plants his giant paws on my shoulders and smears the side of my face with his tongue once more. “Blimey, Snow.” I step back and the great dog’s feet once more hit the ground. He zooms away, coming to a skidding stop, returns to my side and bows his front legs down, rear up, tail wagging madly.

I lean down and take his huge face in my hands, scratching gently below his jaw. “Come along, you delightful moron, let’s go home.”

I turn and make my way through the forest. The late afternoon sun dapples the trail with rich golden light. Dust motes dancing in the beams. Simon scampers ahead, darting back every few minutes to make sure I’m still following.

I breathe in the rich loamy scent of these ancient woods and let it out slowly. For once, my mind is quiet. Simon is back at my side, nosing at my hand. I absentmindedly rub his velvet ear. I stop and let this foreign emotion wash over me. I let myself relax, for just this moment, I am content.

Chapter Text

Baz:

“You can’t just bring dogs into the dining hall, mate. This has to violate multiple food codes. Not to mention it’s fucking huge.” Dev nervously eyes the beast sitting at the end of the table inhaling a pile of bangers.

“He’s fine. I "clean as a whistled" him before he came in.” I retort.

“I still don’t understand why your aunt insists on you watching him.” Dev says.

“We share a special bond.” I reply, “Only Fiona and I can control him, otherwise, he will dismember anyone who approaches.”  

As if on cue, Snow raises his head, eyes Dev, and emits a low growl before resuming his attack on the sausage.

Dev swallows and clears his throat. “Sounds like the perfect dog to bring to school. Why doesn’t she just take it with her on her enchanted marijuana field trip?”

“Soluna Sativa can only be harvested by the light of the full moon in the farthest reaches of the Scottish Moors and Rusty gets carsick. Furthermore, he doesn’t fit in the MG and shrinking spells don’t last the whole trip.” I drawl, passing Simon a scone.

“Why doesn’t she just smoke local pot?” Niall asks, pouring himself more tea.

“Apparently this stuff prevents wrinkles.” I reply. “She’s a trained herbalist, you know.”

“Herbalist. Right. Fancy word for purveyor of mind-altering substances.” Dev quips.

“Alright lads,” I gather my things, “I’ve got to get this beast settled in Greek before the Minotaur gets in, no telling how Rusty will react to cattle.”

“How do they even let you bring that dog to class?” Niall asks.

“I tell them he’s my emotional support pet.” I reply, tossing Simon the crusts from my toast.

“What problems have you got then?” Dev grumbles. “You’re bloody perfect at everything.”

“Yes, and that makes me anxious,” I drawl.

“He’s off his knob,” Dev mumbles to Niall under his breath.

“I heard that.” Don’t think I won’t set Rusty on you just because you’re family.

I try not to look like I’m stomping away from them – I wait until I leave the dining hall, then stomp through the courtyard. I tried to stash the beast in our room, but the moment I closed the door to leave, he started to howl. It’s a miracle no one heard. He won’t let me out of his sight, even cramming his great hulking self into the loo with me. He curls up on the bath mat when I shower, he's seen me naked. It’s awful, and if he remembers any of this, I will combust.

The rest of the day is fairly uneventful. Well, minus an interlude where Simon chased Ebb’s goats across campus, but I managed to wrest him away before the goatherd intervened. Crowley, he's a menace.

***

It’s Monday night and Snow is restless. I imagine he’s going to transform soon; the moon is scheduled to rise at around 9:40. I settle in bed and try to read while Simon pants and paces the room. Eventually, he hops into bed with me and lays his great head in my lap. “There, there giant stupid puff,” I croon, massaging the spot he loves under his jaw. “Everything will be alright.” Snow huffs a sigh.

I rub his velvet ear with my finger. “You really are beautiful, you know? You insolent mongrel,” I murmur. “What would you do if you knew that I loved you? I mean. Human you. I'm pretty sure this is worse than a crush. This feeling." Crowley. I'm pouring my heart out to a dog.

A slim icicle of fear slivers trough my chest as I utter these words aloud. Were-Simon is asleep, but I have no idea what he understands in this form. What does he think and feel? Will he remember anything? Mostly he just seems like an irritable, ravenous, clingy dog. Am I his friend or his master? Does he stay with me out of love or obligation? I’d like to think it’s love. I’d like to stop thinking altogether. There’s nothing to be gained from this rabbit hole; he’s just a big goofy dog and I’m the person who feeds him. “But that’s all right,” I whisper. “I'll take what I can get.” I bury my face and arms in the soft bronze ruff of Snow’s neck, close my eyes and inhale his wild, familiar scent.

At 9:38, dog-Simon cries out and leaps off the bed, biting at his flank. I have no idea what is about to happen, so I cast a quick soundproofing spell on the room.  I attempt to go to him, but Snow is all eyes and teeth as he collapses and howls like his heart is breaking. I try to block out the wet crunch of bones and flesh, as arms and legs elongate, a skull shrinks and tawny skin replaces fur. It’s over so fast.

Simon bloody Snow is heaving on the floor, trying to catch his breath. Starkers.

“Er—here, Snow. “I toss a blanket at him and turn around to face the wall. Crowley, how did I not think of the nakedness thing? For snake’s sake, I can’t unsee this. Why does he have to have moles everywhere.  

Focus, Basilton.

Snow doesn’t say anything. He raises himself from the floor and slowly makes his way to his bed, collapsing onto the mattress. He burrows into a pile of blankets (Including mine.) and promptly falls asleep.

“You’re welcome for the blanket,” I mumble, but not loud enough for him to actually hear. “And the pet sitting.” I climb into my bed, wrap myself in the painfully thin, but cotton soft Watford sheet and try not to pout.

Snow doesn’t wake up for class. Or breakfast for that matter. I close our door softly when I leave, so I don’t disturb him.

After class, I pick up a mug of tea, a few bacon rolls and cherry scones to bring back to the room. Simon is sitting up in his bed, dressed (thankfully) with his head in his hands. He glances up when I walk in. He looks—haunted.

“Here.” I place the tea and food on the night stand.

“Thanks.” He says, eyeing me. He looks more defeated than wary. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“Why not?” I reply. I know the answer, but I want to hear him say it.

Snow rakes his hands through his hair. “Poetic justice,” he replies. “Sweet revenge. All this time I’ve been trying to prove to everyone that you’re a monster, and now I am one.” He is staring at his hands, jaw thrust forward, holding on to his tears through sheer force of will.

“It’s a dream come true,” I agree, softly.

Simon shifts, curling his knees up near his chest, and wraps his arms around them. Head down, he casts his red-rimmed blue eyes my way.

“But also,” I sit on the edge of his bed, facing him. My eyes meet his. “Because we match.”

“Wait,” Simon straightens and lowers his brows at me. “Did you just admit that you’re a vampire?”

“Well spotted, Snow. What do you plan to do with that information?” I tilt my head at him, raising my brow, “I suggest we form a club. I propose we name it “Monsters of Mummers.”

Snow looks back down at his knees. Shoulders slumped in defeat. “What a fucking disaster.”

I carefully place a hand on his shoulder, like he’s made of butterfly wings. Comfort is not my thing. “We’ll figure this out, Snow.”

Simon closes his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. He doesn’t wipe them. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and haltingly says, “thank you Baz, for everything.”

“You’re welcome,” I respond, holding my right hand out to him. “Truce?”

A small smile quirks at the corner of Snow’s mouth. He turns and takes my hand to shake it. His hand is big and warm and calloused and perfect. 

“Truce.”

Chapter Text

Baz:

He’s still holding my hand. I wonder if he’s forgotten that he’s holding my hand. Or if he’s forgotten what it means to hold hands. Or if he’s forgotten who I am entirely. 

“Simon,” I say. 

Snow, lost in thought, snaps to attention, he shakes his head and drops my hand. “Yeah?” He’s so weary. I want to wrap myself around him. 

“Do you remember anything? From when you were...you know?”

Snow leans his head back, tapping it to the headboard. He closes his eyes, inhales. He shakes his head slowly, “No.”  His blue, blue eyes cut to me, “Nothing, Baz. It’s all a blank.”

***

Simon:

“Yes, Penny, I understand that monthly absences are sub-optimal for my marks. I’ll get by. Thanks for the notes, by the way.” I run my fingers through my hair, I am barely keeping my shit together. 

The moon is in the first quarter, I’ve got just over a week ‘til my next appointment with my “condition.” It’s only been three months and I am sick of thinking about the bloody moon. I fucking hate the moon. 

“Simon!” Penny shouts. “Seriously, what is going on? You’re losing weight!” She snaps her fingers in my face to get my attention, I can’t focus on anything lately. “That alone is cause for concern. Add to that the fact that you’ve got circles under your eyes, your hair is out of control, and I barely get to see you anymore, and we have a problem.”  She starts stacking the books and papers scattered across the table. We’re at the library studying for midterms. Which happen to fall during my “special time of the month.” Hence the current diatribe.

“It’s fine Penny. I’ve already cleared it with the professors, I’ll take the exams when I get back.” I feel my temper beginning to sizzle. I don’t know if it’s stress or the disease, but I’m definitely feeling angrier. Or at least irritable. Plus my hair growth has kicked up a notch. Everywhere. I have to shave every day now, which is kind of cool, not gonna lie. I like having the beard option available. Maybe I’ll grow one for the winter.

Penny drops a stack of books onto the table, getting my attention and that of half the library. “These secret errands The Mage is sending you on every month are not worth the damage to your education, Simon. This is ridiculous.” She levels me a cold, hard stare, “I’m taking this up with him.”

This is where I snap. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it. There’s so much at stake here. “The fuck you’ll talk to him, Penny. This is my business, not yours.” I’m shaking as I gather my notes. I don’t want to be this way. “Stay out of this,” I growl. I sling my bag over my shoulder and leave.

The winter air slaps me as I stomp out of the library, leaving Penny mid-sentence. This whole situation is so fucked up. Why don’t I just tell her? Baz wants me to tell her. That’s fucked up too. Getting along with Baz. Working with him. Needing his help. Trusting him. What would Penny say about that? We have an arrangement now, Baz and me.  He looks after me when I change, I don’t tell anyone he’s a vampire. Our cover story is pretty thin, with me going on monthly missions for the mage and him taking care of his sister’s dog, but it’s the best we could come up with. That’s new. Baz and me—a ‘we.’ But I’m not ready to think about that right now.

It’s not that I don’t trust Penny. I do, I trust her implicitly. But her mum is on the Coven, and well, I’m pretty sure they frown on werewolves, even chosen ones.

I put my hands in my pockets, where to now? I stand in the courtyard; a chill breeze scatters a few dead leaves across the cobblestones. It’s almost dinner time, I could head into the dining hall for something to eat. Baz is likely to be in our room, revising, even though his scores are already perfect. He could probably fail every midterm and still be at the top of our class. I decide to go to Mummers. Baz probably needs a break anyway.

Baz:

Simon jostles into the room, a dusting of snow on his broad shoulders. He drops his bag on his bed and tips his chin at me. “All right, Pitch?”

“All right, Snow?” This is all so sublimely weird. This kinship with Snow. I fucking love it.

I kick back from my desk, stretching. “You know I’ve been thinking.”

Simon looks up at me from where he’s sat on his bed. He’s removing his shoes and chucking them across the room like an animal. “So?” He says, as he throws a rolled-up sock at me.

I swat it away. “You’re a neanderthal,” I snarl, somewhat petulantly. He has nice feet, I find this distracting. 

“You were thinking I’m a neanderthal?” He throws the other sock.

“No, you moron,” I dodge the sock.  “You’re disgusting, but also, I wonder if I should take you to the vet.”

“What?” Simon is standing now, in his pants. Trousers slung over his shoulders. He pulls a pair of trackie bottoms from a pile on the floor. This is new, too. Since the nakedness. He’s changing clothes in front of me. I’m not sure how much my heart can take. I look around the room for something to focus on besides his perfect arse. I know the shirt is coming off soon. I think Snow is trying to kill me.

“Take you to the veterinarian, you know, for vaccinations.” I fix my eyes on a crack on the ceiling. “At a minimum you need a rabies shot and probably something for fleas.”

“Fuck you, twat!” Snow has added his trousers to the pile and snaps a t-shirt across his shoulder. He’s shirtless now, of course. His cross glints amid a sea of golden freckles. I want to rip it off.

I try very hard to look bored while simultaneously imagining licking his pectorals because I’m absolutely deranged. “Don’t use that word,” I remind, “It’s vulgar and misogynistic.”

“Right, well you’re a right prick then. I don’t have fucking fleas.”

“How do you know?” I reply, “maybe you have fleas on your were body, and they go wherever all that hair goes when you transform.”

Snow flops on to his bed, blessedly fully clothed. “Crowley, Baz,” he huffs. “Stop fucking thinking.” He reaches into his nightstand drawer and pulls out a mint Aero bar. He unwraps it and offers me half. I take it.

I need to hunt. Usually I wait until Simon is asleep or gone, but I suppose, in light of current developments, I can just go now and actually get a full night’s sleep for a change.

I stand up and start to put on my coat.

“Where are you going?” Simon says, softly.

“Where do you think I’m going?” That came out a bit harsh.

“I think you’re going to eat rats in the catacombs,” Snow replies, shuffling to his feet.

“I don’t eat rats. I drain them,” I correct.

“I’m coming with,” he reaches for his coat.

“Crowley, you will not.”

“Did I go hunting with you when I was in my other form?” He’s fastening the buttons.

“Yes, but—”

“There’s no ‘but.’ You’ve seen me in every aspect of my—condition. I get to see every facet of yours.”

I can’t even describe what I’m feeling right now. My heart is racing, so: anxiety. But I also feel lightheaded and a bit weepy. And also like I’m falling. I think I’m in an alternate reality. Simon Snow, who knows I’m a blood sucking vampire, wants to go with me, to watch me suck blood. He’s asking nonchalantly, as if he wants to accompany me to the grocery store. I can’t process the level of fucked upness here.

“Absolutely not,” I declare.

Snow crowds into my space. I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “You have been dealing with this shit alone for years. I can’t even imagine that. I don’t know how I could have gotten through this—thing alone.” He jabs a finger into my chest, “without you.”

He straightens up and juts out his chin, “I’m going with you.”

Clearly, I’m dead. Or dreaming. Or both. I’ll just roll with it. “Fine,” I say. “You’ll have to keep up.”

***

We’re deep in the catacombs, there are still torches, but I’m taking us to the darkest depths to hunt. No need for him to actually see what I’m doing. Snow is following me like a lost child at the market.

“How do you not get sick from all the rat germs? You’d think you would at least catch plague or something.”

“I don’t know, Snow. I don’t catch cold either, maybe I’ve got super immunity.” I brush a cobweb from my hair as I walk. “Maybe I have antiseptic saliva, like a hyena.”

“Antiseptic saliva,” Snow ponders. “I suppose then, I could skip the nurse and have you lick my wounds.”

“Merlin, no. I don’t want to lick your wounds.” I want to lick your wounds. “And can you hear yourself? I’m a vampire, Snow.”

“Er yeah, just a thought.”

We’re beyond the torches, now. I can still see, but it’s got to be pitch black for Snow. He takes my hand as we continue to walk. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding. Did the lycanthropy sharpen his human senses too? His hand is warm. My hand is on fire. I feel every whorl of his fingerprints.

“Have you killed anyone, then?”

I stop. I consider dropping his hand, but I’d rather set myself on fire first. “Have you killed anyone, Snow?”

Simon looks at me, then looks down, “Well, not as a werewolf.”

“I haven’t killed anyone. I’m not—that,” I murmur.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Dunno. Needed to make sure.”

We walk in silence. Hand in hand.

I stop again. “Look, I have to…hunt. Will you wait?”

“You want me to stand here in the dark, alone? While you kill rats?”

“I won’t go far, just talk, don’t listen,” I urge.

“Talk about what?” Simon asks.

“I don’t know, tell me about your childhood,” I drop his hand and slip away.

“Not much to tell, really. I grew up in an assortment of care homes. Not exactly idyllic.”

I’m working fast, I’ve drained two rats. “Do you have any happy memories of care?”

Snow laughs softly, “not many.” He pauses for a beat. “One home I stayed at in Liverpool got a grant for new playground equipment. I must have been five or six. It had a big red slide and shiny blue plastic swings. Usually the homes had no swings or broken wooden ones with splinters and rusty chains. These swings were ace. I was so happy. Would swing on them all day if they let me. I tried to sleep out there once.”

“That’s lovely,” I say, walking back to Snow. I wipe my hand on my trouser leg. I wish I had some sanitizer. I take Simon’s hand again; I don’t know who I am anymore. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah, OK,” Simon says as we walk out of the catacombs.

When we get back to our room, Simon takes off his cross.

Chapter Text

Baz:

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Simon pulls a small black velvet box from the back of his dresser. He drops the necklace inside and snaps it closed.

Snow is such a moron. “Put it back on, “I demand.

“You’ve had ample opportunities to drain me dry, and you haven’t slaughtered me yet, Baz.”

“What about your were form? You wouldn’t be my first canine meal.” I sit on my bed.

“So you sneak around draining household pets and legal game, yeah. As far as I can tell, you haven’t expanded to magical creatures. I think I’m safe.”

“I drained our family dog.” That came out barely above a whisper. What the fuck am I doing? Why did I just say that? Out loud.  I’m staring pointedly at my shoes, wishing for combustion.

I feel the bed sag as Snow sits next to me. Too close, he’s too close. In a warm rush of campfire and moss, he puts an arm around my shoulders. “D’ya want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “C’mon mate, who else can you talk to about this stuff? We’re monster comrades and whatnot.”

“You’re an idiot, Snow.”

“Was it a nice dog or a shit dog?”

“Crowley, Snow.” I get up and pace to the window. The proximity was too much. “It was a nice dog. I felt horrible, but the blood lust had just kicked in and I was desperate. I still feel terrible about it.” I put my hands on the sill and breathe in the briny scent of merwolf. Simon’s wolf scent is so much better.

“Blimey, Baz.” He’s next to me again, hand on my back, right at the base of my neck. “That’s awful, but like you said, you were desperate. It was a life or death decision for you, yeah? I mean, it was for the dog too, I suppose, but I’m sure he understood.”

“I tried to make it quick. I loved that damn dog.”  I’m crying now. Splendid. This is not what I had in mind when I thought Snow being a werewolf would bring us closer. Where’s my erotic gropefest?

Snow is rubbing circles on my back. “You did what you had to do to survive, Baz. It’s ok. Your dog would forgive you. What was his name anyway?”

My stomach drops to my feet. “Er—”

Simon is looking at me expectantly, “Um,” my mind is on lockdown, I can’t even think of a suitable lie. “Well,” I swallow. “His name was—Rusty.”

Snow wrinkles his brow at me. “Rusty? As in me—Rusty.”

Whatever blood I have in me comes to my face and I look up at the ceiling. “Um. Yes.”

“You named me after your dead dog? The one you killed?”

“Yes.” I wonder, if I jumped out the window, if I could float like a butterfly away. Like, to Siberia.

“Ha,” Snow barks, clapping me on the back. “Blimey, you’re morbid.”

“He was a good dog,” I mumble.

“Well, there’s your redemption then. It’s all good as long as you don’t kill me, yeah?”

“Don’t tempt me, Snow.”

“Speaking of hunger, can you get us into the dining hall? I’m starved.” 

 ***

Baz:

Simon is pacing.

“I hate this, Baz.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his forehead.

“I know.” I say, putting down my book.

It’s Friday night, another full moon.

Snow sits next to me on the bed. Too close. He always sits too close now. Like he’s trying to warm me by proxy. His magic is up, blurring his edges slightly. “Breathe, Snow.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know how you do it, Baz. Living this double life.”

“I have to,” I reply. “What’s the alternative?”

Simon sighs and leans back, tapping his head on the wall behind him.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, “Here it comes.” He starts pulling off his hoodie. My hoodie, I should add, my Watford football one. He’s started stealing my clothes. I don’t mind.

Just as he’s removing his pants, he lets out a strangled groan and falls to his hands and knees. The transition has gotten smoother, faster, but it doesn’t appear to be any less painful. Simon’s jaw is set, his eyes closed as he tries to bear it.

I can’t. Can’t bear it, that is. Seeing him like this. But I do it anyway. I kneel next to him murmuring platitudes. “It’s all right, Snow. It will be over soon. I’m here.” I love you. You’re my best friend. What I really want to say stays locked within my heart.

With a final whine and a snap of bone, a large, bronze-haired dog replaces Simon at my side.

“Hello, stupid.” I say, wrapping my arms around his giant neck as he licks a trail of slobber across my face.

Snow rolls over onto his back so I can scratch his belly. “Who’s a big stupid dog?” I croon as he writhes with happiness, tongue lolling. “Who’s the love of my life? The bane of my existence? That’s right, you are.”

Were-Simon gives a sharp bark then jumps onto my bed, turning around three times and scratching my blankets into a comfortable pile, then plops onto them. He gives me an impish canine grin from within his nest. “You are a bed hog, you gorgeous imbecile,” I proclaim as I spell the bed larger.

I climb in. There’s a brief tussle, as I untangle my blankets from beneath his hulking form. I snuggle close and breathe his wild scent. These nights, nestled beside this version of Simon Snow, are the only nights in my life when I actually sleep. When I don’t lie awake and fret, or toss and turn with nightmares. I feel safe and warm and happy. I doze off to the sound of his gentle huffing snores.

***

This weekend is for hunting.

Simon and I spend Saturday in the wood. Cook Pritchard continues to be thrilled to pieces to provide baskets of food for my “friends.”

Snow bounds through the forest ahead of me. I take my time, draining any woodland creatures that strike my fancy. It’s cold, there’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, but not enough to impede our progress. I’ve cast “warm winter wishes” so the temperature doesn’t bother me.

I hear a crashing in a thicket to my right, I pull out my wand and assume a defensive stance. (Snow has been coaching me.) Before I can get out a spell, Simon (the dog) bursts out and happily sits in front of me. He drops a dead squirrel at my feet and cocks his head at me, panting. He’s positively grinning. (As much as a dog can grin.)

I look at the offering, then at Snow. “Is this for me?”

He gives a quick bark and keeps his eyes on mine, tail wagging like mad.

When I pick up the squirrel, Snow leaps to his feet expectantly.

“Do you want me to throw it or drain it?” He is a retriever after all.

I make to throw the carcass, and Snow sits again, looking a bit dejected. 

I shrug and drain the squirrel. When I’m done, Snow is leaping beside me. “You’re a moron, Snow.” I hug his golden neck. 

We stop for lunch in a clearing. I’m idly playing with Snow’s fur while feeding him most of the contents of the basket. “You know I’ve never had a proper friend.” The dog places his great head in my lap so I can have better access to his ears. He loves ear rubs.

“I mean. I have Dev and Niall, they’re good lads, but they don’t really know me. Do they?”

Tiny yellow birds flutter in the trees above. “You, on the other hand, are privy to my deepest, darkest secrets. Well, one of them.”

I pause in rubbing his ear and he jams his cold nose at me to continue. “Blimey, I suppose you know all of my secrets don’t you.” I take his great face in my hands and squish around his loose skin, making Snow look ridiculous, but also blissfully happy. “I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, am hopelessly and forever in love with you, Simon Snow.”

Snow just stares idly at the birds above and wags his tail.  

The shadows are getting longer and the temperature is dropping as Snow and I make our way back home through the forest. He’s running ahead, as usual. The cacophony of his joyful bounds through the brush a counterpoint to my quiet steps along the trail. Until the moment that I realize the wood has gone silent. Then, Snow’s guttural snarl sends an ice pick down my spine.

I round a bend and catch up to Simon. I find him, hackles raised, slowly advancing on someone backed against a tree.

My heart jumps to my throat as I focus on the figure. Green tunic. Ridiculous moustache.

The Mage.

Chapter Text

Simon is looking every bit the werewolf. (Well as were as you can look as a giant Golden Retriever.) The Mage is brandishing his sword, and Snow is lunging and snapping while growling like something rabid.

“Rusty!” I shout as I grab him by the scruff and try to drag him away. “Sorry sir,” I gasp, trying not to let on that I’m having to tap into my vampire strength to restrain Snow. “Rusty just gets excited sometimes. You must smell like food.”

It’s all I can do to hold on to him. I am so getting him a collar. I don’t care what he says. I get Snow about twenty feet away and he settles down but doesn’t stop snarling and doesn’t take his eyes off The Mage.

“What are you doing out here, Mr. Pitch? And why do you have that dog?” The Mage has already resumed his pathetic bravado.

“What are you doing out here?” I reply, “Shouldn’t you be out oppressing the rich?”

I should shut up.

“The tree sprites tell me there is a werewolf in these parts,” he drawls, feinting to his side with his sword. He’s got his other hand up, like he’s living his own swashbuckling pirate adventure. “The Humdrum probably sent it to destroy me. He fears me like no other. I must remain vigilant at all times.”

He clicks his heels together. He’s wearing knee high leather boots, cuffed at the top. He tips his hat with his sword. “Or maybe your lot sent it.” He takes a step toward me, but Snow scrambles to his feet and roars a series of staccato barks. The Mage stops his advance but points his sword in my direction. “Perhaps this is a plot by the Old Families, to seize back power. It will never work, you know. Your time is over.”

“I think we can do better than an attacker who can only attack by the full moon.” I’m pushing my luck. The Mage knows I'm untouchable, my family is too powerful. But he can make my life miserable at school. “Anyway. Good luck on your quest.” I turn to go, pulling Simon by his fur.

“Where is your roommate?” The Mage calls out. “Where is Simon? Typically, I relegate these tasks to him, but he has been absent of late. Do you know anything about that?” He’s got a suspicious glint in his eye. 

I could rip his throat out. I could drain him right now, in the woods. Magic away the body and no one would know. Not even Simon. 

Instead I take a breath and school my features. “I don’t know, I’m not his keeper.” Snow is continuing to stare down The Mage, the stubborn git. (I suppose both Simon and The Mage are being stubborn gits at this point.) I could just let Simon go. Have him take The Mage out for me. What would that do to human Simon? Killing his own mentor, the closest thing he’s got to a father while having no memory of having done it. As tempting as The Mage’s death is to me, I can’t do that to Simon. 

The Mage blathers on, “Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up. Probably out with his lady friend. What’s her name? Karen? Cathy?”

“Agatha?” I offer, “They broke up last year.”

“Oh, yes, yes. I knew that. I was testing you.” he replies, rubbing his 90s faux hipster goatee. He squints at were-Simon, who is still growling. “What’s wrong with that dog’s eyes? They’re blue.”

Shit. “Oh. He’s a Norwegian Retriever. Very rare. They have azure eyes. My father paid a fortune for him.”

“Of course, he did. Colossal waste of money. Get rid of it, Mr. Pitch. No dogs allowed on campus.”

I ignore him and drag Snow away. He doesn’t stop snarling or relax until we’re back in our room at Mummers.

I sink into my bed, suddenly exhausted. “What the fuck was that, Snow?” Simon looks up at me from where he’s curled up on the floor and tilts his head. “He’s your Jedi master.”

Snow gets up and leaps onto the bed, huffing a sigh as he takes his customary place next to (practically on top of) me. “It seems the dog-you is a much better judge of character than the human-you.”

“Crowley,” I say, scratching the ticklish spot above Simon’s shoulder. He moans with pleasure, kicking his back leg. “That was close. Good thing he can’t see past his own ambition and paranoia to notice what you are.”

I look down at him, “We are going to have to be more careful.”

***

Simon

I’m on Baz’s bed. I’m always on his bed lately, when I shift back.

“Welcome back,” Baz murmurs, sounding bored. He barely looks up from his book, like this has become commonplace. I wrap myself in his blanket.

“Hi.” My voice feels thick. I clear my throat. I always feel—muffled when I return. Cloudy. Hungover. More feelings than thoughts. Retreating tendrils of joy, sparks of rage, overwhelming affection. I steal a glance at Baz.

That part doesn’t fully go away.

The affection.

The attraction.

I want to crawl into his lap and run my fingers through his hair.

I want.

Time to stop thinking. I also feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I need sleep.

Baz:

I stare pointedly at my book when Simon shifts back. The same bloody paragraph. I school my breathing to a reasonable rate. He’s always so frazzled when he returns. I want to wrap myself around him and kiss that weary look off his face.

Simon:

“Simon.” I’m almost asleep when I hear Baz.

“Mmmph?”

“You’re in my bed.” He’s so quiet, I’m not sure how I hear him.

“Yeah,” I mumble, barely conscious.

“Snow, you have your own bed. Go away.”

“Smells good here. Am comfy.” Apparently, I speak caveman when I’m post werewolf. I’m not leaving. I’m exhausted to my bones. I tighten Baz’s blankets around me and snuggle into them.

I can feel him shuffling around. I hear the soft thunk as he drops his book onto the nightstand. I wonder what he’s reading. Probably something posh and literary. Baz is sitting crosswise by the headboard. I’m laying lengthwise, my head practically in his lap. I’m warm, surrounded in a cloud of cedar and bergamot, utterly relaxed. Fuck it. I’m not going anywhere. He can sleep in my bed if he’s bothered enough.

“You utter pillock. For snake’s sake…” Baz gives my shoulder a shake. His hand is cold. “Get. Up.”

“Use my bed.” I growl.

“Absolutely not. It’s probably full of crumbs. And fleas.”

“I don’t have fucking fleas.” I cover my head with his blanket. Maybe he’ll forget I’m here. I really want him to stay.

Baz:

This is not happening. This lummox needs to move to his own bed. I place my book on the nightstand (Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion. What can I say? I’m a sucker for hopeless monster romance.) Then I reach over and halfheartedly shake his shoulder. I mean. I don’t really want him to go. But clearly, he’s not in his right mind. Snow covers his head with my blanket. It’s adorable.

“Fine. I’m not leaving, so budge up. If you wake with a crick in your neck, it’s your own fault.” I say, grumpily. (I don’t want to seem eager.) (Even though I am.)

I slide next to him. Simon hums, and envelops me in the blanket. Then he wraps an arm around my waist, nuzzles his head into my neck and promptly falls asleep.

Am I dead? I mean properly dead? Did The Mage kill me? Did Simon?

Simon Snow is asleep next to me in my bed. Snuggling me.

My plan to stay awake, wallowing in spiraling thoughts about this is quickly thwarted by the hypnotic sound of Simon’s breathing, and the warm feeling of his breath on my neck.

Before long, I’m asleep too.

Chapter Text

Baz:

The sun is streaming through the window when I wake up. I wince as I catch a glimpse of brilliant blue winter sky. A rare sunny day then. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept this late. Lately, I rise early to hunt before Simon wakes.

Simon.

Oh.

He’s here.

I close my eyes. I feel puffs of warm breath along my spine.

Simon Snow is snoring quietly into my back. He’s got one arm wrapped around my chest. I can feel the warm length of his body along mine. His leg is hitched over my hip. It feels…well it feels pretty fucking nice.

What does this mean? What will happen when Snow wakes up? I decide not to think about that. I’m sleepy and happy and fuck it. I’m going to enjoy this.

I snuggle into him then a cold wave of realization washes over me, stopping my barely beating heart. 

Simon Snow is naked. 

Am I naked?

Did something happen last night? 

Did I lose my virginity in a fugue state? I’m going to be pissed off.

A quick peek under the sheets confirms that while I am clothed in my navy blue Ugg pyjamas, (a gift from Fiona) Simon is perfectly nude.

A rustle behind me coupled with a sleepy grumble indicates that Simon is at least partially awake.

“Snow.”

His other arm slides underneath me and across my chest, squeezing me closer.

“Snow,” I repeat.

“Mmmph,” he rumbles.

“Put on some pants.”

“Oh, oops!” Simon laughs as his leg unhooks from my thigh and arms retreat from around me. I miss them already. “I’d better do something about that.”  

“Snow!”  I grunt as he makes a production of climbing over me. Then he’s bare-arsed, leaning into the space between our beds to grab a pair of blue boxers (With little bananas on them. Both ridiculous and adorable.) from the pile on the floor. I look up at the ceiling, so I don’t ignite. Snow smirks at me like he knows exactly what the view is doing to me.

“Excuse me, pardon me.” Snow clambers over me to resume his position at my side. “Terribly rude,” He’s snickering. The mattress bounces as he slides on his pants while lying on his back. Thankfully he’s under the blankets, but I’m pointedly not looking in his direction.

“Don’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities,” Snow laughs.

“You’re an imbecile, I’m not offended, I’m just unused to waking up with moronic naked boys in my bed.” Which is a terrible comeback, but I couldn’t think of anything snarkier, given the circumstances.

“So you’re used to waking up with naked non-moronic boys then?”

“No, Snow, this is a first.” I hazard a glance in his direction. He’s smiling like he’s solved something.

“What are you so happy about?” I snap.

Snow doesn’t answer. He wraps his arms around me again, beaming like a fool. I should protest. (I don’t.)

“Hey Baz?” He’s dipped his head into the space where my neck meets my shoulder.

“Hey Simon?”

“I like you,” he murmurs into my neck, his breath warm as a touch.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is…” he reaches across my stomach and takes my hand, interlacing his fingers in mine. “You’re my best friend, but not in a Penny way.”

I sneer at him. It’s my default move.

“Ok, that came out weird, I mean, I like you in a friend way, but I also—” he takes my hand to his lips and places a small kiss to my knuckle, “Like you in an ‘I really want to kiss you’ way.”

“Snow,” I say, irritably, but I lean toward him, so there’s no venom in it.

“You called me Simon before.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Snow leans up on one elbow and looms over me. “Yes, you did.”

“Um,” I say, looking into his blue, blue eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

Snow’s face clouds and he starts to sit up. “Shit, that’s not what I meant,” I say, as I grab his shoulder.

“Simon,” I sigh, “It’s not that I don’t like you too. I do. I have. For a long time. It’s just—”

Snow lowers his eyebrows at me.

“Can I brush my teeth first?”

“You posh git,” Simon’s smile is dazzling. “You drain rats, I think you can handle a little morning breath.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Merlin, I must look appalling, my bed head is generally horrific.

I roll my eyes at him. “This is so not how I imagined this moment.”

“You imagined this moment?” Simon whispers, “With me?”

“No, with a young Colin Firth.” I roll my eyes, “Of course with you, you dolt.” I reach up and cup the side of his face, running my thumb across his cheek. This is happening. Snow wants me. This isn’t a dream. Being vulnerable with Snow makes me feel reckless and wild, but also safe. He knows me. All of me. I feel like I’ve leaped off a cliff into a bottomless sky.

“Oh yeah?” Simon says, kissing the tip of my nose. “What did you imagine?” He places a kiss to my cheek. “A windswept kiss on the moors?” Another kiss to my jaw, “At sunset?” Kisses down my neck, “While small woodland creatures look on, singing a sappy Disney ballad?”

“You are an absolute nightmare,” I say, taking his face in my hands and crashing my lips into his.

I’ve never done this before, so it’s a mess, really. But Simon’s arms are around me and it’s a proper snog now and between kisses, he’s grinning. Like he can’t stop grinning.

And I’m smiling too. My hands are tangled in his curls and I kiss the moles that I’ve wanted to kiss since I was twelve. And we’re laughing and tumbling and kissing and kissing and kissing.

***

“So, we’ve missed breakfast. And first period,” Simon strains his neck to look at his alarm clock, “Aaaand second period.”

We’re still in my bed. Both thoroughly snogged. I bury my head in his chest. “Don’t remind me. I’ve never missed a day of school in my life. I’ve lost the perfect attendance award and it’s all your fault.”

“That’s what you get for fraternizing with werewolves,” Simon says, idly twisting a strand of my hair.

“Yes, well, I never cease to find new ways to disappoint my family,” I say.

Simon moves his hand to my chin and tilts my head his way. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, “I think you’re worth the tumble into delinquency and shame.”

“You know I’ll always have your back, right?” Simon says, earnestly.

There was a time I wouldn’t have believed him, but now, after these months of friendship, we know each other’s secrets. We’re learning each other’s hearts.

“I know,” I say, “And I’ve got yours.”

Simon kisses me then. It’s slow and soft, and so… nice. I’ve never felt this happy.

He pulls back, “Does this mean we’re boyfriends?”

“I don’t know, Snow, do you need me to sign a contract?”

Snow glares at me, “I bet you’re a terrible boyfriend. You’re snarky and self-absorbed.”

He rolls us over, pinning me to the mattress, “Will you be my terrible boyfriend?” he asks.

“I would be a very good boyfriend, you dolt.”

“Fine,” Simon says. He’s holding himself above me on all fours. “Would you be my brilliant, kind, flammably handsome, thoughtful, snarky, self-absorbed, vampire boyfriend?”

I sigh, trying to smirk, but can’t suppress my smile, “I suppose.” And then I reach up for his mouth. 

Chapter Text

Baz:

Dating Simon Snow is exactly the erotic grope fest I’d always imagined.

He’s currently on top of me, in his bed this time and working his way down my neck with lips and tongue and sometimes teeth. I’m hoping there isn’t some kind of world happiness quota because at this point, I’ve far exceeded it and should be getting struck by lightning or otherwise smote by the universe at any moment. In bed with Snow has become my favorite place to be. So far, we’ve kept our relationship for the most part secret. I mean, we’ve always been obsessed with one another, so that hasn’t changed. The fact that our physical altercations have become more amorous than violent is something we’re holding for ourselves. For now, at least. This is for us.

Because I can’t leave well enough alone, “We should at least tell Bunce,” I say as Snow is exploring the intricacies of my collar bone.

“Please don’t talk about Penny right now,” Snow murmurs, kissing the hollow at the base of my throat. Then he licks a trail of fire around my nipple and I decide I definitely don’t need to talk about Bunce right now.

***

Snow has fallen asleep again, his head resting on my chest. I’m idly playing with his hair while thinking about all the things that can go wrong now that we’re boyfriends.  It’s too good to be true, all of this. I Don’t deserve any of it. Sooner or later, Snow will come to his senses and this dream will come to its inevitable end.

Not today, though. Today is Saturday, we’re having a lie in…well a lie in punctuated with periods of…activity. Simon’s cheeks are still flushed, and his hair is just sweaty enough to accentuate his bronze curls.  He’s huffing softly. I count his eyelashes. Then his freckles. Then his moles. I trace the ones on his back with my finger.         

These last few weeks have been like an alternate reality fifth year, when Simon was following me around like a lost dog. Lurking outside my classes, glaring at me from afar. Only now, instead of picking a fight, he pulls me into assorted nooks and classrooms for a snog. Not that I’m complaining, I’m a more than willing participant, but perhaps I should set some boundaries before this affects my grades. I’ll be drawn and quartered before I let my romantic life cause Bunce to pass me up for first in class.

Bunce. She’s on to us. I know Snow has been avoiding her, I’m still not sure why. I think she believes I have Simon in a thrall. (Do I? Maybe that’s why Simon developed feelings for me. Not my good looks and charm after all, just another side effect of my vampirism. Perhaps I should focus on un-thralling him, to be safe. Maybe not.) Anyway, every time I turn around, Bunce is there, staring daggers at me. I’m used to her scorn, but this time it isn’t even my fault. Well, not entirely.

“Stop.”

“What?” I ask.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” Simon says, rising onto his elbows. “You smell like intensity and Earl Grey and you’re going to get a wrinkle right there between your brows.” He taps between my eyes for emphasis. “Stop thinking.”

“Darling, I—” It slips out of my mouth before I even realize I’ve said it.

“Ohmygod,” Simon blurts, “You did not just call me darling.” He moves to straddle me, pinning my hands by my head. He’s grinning like a madman.

“You are an insufferable twit.” I squirm, but he’s got me pinned, and frankly I’m not sure which of us is stronger, given his were strength.

“It takes a proclamation from the Queen for you to call me Simon, but a good shag and I’m your darling.” Simon is laughing. “Say it again,” his voice is low in my ear, his breath hot.

“Absolutely not, you knob, you’ve ruined the mood,” I try to snarl, but he kisses me then and my brain shorts out. Because it’s so good, every time.

“Now, darling,” Snow says, dragging out the ‘r’ and still grinning like a fiend over me. “I know what we’re going to do today.”

“What?” I’m trying not to sound petulant. “I thought this was what we were doing all day.”

“Well, we can do this for part of the day, but I’ve got plans for later.” Snow leans in. Thick bronze stubble blooms across his jaw like velvet.

“You need a shave,” I say.

“Mmm, I always need a shave,” he laughs, rubbing his face into mine.

“Get off me, you mongrel.” I push him away, but not far. Simon Snow is beautiful. He always has been, but now, with his condition, he has a wildness about him. A ruggedness. Not an ounce of wasted flesh, every muscle and sinew defined and vital.

Snow kisses me again, long and deep, then pushes away and off the bed. “Come on now, you lazy sod. Get up. We’re going camping.”

“Pardon?” I say, propping myself on my elbows. I feel Simon’s absence from the bed like a phantom limb.

“Camping,” Snow chirps, like he’s being perfectly rational. He’s shuffling around the room, putting on a pair of jeans. “Wear layers, it’s chilly outside.”

“Are you insane?” I sputter, sitting up. “It’s winter.” There are about a hundred thousand reasons this is ludicrous; I settle on the most obvious.

“We’re mages,” Simon says, rifling through his wardrobe. He pulls out some kind of knapsack. “Weatherization spells exist.”

“Furnaces exist,” I reply. “Indoors, where there are beds, and toilets.”

“Come on, Baz.” Snow throws a plaid shirt at my head, thick flannel. It smells like him, Marlboro and cut grass. “Where’s your sense of adventure, get dressed, let’s go.”

“I’m a vampire, dating a werewolf. My life is adventurous enough.” I pick up the shirt, holding it in the air with two fingers. “Am I supposed to wear this? I’m not a lumberjack.”

“I don’t imagine you’ll be wanting to get your posh togs dirty.” Simon is rifling through his bag. He pulls out a knife roughly the size of a machete.

“What the hell is that, Snow? This isn’t the Amazon.” I’m growing alarmed.

“It’s leftover from one of my missions. Asp-sassins, I think,” Simon replies thoughtfully, scratching his chin. He tosses the blade back into his bag. “Can’t be too prepared I suppose.”

“Prepared for what?” I stammer, “Grizzly bears?”

 “Come on,” Snow urges, “Let’s get out of here. Consider it a proper date. We haven’t been on one yet.”

“Proper dates involve things like restaurants, cars, and theatres, Snow. Places with climate control.”  I slowly drag myself out of bed and sulk to my wardrobe. I commence shuffling for something to wear in addition to Snow’s lumberjack shirt. (I’m totally wearing his shirt.)

Simon slides behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Think about it, Baz. You. Me. Under the stars. I want to see the firelight dancing in your eyes.” He turns me around so I’m facing him. “It’ll be romantic.”

Snow is looking up at me. His eyes are soft and he’s currently biting his lower lip. He’s being sincere. I think my heart has melted all over my feet. I sigh. “Fine. At least we’ll freeze to death together.”

Snow’s smile is radiant. “I won’t let you freeze, you wanker.” He gives me a gentle shove. “Now get dressed.”

***

“Baz…,” Snow’s eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open. (Mouth breather) (My mouth breather)

I’ve just emerged from the ensuite, drying my hair with a towel. Not much use for product on this little adventure. “Yes?”

“You’re—you’re wearing jeans.”

I look down, then back up at him, “I am. Is that a problem?”

“What?” Simon stammers. “No—just, ah,” he hassles his curls, looking at me sideways, lips curling into a smile, roses blooming on his cheeks, “Well, you look really good in them, yeah?”

“Oh—thanks.” I say, quietly, trying not to grin like a fool. I’m so in love I could die.  

“Yeah, so—” he stands up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “First stop, kitchen.”

“Of course, it is.” I shrug on a thick, weatherproof jacket and wool cap (Apparently Simon has a stash of all-weather gear for his missions.) “Can’t start an expedition without provisions.”

“That’s right,” Simon proclaims, jabbing his index finger into the air for emphasis as he heads for the door. “Off we go on our wild romance excursion.”

“Oh my god, you insane sap.” I grumble as I fall into step behind him.

“You love it.” Snow says as he skips down the stairs.

I love it.

Chapter Text

Baz

Cook Pritchard gave us enough food to feed a small army. Which isn’t far from the truth, looking at how we’re both kitted out in Simon’s weatherproof tactical gear. I’ve never given much thought as to what he does when he’s working for the Mage, (and Simon doesn’t talk about it) but by the looks of things, it’s not tea parties and diplomacy.

We walk side by side into the courtyard and are nearly mowed down by the Mage as he’s barreling the opposite direction. He stops short before he runs into us, heels sliding on the cobblestones. “Simon,” he mumbles, his face clouding into a scowl when he notices me. “Mr. Pitch.”

My jaw falls open as I take in the Mage’s appearance. His faux Robin Hood tunic is stained and frayed. His head is wrapped in a bandage that appears to have been torn from his sleeve. There is a blood stain spreading from the area of his right ear. I involuntarily wrinkle my nose, his blood smells fetid and metallic. Like rotten pennies. I try not to breathe. I need to rethink how I’m going to kill him; I can’t bite that.

“Simon, where have you been? Why haven’t you answered my summons? The Mage narrows his eyes at Simon.

“Sorry sir, been busy.” Snow is very slowly positioning himself just in front of me. Placing himself between me and the Mage. Which one of us is he protecting, I wonder.

“Simon.” The Mage edges around Snow and grabs me by the front of my jacket, “What are you doing with this Pitch scum?” I can see the yellow of his teeth and he’s spitting with each syllable. He pushes me backward roughly, causing my foot to slip on some gravel and I stumble. I’m trying to calculate the best way to murder him without getting blood on Snow’s clothes.

Faster than I thought possible, Simon grabs the Mage by the shoulder, and with a roar, shoves him against the wall. “Do not touch him. Ever.” Simon growls into the Mage’s face, hands clutched in his tunic, pinning him in place. The air around Snow is tinged crimson, his magic pulsing. The look on Simon’s face is one I’ve never seen before. Pure rage. Feral. 

I’m not sure how to proceed. Simon is either about to go off or murder the Mage. Or both. I’m not sure he’s himself right now. I don’t think he’s ever said no to the Mage, much less attacked him. The realization slithers into place that the moon goes full very soon.

I carefully place my hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Snow?” He cuts his eyes to me then back to the Mage. Snow takes a step back and releases the headmaster with a low growl.

“Simon, this is simply unacceptable,” the Mage blusters as he dusts off his shirt. “Insubordination will not be tolerated,” he stammers, then his eye catches on a Panther (The military truck, not the animal: Command and Liaison Vehicle to be exact, olive drab. How does he even have that? Did he just lift it from the Army?)  that’s slowly pulling up behind us. The driver holds a small lunchbox out the window. (Merlin, is that a Peter Pan lunch box?) “Sir, I’ve got it on ice,” the Mage’s man shouts. “We should get going to Dr. Welbelove’s house.”

Simon is still staring daggers at the Mage, but at some point, he took my hand in his and he’s squeezing with what I can only surmise is his were strength. (It kind of hurts) (I squeeze back with my own super strength.)

The Mage clears his throat. “We will discuss this later, Simon. After you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

Simon is pale, I can smell his adrenaline fading. The Mage hops into the vehicle and is driven off into the fading afternoon light.

“What the fuck was that?” I whirl on Snow. “I thought we were keeping a low profile. That was the opposite of keeping a low profile.”

Snow leans against the wall and slides to the ground. He wipes his face with his hands, then runs his fingers through his hair. He’s trembling. “I don’t fucking know, Baz.” He rubs his temples. “He grabbed you and I—I lost it.”

I squat in front of him, putting my hands on his knees. “Well, that bit was obvious. What were you thinking?”

Simon crosses his arms and shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t. Think.”

I don’t want to ask. But I have to. “Was it a were thing?”

Snow closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. He opens his eyes and inhales. “I don’t know.” Exhale. “Maybe.”

I sigh and stand up, extending a hand to him. “You don’t get to play the werewolf card every time you get pissed off and lose your shit.”

Simon takes my hand and pulls himself up, he doesn’t let go. His head drops forward. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” I say, jerking him toward me. “I’m not a fucking damsel in distress. I don’t need you to defend my honor, it’s already besmirched.” That earns me a weak grin.

I slide my arms around his waist, pulling him closer. Simon’s breathing is slowing down, and it takes him a moment to look up at me. I look into his eyes and lean my forehead down to meet his. “You’re an absolute fucking nightmare, you know.” I slide one hand behind his neck to cradle the back of his head. “But we’re in this shitstorm together, no matter what. OK?”

Simon blinks, stubby gold lashes against ruddy cheeks. He nods, “Yeah. OK.”  

“Now,” I take his hand and pull him toward the drawbridge, “Let’s go on your stupid campout.”

Snow smiles like he’s trying not to and lets himself be dragged across the moat.

***

Simon:

Saw me in half. If someone would have told me a year ago that I would be arse over tits in love. With a bloke. And that bloke was Baz. I probably would have throttled them.

But here I am. Being pulled across the drawbridge by the boy I love. I love him. It’s not even a question.

It was always a question with Agatha. Was I good enough? Kind enough? Attentive enough? Brave enough? Boyfriend-ey enough?

I was never enough.

It’s not a question with Baz. It just is.

I love him. I need to tell him.

It’s too soon though, we’re just getting started. I don’t want to bollocks this up. It’s too important.

He’s too important.

“Who’s the lazy sod now?” Baz jerks my hand, smirking back at me. “Come along.”

I grin and pull up alongside him, still holding his hand in mine. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were looking forward to this, Baz.”

***

Baz:

I glance over at Simon and he’s lost in thought, smiling with half his mouth. I smile too, only because he isn’t looking.

He’s so lovely.

I think about pushing him up against a tree and snogging him senseless. Then we enter the forest, and the canopy of trees envelops us, softening the light to dusk. So, I shove him against an ancient oak. He startles briefly but as soon as my lips are on his, he melts, pulling me closer.  

Things devolve quickly. These aren’t languorous, decadent kisses like the ones we shared this morning. This is altogether different. Simon’s hands are everywhere, my hair, my neck, my back under my coat. I fold around him, covering him with my body, making full use of my height advantage. I’ve his face in my hands and we’re both panting. Snow slides a line of open mouth kisses down my throat, and I groan, burying my fingers in his hair.

Simon responds with a growl that is decidedly more wolf than boy and a sharp jolt of pain blooms where he’d just been sucking at the juncture of my neck and shoulder. “What the fuck, Snow?” I gasp, stepping back. I’m grappling with my collar, “You fucking bit me!” I’m trying to look down at my shoulder, did he break skin? Is there blood?

“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry,” Simon is stammering, tearing at my jacket and shirt buttons to get a better look. “It’s just bruised,” (new data point: I can bruise) “Just a bruise,” He repeats, reassuring himself as well as me.

He’s slowly running his fingers across the bite, he looks pained and contrite, but also a bit smug.

I want to be angrier; I mean, he could have Turned me. But what I am is a little turned on. (no pun intended) That was actually kind of hot. (I’m disturbed, ask anyone.)

“What the hell just happened, Snow?”

Simon starts smoothing my shirt, straightening my jacket. “I—uh—may or may not have gotten an irresistible urge--.”

“To?” I’m genuinely curious. Ravage me? Turn me? Kill me?

He’s gripping my jacket, then he sighs, looking into my eyes for a moment before cutting them to the side. “—Mark you.“ He bites his lip, looking back at me sheepishly, “As mine.”

I lower my brows at him, “Wait what?”

Simon’s whole face is scrunched, “Don’t make me say it again,” he winces.

“Is that another were thing? Hold on, were you marking your territory? (So. Fucking. Hot.) I scowl at him.

“Er, maybe?” Simon says, definitely contrite.

“Crow-ley,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t piss on me, for fucks sake.”

I start to pace. “This impulse control thing, this is new.” I look at his face, “You’re acting wolf-ey when you’ve not shifted. You still look like you.” I reach over and grab his lip, lifting it, and look in “No fangs.” I look behind him, “No tail. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry,” Snow’s hands are in his pockets now. He’s scuffing the ground with his boot, carving black streaks in the moss. It’s warm, for winter, not much snow on the ground. A hare is nosing around about ten feet away, completely oblivious to the predators in its midst.

I place my hands on his chest. “Enough apologies, Simon Snow. What you are is a fucking tragedy.”

“I am not.” He says softly, “No more than you.”

I let that soak in a minute. Him and me.

I huff, “Fine.” I step back and start walking so he can’t see me smile.

“Let’s go, you cur. This is just another challenge; we’ll figure it out.” I hear Snow scrambling behind me, I turn around again and point, “However, just so we’re clear, I draw the line at you humping my leg. I have standards, you know.”

Simon looks suitably horrified, “Merlin’s beard, Baz, I’m not humping your fucking leg.” Then he smirks at me, the thumping git, “Well, unless you want me to.” 

I roll my eyes, “You’re an imbecile.” 

We walk side by side further into the wood. “Can you imagine if you’d Turned me?”

“I get it, Baz, I’m sorry. It just took over…”

I ignore him, “I wonder what kind of dog I’d be. I think Doberman Pinscher. Ruthless, noble, full of grace.”

Snow lowers his brows, he waits a beat then, “I don’t know Baz, I’m thinking maybe Afghan Hound-- posh, brooding, great hair. “

“Nah, too swishy.” I say, bumping his shoulder with mine. “Something intimidating, like a Cane Corso.”

“Poodle. Definitely poodle.” Simon laughs, running ahead.

“Fuck you,” I snort, giving chase.

I catch him in a clearing, tackling him to the ground. “Chihuahua!” Simon shrieks, cackling.

I sit on him, pinning his arms, while he tries to roll away. “Dachshund! Maltese!” He’s breathless with laughter, “You’re a little purse dog!”

“Oh my god, shut up you utter berk,” I lean down and kiss him, just to make his mouth do something else besides insult me. He keeps laughing, so I relocate to his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. Soon, his lips find mine and we kiss on the floor of the Wavering Wood.

A wolf and his vampire.

A vampire and his wolf.

Chapter Text

Baz:

We’re curled up on a sofa in front of a roaring campfire.

Curled up is an understatement.

We’re intertwined. Entangled. Enmeshed. If there’s a body part of Simon’s that I can touch, I’m wrapped around it. I mean, we’re dressed. It’s still bloody cold, but my weatherization spell, The fuzzy blanket Simon insisted on bringing, and the fact that he’s a human furnace take the edge off nicely.

The sofa was my idea. Simon wanted us to sit on a fallen tree trunk like a yokel. “A snog, on a log, with a dog,” he cracked with a cheeky grin. Snow is an idiot. I turned the log into a couch, and he’s not complaining.

Shadows dance on the trees around us as the fire snaps and crackles. Everything smells like Simon.

I’m so fucking happy.

“This was a slightly better than abysmal idea, for a first date, Snow.”  I say, snuggling closer to him.

He gently pulls my hair aside, placing featherlight kisses to my neck. “Mmm, you can plan the next one.” A kiss under my jaw. “Something sexy and academic, like the reading room at the British Museum.”

“Museums are sexy,” I say as I turn to face him, “And don’t forget libraries. So hot.”

“You’re my favorite swot,” Simon says, kissing the bump on my nose. (that he gave me) (He kisses it all the time.) (like it’s a prize) (I don’t mind.)

“Yes, I’m certainly the brains of this operation.”

“I’m the brawn,” Simon fills in, kissing my throat and squeezing me just this side of too tight.

I’m trying to think of something vile to say, but I simply can’t. I’m too drunk on this moment. It’s too perfect. I’m just going to revel in it.

“Did you know?” Simon interrupts my reverie, his eyes round with delight, “That I had a list?”

“A list?” I lower my brows at him, waiting for the punchline.

“A list,” Simon repeats. He pauses for effect; he has a single dimple on his cheek that appears when he grins just—so. I want to write a sonnet about it.

“Am I on your list?”

“Well that’s just it,” Snow grins, pulling me close. “You were the list.”

“What?” I’m struggling to shift mental gears to follow this.

“I keep lists in my head of things not to think about. It’s probably an unhealthy coping mechanism, but it’s fine. I’ll work it out later.”

“Okay—” I urge.

“So, back when I hated your guts, which I’ve now realized was the stunning denial of a raging crush—”

“When did you become so eloquent?” I interrupt.

“You’re rubbing off on me, Pitch. Now shut up so I can finish my story.” He punctuates his statement with a long and thorough kiss that effectively accomplishes his demand.

“Anyway, it turns out I had a list of all the things I wanted to do to you, tucked away in a dusty corner of my mind.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Simon’s voice is soft and low, like the murmur of the sea on a winter morning.

“Things you wanted to do to me?” I’m trying, and failing, to not look demure.

The firelight has faded. Simon’s features are blue in the moonlight. I close my eyes and stoke the flames with my magic, I don’t need a wand for that.“How’s it coming along?” I ask. “This list?”

“Oh, I’ve knocked most of it out.” Snow grins. “I’ve one thing left.” He stands up, managing to make the whole process of climbing over me look graceful. He bows in my direction and holds his hand out to me.

“May I have this dance?” he says, with a soft smile. His words are drenched in magic, but that’s not a spell. He looks calm, but I can hear his heart beating like a horse at gallop. Thank Merlin he can’t hear mine. Around us, the winter air shimmers, and soft strains of music emerge from the trees. I can almost see the notes. Actually, I can see them, like fairy lights, like sentient sparks, like the stars pulled from the sky, whirling around us. I take his hand, because how could I not?

Simon leads me through the clearing in a waltz as the silver sparkles of light ebb and flow around us. They part around us like an ocean of undulating stars. “When did you learn to dance?” I ask, wonderingly.

“A care home I stayed at near London had a ‘music soothes the savage beast’ initiative.” Simon murmurs, never missing a step. He spins me and pulls me close so that my back is to him and his arms around my waist. “Mistress Ciccone insisted that ballroom dance would civilize us unruly heathens. She was vicious.” His voice is low and warm against my ear. He whirls me away, then close again, facing him. The forest is gone, we’re surrounded by stars and magic. Our dance floor is littered with sticks and woodland ephemera. Simon is a more than competent dancer, he’s good. I delight in this discovery; Simon is a study in contradiction: graceful yet bumbling. Awkward yet confident. We glide around the confines of the clearing as one, like we’ve done this forever.

“And now you have a valuable life skill,” I grin, sending silent thanks to the angry teacher with an affinity for esoteric 90s pop that gave me this lovely perfect moment. I’ve never heard this song before, with its swirling melody. “I’ll wear the smile on your face,” the lyric draws me to the smile on Simon’s face. I want to kiss him, but I also don’t want to stop dancing.

“I am as sure as I am.” 

This song. 

This moment. 

This boy.

“Merlin, I love you Simon Snow.” It slips out of me like a breath, like the tide. Unbidden and unstoppable. I feel my face heating. But before I can take it back, or cover it with snark, Simon pulls me into a dip. I feel like I’m falling, but Simon’s arms around me feel rock solid. “I love you too, Basilton Pitch.” I reach up and kiss him under the gibbous moon, under the pinprick stars.

And it’s everything and always.

“I couldn’t care less, for what might go wrong.” The song continues its swirl around us but we’re not dancing anymore. Too caught up in each other for much more than finding places to touch, kiss, lick, bite.

Simon loves me.

I love him.

We stagger towards our preposterous woodland sofa as the stars and music start to fade.

Then the sparks disappear abruptly, and everything goes dark. And silent. Simon stiffens and takes my hand, as I notice an airlessness. A vacuum. A hollow suck that makes my skin itch.

Simon’s shoulders fall and his head drops. He heaves a sigh, “Of course,” he says, rolling his eyes.

I feel the hairs prickle on my neck as he calls his sword.

Snow’s resolute eyes meet my questioning ones, “The fucking Humdrum,” he growls, looking into the forest. 

Chapter Text

Baz:

The forest is quiet as a tomb. I am afraid, but also certain. Whatever happens, Simon and I are in this together. I feel like I’ve found my missing piece.

Part of me wants to run, just get the hell out of here, but one look at Snow puts that thought to bed. He’s resolute, chosen. This is what he’s here for. His purpose. Our purpose now.

The air around us feels thick. Sticky in my lungs. “What do we do?” I look over at Snow.

“We fight,” he answers.

I drop his hand and light a fire in my palm (Well, floating above my palm. I’m not a moron.) “Let’s do this.”

In true Simon Snow fashion, we take fate by the bollocks and blindly charge ahead into the unknown.

***

The nearly full moon casts the forest in silky blue, but as we follow the breathless, prickly void, I make out a cloying greenish cast. Like moths to a really shitty flame, we follow the glow.

Snow stops short and I crash into him. “The fuck?” I exclaim.

I step to his side and follow his glare to the figure sitting just ahead of us on a low tree branch. It feels like the center of everything, the culmination of all that’s reprehensible in this world. The darkness grows heavier around it—him—it’s a tangible thing. Even the air in the forest seems to be shifting—no—sucking toward him in a heavy, slow vortex.

“Simon—It’s y—” My mind hasn’t caught up to my mouth, I simply can’t process what I’m seeing.

“Don’t fucking say it, Baz.”

How can I not say it? He’s there, in grotty jeans and an old t-shirt. Tossing that infernal red ball, grinning like he stole it.

“But—” I sputter, taking a step back.

“Don’t say it,” he says with a growl that’s more wolf than human. “That’s. Not. Me.”

 Snow lunges forward, swinging his sword. I grab the back of his jacket and hold him back.

“What the fuck, Baz?” He’s struggling wildly in my grip. Furious. For a moment I think he’s going to take a swing at me. 

“That’s you, Snow,” I hiss, “What happens to, you know—you—if we kill it?”

“I don’t fucking care,” Snow roars, tearing himself free, “He’s stealing magic, and it’s my job to stop him.”

The Humdrum idly watches us, from his perch in the tree. Like that creepy kid in Deliverance. My mum loved that awful movie. Why would a parent expose their 5 year old to that? Small wonder I’m emotionally scarred. Fuck. Now that song is stuck in my head.

“Simon!” I refocus and shout. I can feel my heart in my throat as he lurches forward, slicing through the Humdrum with his sword. Evil, eleven-year-old Snow splits into two wisps of purple smoke.  He swirls between us and reforms, laughing as he does it. Frustrated, Simon swings again. And again.

The Humdrum continues to split and reform, swirling smoke around us. Laughing all the while. It’s like a demented game of whack-a-mole.

I guess we’re doing this then. I throw a ball of flame at the Humdrum. It catches. When the brilliant sparks and tendrils of smoke spin and fade, he’s still fucking there, doubled over in laughter.

Now I’m annoyed. Even more than when I was eleven and this was actual Simon. I want to kick him in the shins and rip his smug face off. “Fuck off and die,” I cast at him. The spell shrivels in the air around him, and little Simon’s evil twin laughs harder. 

Simon is fit to be tied. “Show yourself, you coward—show yourself!” He’s glowering beautifully at the Humdrum, furious and panting. His sword is raised, ready for another assault.

The Humdrum’s face clouds. He scrunches his nose and sets his jaw. Pocketing his ball, he runs at Snow and shoves him with surprising strength. The shadows of the forest seem to converge at the point of contact. The dark of the wood, the sky, a void, it all seems to flow into Simon. Everything goes dim and I feel my magic ebb for a moment. Simon staggers back, surprised and clutches his stomach, wincing. He starts to spark and blur at the edges, like when he’s about to go off. 

I turn to the Humdrum, “What the fuck did you do?” In response, he smirks at me with a look I’ve never seen on Simon’s face. Like the cat that caught the canary and then summoned a demon with it. Before I can incinerate him, he flips me the bird, then vanishes.

My attention goes back to Simon. His panicked eyes catch mine for a fractured second, then he jerks with a groan. I cry out as his knees buckle and he crashes to the ground, catching himself with his hands. He looks up at me again, but his face has changed--haunted, feral. His back arches as bones snap, fur and fangs replace skin and teeth. Snow’s scream of agony becomes a howl of rage. 

I hazard a glance up at the moon, it’s just this side of full. But not full. Why is Snow shifting? What the fuck did the Humdrum do? 

With vampire-like speed Snow turns on me and attacks. I feel a vague sense of déjà vu as he pins me to the ground with his great paws. Everything slows down. I have my hands around his throat, holding him back as he growls and snaps. He looks familiar, still golden and beautiful in his were form, but also completely alien. I look into his eyes. They’re dead and black like a shark’s, not even a sliver of blue.

“Simon, are you in there?” I whisper. I feel numb. Hollow. Is he gone? Snow continues his attempts to rip out my throat. I think about letting go. Letting Snow kill me. 

I relax my grip infinitesimally. Were-Snow growls in triumph and I feel his teeth graze my throat, just where regular Simon was nuzzling moments ago. Fuck this, I think, tightening my grip on him. With a grunt, I flip him so that I’m straddling him and pinning him to the ground.  “Listen here, you deranged mongrel,” I growl, “My Simon is in there somewhere and I’m getting him back, so you need to calm the fuck down.”

Snow has not let up, his knife-sharp teeth are bared to the gums, snapping every time I move. I shift slightly so I can pin him with one arm across his neck and I can grab my wand. I’m still stronger than him, but barely, and it’s becoming a struggle to keep him under control.

“As you were,” I try. Nothing. “Back to start,” Crowley, I’m not thinking straight, I could have turned him into a baby. I suppose it’s a good thing the spell didn’t work. 

Out of nowhere, a catchy tune blows into my mind. I roll my eyes. Focus Basilton, this is no time for Phil Collins. My brain is such a strange place. But the hook of the song reminds me of a spell.

It’s a cheesy love spell, for sharing feelings when you can’t articulate them, but it came to me for a reason. Maybe it will work to give back whatever the Humdrum took away that made Simon like this. It makes no sense, but what the hell.

I lean back slightly and point my wand at him once more. “Two hearts believing in just one mind.” It shouldn’t work, it’s an old spell from a ridiculous old song, (that will be stuck in my head for the rest of the night) (But thank Crowley it got rid of that Deliverance theme.)  

I feel my magic catch. Then flow.

What the fuck? I can feel my fire spreading down my arm and into Simon. He immediately stops struggling and lies still. There’s a ring of familiar blue circling his pupil now. I sit back on my heels and release him. “Simon?”

He’s still a dog. Why is he still a dog? He scrambles to his feet and backs away with a yip, eyeing me uncertainly.

I hold my hand out to him gingerly, “It’s me, love.”

Snow shakes his head, then turns and runs, crashing into the forest.

Fuck. Without thinking I cast “Every breath you take,” on his retreating form. Apparently, my mind is stuck on eighties pop songs. (Thanks Fiona.) The tracking spell catches. (of course it does) (It only works if you’re stalker level obsessed with the trackee.) (That’s probably why this is an illegal spell.)

Well. They’ll have to catch me to arrest me.

Faint streamers of yellow, blue and red light undulate through the forest, marking Snow’s trail. I turn on my vampire speed and follow.

Simon: 

I run.

I am the forest.

I am the trees.

I am the wind.

The rain.

Earth.

Fire.

Ice.

Blood and Bone.

Baz:

He’s so fast. I see him in flashes of gold. Explosions of brush.

“Simon,” I hear a voice say. It sounds like mine, but jagged and torn. “Simon,” I call again, a gasp in the night. I will not lose him.

Simon:

“Simon,”

I know that voice.

The sound that he found for me.

I run.

“Simon.”

Broken.

Who is that?

My enemy?

My mate?

The moon calls.

I am magic. 

His magic. 

Ours.

Mine.

Baz:

My foot catches on a fallen log and I go flying, hitting the ground with a shout. I was so close.

I clamber to my feet, but my knee gives out with a sharp jab, and I go down once more. Fuck. I howl my frustration at the sky and set about trying to spell my leg healed. Merlin’s balls, he’s probably halfway to Lancashire by now and I’m so fucking tired and frazzled, I can’t manage a simple “get well soon.” I feel tears prickle my eyes as I try to slow my frantic breaths. Think, Baz. Think.

“Fuck this,” I growl at the moon and haul myself up again. I’ll fucking hop after Simon if I have to. I’ll walk on this broken fucking leg. It can heal later.

I look around for Snow’s tracking signal. It’s gone.

The wood is silent.

All the adrenaline, vampire strength, cortisol and sheer will that got me here drains out of me in a violent rush. I feel heavy. Vacant. I could pour myself into the forest floor. I could decompose and feed the trees with my despair.

I shake my head. Fuck, that’s melodromatic, even for me. He has to be here somewhere. I close my eyes, tilt my head back and listen.

With a roar and a snap of brush, I’m knocked to the ground yet again, but this time by a massive, furry form. Great paws on my shoulders, and a giant tongue smearing buckets of saliva across my face. I sneer and try to open one eye against the onslaught to confirm that it’s Simon and not something I could actually eat. (it’s been awhile)

It’s Snow. I melt. I don’t even have it in me to repel his repulsive attack. I’m just so happy he’s here. With a final lap of his pink tongue, were-Snow sits on his haunches, still pinning me to the forest floor. I think I may have hit my head when I fell because he looks a little blurry.

I blink—no. He’s actually blurring at the edges. Smoking slightly. Sparks are starting to fly, almost like he’s about to go off, but less so. More birthday candle than forest fire.

He’s still sitting on me, so I should probably get the fuck away, lest I ignite, but Simon always shields me when he goes off so why would this be different? I don’t know what’s happening, and I need to be here for him, whatever this is. Is this Simon, or some kind of sinister forest trick? I’ll murder every dryad in this place if it is.

The magic around Snow thickens and blurs until his shape starts to ebb and flow. Brilliant sparks and smoke whirl around him like a stationary firework, then everything vanishes, leaving Simon Snow, the human version, sitting on top of me. Naked.

“Welcome back,” I drawl, trying (and failing) to look bored. I’m fucking thrilled. Ecstatic, I can’t suppress my warm smile. (I’m pathetic)

Simon attacks my face like he did before, but with more lips and slightly less tongue. (much more enjoyable)

Snow pulls back, “Just so we’re clear, since we were interrupted before,” He runs his fingers through my hair, giving it a gentle tug, “I fucking love you.” He kisses just below my jaw, with a hint of teeth. “So much.”

I let slip the tiniest of groans. He is straddling  me naked after all. “I love you too, Simon.” I run my hands up his back, feeling goosebumps form. “Just so we’re clear.”

***

We’re walking back to the clearing, to get our gear, then we’re going back to our room. I draw the line at Humdrum attacks. I’m never camping again.

Simon is wearing my jacket (well, I suppose technically it’s his, but I’m taking it back and I’m not returning it.) and nothing else. I should probably summon his blanket at least, but I’m enjoying the view. “Are you cold, Snow?” I ask. If anything, I am the pinnacle of consideration.

“Nah, I’m ok. Wolf metabolism, remember.” He’s holding my hand, because we’re strolling through the forest in the moonlight, and he’s a romantic git. A romantic werewolf who tried to kill me an hour ago, but also danced with me in the forest and professed his love to me an hour before that. Alastair Crowley I’m living a charmed life. 

We’re almost to our campsite. I can see the dying embers of the fire through the trees.

“What happened?” I ask, “When you transformed? It was different. Less bone-poppey and flesh-teary, more magick-ey.”

“None of those things are words, Baz.” Simon grins, he looks tired. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, Snow sighs. “I made it happen this time. With magic. Our magic.” He stops and looks at me. “I think I can control it now, the shifting. He squeezes my hand. He’s hesitant now, “That spell you cast—when the Humdrum got me—I felt it.” his head drops and he looks at me from under his ruddy lashes, “The Humdrum hollowed me out somehow, and your magic filled me back up. I don’t know what you did, but something changed. I can still feel it—your magic. It’s in me. Like the missing piece.”

I don’t even know what to say. I squeeze his hand back and meet his gaze. “Are—,” I clear my throat, “Are you ok with that? My magic?” Is that even legal? How can that be possible? Magic transfer? I feel like I’ve violated him somehow.

“Of course it’s ok, I love it.” Simon smiles like the sun, I feel my clouds clearing. I can breathe again. 

“Are you ok with it?” Simon looks a bit uncertain now, “I guess I kind of stole some of your magic?”

“Yes, yes,” I smirk, “I’m fine with it, maybe it will improve your fashion sense and table manners.”

“Oh fuck off, you prat,”

Simon presses on, more sure, “There’s more—I could hear myself think while I was were, Baz. I remember. That’s never happened before.”

“What do werewolves think?” I wonder.

“Well, it’s pretty rudimentary overall. Situational. Increased interest in squirrels and whatnot, but I heard you calling me in the forest. I knew it was you. I felt it. 

I give him a half smile. The weight of this night is starting to settle, I just want to go to bed, with him in my arms, and sleep all the shitty parts away. “I’m glad you found me. I’m glad you didn’t kill me.”

“Me too.” Simon says gently. 

I turn to him. “Does all your magic feel different? Like when you cast a spell?”

“Dunno,” He holds his other hand up to me, “Let’s try. Loan me your wand. Spare me any snark or vile jokes.”

Something warm and sweet pools in my chest. I’ve never shared my wand with anyone. I hand it to him, like a maiden bestowing a knightly favor.  

Snow grins and kisses my cheek. “Nice,” he says, examining it. He weighs it in his hand, and gives it an experimental shake. Then he points my wand at the ground ahead of us and casts, “He loves me, he loves me not.” Snow’s voice is sharp and clear. The spell lands perfectly, and a patch of luminescent daisies lazily emerge from the soil, swaying gently in the non-existent breeze.

“That’s lovely, Simon.” I lean on him, to share whatever heat I’ve got.

“Yeah,” Snow leans back. “It felt clean. Certain. Not like before.”

The moon casts us in silver relief on the forest floor. Two shadows, one form.

Two hearts. 

Together. 

Chapter Text

Simon:

Baz is right, the Mage really does look like that guy from The Princess Bride.

I couldn’t avoid him forever, so we’re meeting in his office. “To work this out and get me back in line,” after the events of last week where I sort of assaulted him. (No regrets.) (Nobody fucks with my boyfriend.)

Baz is also right about the Mage not really having my best interests at heart. What with all the near-death missions, utter lack of emotional support, and yearly care home abandonment. I needed a father figure, but instead I got a manipulative drill sergeant. I’m more soldier than son, which makes me sad and angry. (I’ve decided to bury the sad and focus on the angry.) 

It’s kind of shit, you know. I mean, he did bring me to Watford, and make me his heir. (The sword is a nice plus.) And his reforms have largely been positive. But overall, The Mage is pretty much an arsehole and a crap guardian. Like, really, who sends an eleven-year-old to kill a dragon?

I focus on the wall of dusty books behind the headmaster’s desk. Baz’s mum’s books. I should take one for him.

I glance back at the Mage, seated behind his desk, still monologuing. He’s droning on about honor and respect. My sworn duty. (I don’t think I swore to anything.)  Something about broken vases and fixing me. (I’m not broken.) I start to tune him out again, but then he mentions Baz.

“What was that?” I say, leaning slightly forward in the chair.

“I will not have you fraternizing with Basilton Pitch,” he repeats, wrinkling his face like he’s smelled something awful.

“He’s my roommate, sir.” I grasp the armrests of the chair, digging my nails into the worn leather.

“Roommate, not friend,” The Mage snarls. “We’re at war. He’s the enemy.”

I take a breath, I feel calm. The moon is in the first quarter. My wolf side is sufficiently dormant. (minus the excessive body hair) (and an affinity for squeaky toys, but we don’t talk about that) I still feel Baz’s magic thrumming in me.

“Baz is my boyfriend.”

The look the Mage gives me is decidedly non-paternal. “Absolutely not,” He growls. “I forbid it.”

I lean back in the chair and prop my feet on the Mage’s desk. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

The Mage puts his hands on his desk and levels his glare at me. His face is splotchy with rage. His eyes are slits. He’s spitting. Why does he spit so much? Is it some kind of speech impediment?  He booms, “You think I’m so naive that I don’t know the Pitch brat is a vampire?”

That gets my attention.

Fuck.

Glomar response. Neither confirm nor deny. The best defense is a good offense. What the Mage lacked in nurturing, he made up for in espionage and military training. Guess I can thank him for that. I stand up and meet his glare with one of my own. Ignore the accusation. Redirect.  

I’m taller than him now, I take full advantage of it. (Yes, I may be channeling Baz.) “Are you so naïve to think that you can fight these wars against the old families, the dark creatures, and the Insidious Humdrum without me?”

The Mage starts to sputter. “You wouldn’t—you can’t—I” He straightens, glowering. He points at me, “I own you Simon.”

The fuck you do.

“Are you sure it’s not the other way around, Davy?”

How am I not losing my shit right now? Normally I’d be about to go off. Is this another side effect of Baz’s magic? Focus Simon. Take control. “Do you think you could stay in power without me?” I smirk, “And furthermore, don’t think I don’t know you Van-Goghed your own ear in a shaving accident and tried to make it look like a battle wound.” (Thank magic, Agatha and I are still friends) (and that she’s a terrible gossip) (and that there are no HIPPA rules in the World of Mages)

The Mage drops back into his chair with a whump. He purses his lips, twists his moustache and glares at me like a cartoon villain. For once at a loss for words.

“This is how this is going to go,” I say, leaning over the desk, but taking care to stay out of spitting distance. “I’m going to continue my relationship with Baz. You’re going to leave him alone. I will battle the Humdrum and any dark creatures that threaten Watford.”

“I’m listening,” The Mage snarls, “What about the old families?”

“Well, I’m dating someone from an old family, so I think that’s a bit of a conflict of interest, don’t you?” I say, a bit flippantly, “So I think you’re on your own on that one. But as long as Baz is safe, I’ll stay neutral. Anything happens to him, and I tell them everything I know.”

I think about that. The Mage hurting Baz. I feel the wolf stir. I feel my magic start to bloom, I see the moment the Mage smells it. I lower my voice to a menace, “If you so much as harm a hair on Baz’s head, I will rain fury on you like the fires of hell have never seen. I will end you so hard, nobody will remember your name. And that’s extra ironic because nobody knows your name anyway.” Well that last bit was stupid, but whatever.

The Mage’s eyes are bulging and he’s opening and closing his mouth like a fish. I think this is a good time for a dramatic exit. “Good talk,” I say, and I go.

***

I’ve crossed the Mage off my to-do list. 

Now comes the scary part.

I need Baz for support on this one.

***

We meet Penny in the dining hall for dinner.

“Hello, Baz. To what do I owe this honor, Simon?” Penny sniffs, looking over her book.

I set down my plate, heaped with roast beef, but I’m too nervous to eat.

Almost.

Baz’s plate is sparsely loaded, but we’ve been working on his fang issue. If he thinks really hard, he can stop them from popping, but it’s dicey. Bacon is still a no-go.

I quickly eat a few slices of beef to fortify myself. “Pen, I know we haven’t hung out much these last few months.”

“’Much,’ as in not at all,” Penny retorts. “I’m taking applications for a new best friend.”

I find strength in Yorkshire pudding and press on. I feel Baz’s leg against mine. “Yeah.” I run my hand through my hair. I hate when Penny’s mad at me. “So, the thing is…” She’s giving me her Intense Glare of Anger. It’s very intimidating. I look at Baz. He scrunches his nose at me, feeling my pain.

I sigh, “I’m sort of…” I look down at my poor food, just sitting there, getting cold. “A werewolf now.”

Penny drops the book. “Wait, what?” She asks. Agape.

“I may have been bitten by a werewolf in the fall.” I say to my plate. I can’t look at her. “And Turned.”

Penny shoots The Glare at Baz. “That stupid, giant dog you have once a month…”

She glares back at me, (she’s so bloody smart) “That’s you?”

I rub my neck and wince at her, “Er, yeah.”

“Nicks and bloody Slicks,” she shakes her head slowly. “And here I was expecting you to finally admit to me that you and Baz are dating.”

“Well, yeah, that too. We’re totally dating.” I feel Baz’s hand on my knee, I take it, and thread my fingers between his.

“And you’ve been covering for him all this time?” Penny says to Baz.

I expect Baz to come up with something snarky, but he just nods his head and goes back to pushing food around his plate. Traitor.

Baz:

I’m here for moral support. Bunce scares the hell out of me. I squeeze Simon’s hand to show my love and keep my mouth shut.

Simon:

Baz squeezes my hand because he’s a coward. I love him anyway. “I wanted to tell you, Pen…”

“But what?” Penny sneers. “You don’t trust me? I know all of your secrets, Simon. I know secrets you don’t even know you know.” She cuts her eyes to Baz. He looks pointedly away.

“I don’t even know what you mean, Pen.” I sigh and my eyes meet hers, “Look. Baz was there when I was bitten. He was with me when I—Turned—” I look at Baz, I’m not sure how much I can tell.

Like he’s read my mind, (is that a vampire thing?) he fills in, “I can empathize with his—predicament, Bunce.”

Penny’s eyes widen and she points at Baz, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That the conclusion Simon came to after years of stalking and invasion of privacy is correct, then yes.”

“I apologized for all that,” I cut in, pouting at Baz.

“Yes, but I reserve the right to taunt you about it forever. I will tell the story at our wedding,” Baz says haughtily. I roll my eyes and huff. I’m not going to win this.

Penny is watching us, elbows on the table, hands over her mouth. She steeples her fingers in front of her like a mob boss. “So let me get this straight.” She pauses to glower at us each individually. “Baz is a vampire. You are a werewolf. And the two of you are a couple?”

“Yes.” I say, “That pretty much sums it up.”

Penny leans back and cackles. “What a pair of splendid morons you are!”

“So—” I venture.

“So what?” Penny raises her eyebrows at me.

“Are we ok?” I ask.

She snorts. “Yes, Simon. We’re ok.” She looks at Baz, “Thanks for taking care of him.”

“You’re welcome, Bunce.” He gives her a small smile.

“The ten percent rule still holds, Simon.” She says, turning to me.

“What’s the ten percent rule?” Baz lowers his eyebrows, intrigued.

“It’s nothing, Baz,” I widen my eyes and grit my teeth at Pen, motioning for her to shut up.  

 She ignores me and smiles at Baz. “Oh this is going to be fun.”