Work Text:
BAZ
Living with Simon is much more tolerable the second time around. The new addition of snogging and shagging in our relationship probably has quite a bit to do with that, but I also can’t discount the sheer amount of emotional work we’ve both put into this. Into us. We finally felt it was time to move in together again last year; partially at the insistence of one Penelope Bunce who was itching to move out of their small flat now that she had a loving and devoted boyfriend of her own. It had been nearly three years by that point, though, since our last year of Watford. Since the Humdrum, since that summer in America, since everything. Nearly three years of all of that emotional work I mentioned, with therapy and talking and talking and talking. I never knew Simon could talk so much, but I’m grateful he did. That we both did.
Now we’ve our own flat, only about ten minutes away from Penelope because there was no way we could truly separate them. She has a key, and we’ve a key to hers. (She no longer uses that key, after one unfortunate mid-afternoon visit.) (She likes to show up unannounced, and there’s no way we could have known she’d come barging through the front door without so much as a knock .) (It took three months and a launder’s receipt before she’d sit in that chair again.)
Anyway, we’ve our own flat now. And I’ve even got a job, like a proper human adult, as a teacher’s aide. Simon works as well, but mostly from home. He runs a small catering business of sorts, by which I mean he bakes special cakes and treats for our neighbors, and they’ve begun telling their friends so it’s turning into a steady stream of work. I helped him set up a couple business accounts across social media so he could advertise himself and branch out into the local community.
But all of that means he works from home, of course. And he’s taken his position in the home rather seriously lately, declaring he’d take on meal prep responsibilities so that I wouldn’t “have to worry”. I wasn’t worried, but I also wasn’t going to argue if Simon wanted to cook and make me lunch throughout the week. Of course, I can feed myself, but I’ll never make a roast quite as delectable as Simon’s and the things he can do to my lunch? If I weren’t already in love with him, my own stomach would demand I fall head over heels for the man.
So, Simon makes me lunch throughout most of the week. He’s even purchased me a lunchbox, it’s sleek and grey and insulated. He’s perfected sandwiches, and we’ve always got sweets lying around so he’ll throw a few pastries in for me as well. I’m loathe to admit that I look forward to lunch now nearly as much as Simon did when we were at Watford, even if I’m having a particularly bad day at work I always feel better as I unzip my pack to find the neatly wrapped treats from Simon.
For example, today has been absolutely unbearable. From the pack of students waiting for me at the door this morning to the sudden pile of revisions I’d been given to mark, every moment of the day has been some special brand of hell. Most of this semester has been, the professor I’ve been assigned is a bleeding nightmare, and still today somehow topped itself for the worst day . I don’t find a moment of solace until lunch, when I lock myself in one of the study rooms on campus.
I fall into one of the chairs, fighting every urge to simply slam my head against the table top, and unzip my lunchbox instead. A sandwich, sloppily wrapped in butter paper. A pack of salt and vinegar crisps. A few scones gathered up in a napkin. And a juice box, because Simon likes to be cheeky and include some things as if he were packing for a child’s school lunch. Normally it’s just a box of ribena, which is a lovely addition to my lunch whether he means for it to be or not.
Except, I notice as I pull it out, it’s not ribena today. The box is a mint green rather than purple, and when I turn it over in my hand I find a little doodle of what’s meant to be Simon’s head overtop a… drop of blood? It’s also been written on, in what’s very obviously Simon’s scrawl. The top just reads ‘SIMON! ’, below that, ‘the snack that smiles back ’, and in the bottom-right corner '100% ethically sourced ’. (He’s even scribbled across the side, ‘I can’t believe it’s not butter!’.) There’s a little straw included, and for a moment I think he’s just upped his cheek and re-done the ribena box.
I’m halfway through my sandwich when I pop the straw through the top and discover that it is most definitely not ribena, or any brand of juice. It’s thick and metallic, with a familiar savory-sweet undertone. It’s unmistakably blood. Simon’s blood. And I’m so surprised I nearly spit it out. (Thankfully, I don’t. Explaining away the literal blood stains on the students’ work would only be the icing on top of this terrible day.)
I’m conflicted for a moment, unsure if I should finish it, until the itch of my fangs finally wins out. Who am I kidding, I remain conflicted over it for the remainder of the day. Particularly over the fact that I’ve never sucked something down so quick.
SIMON
I can practically feel the stress radiating off of Baz as soon as he walks through the door. He’s always stressed lately, it seems, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to help. Even nightly shag-fests haven’t really been doing much for his mood, even after he’s tired himself out and lets me nuzzle into his side his shoulders remain too tense, his jaw held too tight.
“How’s your day, love?” I ask with a kiss to his cheek as he meets me in the kitchen. I’ve just put a couple pans in the oven, test runs for an event later next week, so I’ve got a good twenty minutes to devote to Baz and his woes. He slumps into my chest when I wrap an arm around his waist, rubbing his side soothingly with a hand as I lift the other to pull the band from his hair and run my fingers through the newly freed strands. His answer is a heavy sigh into my neck and I coo and press a kiss to his temple. “That bad?”
“Just tired.” He murmurs, trying to brush it off because he always tries to brush it off. I tilt my head to catch his lips with my own and he lets out another soft sigh against my mouth. I chuckle and lean back, just enough to look at his face, take in the darker marks beneath his eyes (which are shut as he leans into me).
“I was thinking we could order takeaway tonight, easy dinner.” He hums his agreement and leans closer, not even bothering to open his eyes, so he completely misses my mouth and lands a kiss on my chin instead. I laugh at his frown. “Thirsty, darling? Can heat you something up while I call an order in, if you want.”
Baz finally straightens up and opens his eyes, only to narrow them at me immediately. “No, and I actually needed to ask you about something.” I know what he’s going to ask before he even pulls the little green box from his lunch kit. “What is this?”
I give him a gentle smile. I wasn’t sure how he’d react to that, if I’m honest, but I hoped he’d like it. Or that it’d help, at least, kind of like a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. “Just a little… treat. Thought you’d like it.”
“Did you honestly box up your own blood and put it in my lunch, Snow?”
“Well, when you put it that way it sounds properly creepy.”
Baz rolls his eyes. He must be feeling a bit better, enough to be exasperated by me. “How did you even— What— Simon, what the fuck?”
“You’ve been having such a hard time at work, I thought maybe it’d help!” I take the box from his hand, holding it up with a smile. “D’ya like the box? Designed ‘em myself.”
“Designed them? How many more of these do you have?”
“Well…” Baz crosses his arms and watches me rock back on my heels. He lifts that one bloody eyebrow and I huff, shrugging my shoulders. “Just a… a few. A bit. A… Maybe a few dozen.” His other brow shoots up. “Not filled! Yet, I mean. I. I designed the box and bought a few dozen, and I thought I’d fill them up for you in the mornings. Y’know, so it’d be fresh.”
“Snow. This is your blood.” He only calls me Snow now when he’s upset or I’m being particularly thick. I really hope he just thinks I’m being thick, I didn’t mean for it to upset him, but…
“Oh, come on, Baz, that little box is barely how much you take when you bite me yourself—”
“Bit.” He corrects. “When I bit you, the one time. And that was an emergency situation, Snow, you’re not a food source.”
“But you like it, yeah? And isn’t it, like… better for you? Human bl—”
“That’s not the point, you know as well as I that I’m fine with what you get from the butchers. It’s a step up from having to go hunting in the middle of a London park, at least.”
“And this is a step up from pig’s blood that’s been in the freezer for who knows how long! I don’t mind, Baz, if it helps—”
“I mind, I don’t—” He stops himself short, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think of you like that, Simon. You’re my boyfriend, you’re someone I love, not a snack.”
“Agree to disagree about me being a snack.” Baz rolls his eyes again, but I see the twitch at the corners of his mouth. I set the box aside on the counter, taking his hand in mine instead, and moving closer until we’re nearly chest to chest. He has to look at me down his too-high crooked nose, and I love it when he does that. “Facts. Work is stressing you out. You feel worse when you’re thirsty.” He opens his mouth to argue and I lift my other hand to cover it. He narrows his eyes, which only makes me grin. “You get by fine with animal blood, but human is better. I am chock full of human blood, and I’m making more every day. I can spare a couple ounces here or there, if it’s going to help you feel better. Did it help? Today? When you drank it?”
Baz finally sighs behind my hand, shoulders dropping in resignation as he admits a muffled, “A bit.”
I drop my hand. “Just a bit?”
He’s going to roll his eyes so hard they fall out of his head one of these days, I swear. “Alright, quite a bit. You’re like a bloody five-hour energy shot, I actually made it through the last half of my day without beheading one of our students or the professor.”
“We should really talk to someone about your violent urges, darling.” I press a soft kiss to his lips and turn back to the oven, leaning over to check on the cakes I’d put in.
I feel Baz crowding behind me as I shut the oven door again, his long arms winding around my middle and his cool lips pressing into the side of my neck. A little shiver runs through me at the memory of that night, but he did make it clear that wasn’t to happen again.
“Simon?” His voice is quiet, and soft. I hum, leaning into his embrace. “Thank you.”
“Of course, love.”
He’s leaving soft kisses over my neck and shoulder, barely-there brushes of his lips, until he finally speaks up again. “How’re you doing it? Getting the blood into the box, and all.”
“Oh, I got a phlebotomy kit.”
He uses his hold ‘round my middle to turn me toward him, setting me with that same accusing and quizzical look from earlier. “You don’t know anything about phlebotomy…”
“I looked up some YouTube videos!”
He’s not as amused by that answer, dropping his forehead against my shoulder with a heavy sigh.
“Simon...”
But then he’s laughing, soft bubbling sounds into my shirt that shake his frame. And then I’m laughing with him, into him, as he holds me closer and pulls me into another kiss.