Work Text:
Baz
Brussels isn’t a warm place—at least, not in November—but it’s given Snow and I the perfect excuse to consume as much chocolate as possible while we take in the early Christmas decorations. (And it’s given me an excuse to wear my new Cornell red cashmere scarf.) (Lovely.)
Father and Daphne brought us all here for Christmas when Magnus was born. (I think they wanted to take our minds off the newborn in the family—the twins weren’t doing too well with having a new baby taking up their mother’s time.)
Mordelia and I ate our combined weight in chocolate that first day… and then she proceeded to spend the rest of the weekend lying in the apartment feeling ill. (I mocked her relentlessly by sitting at her bedside and finishing off her favourite box. What else are big brothers for.)
Anyway, when Snow was feeling restless last week, talking about wanting to take a weekend eurotrip on the train, I immediately thought of this place.
The streets are lined with Christmas lights and bunting, and every cranny of the Grote Markt and nearby streets smell of melted chocolate; it’s divine.
The first thing I did once we had checked into our apartment (well, after a detour to the bedroom...) (and the shower...) was take him to Chocopolis.
He took at least twenty five pictures of the chocolate cow out front, several of which he begged me to get involved in. (All of which I protested over, even though I didn’t actually mind.) (I have to keep him on his toes.)
But Snow’s excitement out there was nothing compared to the look on his face once he stepped through the door; how happy he was. It brought warmth to my undead heart. He spent a good ten minutes watching the chocolatiers skillfully craft pieces of art and operate the machinery behind the large glass partition before I could even get a word out of him. (And I only managed to do that by wafting the free samples I’d managed to charm out of the cashier under his nose.)
Next I took him to Le Comptoir de Mathilde (a more authentic Belgium chocolaterie) and was given the chance to experience his enthusiasm all over again. It’s hard to be unimpressed when Snow is grabbing my hand and dragging me this way and that, depending on what has caught his eye; gasping over chocolate combinations while stuffing his face with free samples.
He’s so excited by new experiences, new places, new things. I’d never tell him so but his childlike wonder keeps me from being so blasé about the world.
But he’s still a menace. The shop assistants couldn’t decide whether they wanted to welcome his eagerness or shove him out the door before he ate them out of house and home.
After that, Snow made it a personal mission of his to try every single chocolatier in the city centre. I’m much more supportive of that than the mayonnaise and chips he’d toted to me as a ‘must eat’ on the Eurostar over here. As if I would ever eat chips from a hole in the wall—served in a polystyrene cone, no less—let alone ones smothered in so much mayonnaise that I won’t even taste the potato. (I told Snow that it was a myth, like how the British are supposedly obsessed with fish and chips.) (He’d argued that he was obsessed with fish and chips, but Snow is obsessed with all food, so it hardly counts.)
And then, once Snow saw that hot chocolate here is usually served via dunking special spoons into warm, delicately foamed milk, it was all over. He was beside himself with joy. He must have bought fifteen different types in that first shop alone, and he’s memorised them so that he can buy the ones he’s missing next time. (I hate how cute I think that is.)
He’s so animated as he talks me through the ones he thinks will be his favourites, squeezing my hand whenever he gets to one he thinks I’ll like too. His thoughtfulness and the Christmas lights are making me soppy, so I drop a kiss on top of his curls. He looks up at me in surprise, snowflakes falling onto his broad nose and trapping themselves in his eyelashes.
I have to swallow down the suggestion of going back to the apartment early and using the chocolate in a much different way. (I almost don’t manage it.) (He’s been incredibly sweet today, and I’ve always had a sweet tooth.)
His arms are loaded down with bags of boxed chocolates as we walk up Boulevard Anspach. I’d complained, of course, but he saw right through me. We’ve been together long enough now that he’s fully aware of my love of chocolate. (That and the fact that I think he learned to block out my dramatics years ago.)
“Gotta bring some back for Pen and Shep,” he’d told me, when I know full well that the Normal is allergic to strawberries and those bags are mostly full of chocolate coated ones. Snow can’t seem to get enough.
It’s been snowing continuously all afternoon, although it’s not cold enough for it to settle for long. Snow leans in and gives me a kiss on my cheek when I sass him over something small—just because I’m cold and grumpy—and it pulls me out of my funk. I’m still prone to being tetchy but, with one kiss, he can make happiness bloom in the crankiest parts of me. It's disgusting, how much I love him.
“Just gonna pop to the loo at the Maccy’s back there, Baz,” Snow says, bending down to drop his bags at my feet; like the ground isn’t covered in sleet and we aren’t blocking a walkway. “All that liquid is running right through me. Feel like I need a morning wee.”
“I don’t need such detailed updates, love.”
He grins widely and gives me another kiss on the cheek before jogging back the way we came. I watch him go, unashamedly ogling how good my fiancé looks from behind in his new Eurobreak clothing.
Someone unceremoniously bashes into me and I sigh and scoop up the bags, moving to stand back against a supermarket front and out of the way of the other tourists.
While I wait, I decide to play our usual game with the passersby, where Snow and I imagine fantastical backstories for strangers. (Our responses are often a little childish, but I love it.)
Mordelia and I used to play it when Father and Daphne would drag us out to boring events as children and now Simon and I often do it at restaurants, or while we’re stuck in the incredibly long queues British people tend to spend their whole lives in.
I zero in on a young, messy haired woman; coat falling off her shoulder, carrying a huge crate with both arms, piled high with various circular boxes. A child is trailing after her, bundled up so tightly against the weather that only a little red nose can be seen poking out between a high-collared woollen coat and a fluffy red hat. They’re dragging a toy snake behind them along the sleet-covered pavement.
I’m just hatching a backstory—a harried usher, rushing to a 1920s cinema with a projector and piles of old fashioned Christmas film reels… her rambunctious devil child sent her day into disarray...—when I spot Snow ahead of the odd pair, jogging back over to me with a suspiciously huge grin on his face. I send a quick prayer to Chomsky that he hasn’t spotted the chips and mayonnaise stalls I’ve been masterfully maneuvering him away from all afternoon.
I see it happening before it does.
The toddler swings the snake in an arc along the ground, where it slides directly underneath their feet, sending them tumbling onto the pavement just as Snow reaches them.
Madam Usher stops abruptly in shock and one of the circular boxes tumbles from its leaning tower and splashes down onto the sleet-covered pavement.
Disappointingly, it doesn’t open. It’s cruel to say I was willing it to spill its contents across the snowy ground, but I was hoping for confirmation on my theory, and I’ve never claimed to be a nice person.
Snow—who actually is a nice person—bends down to focus all his attention on the child, who quietens down almost immediately. I can’t see Snow’s expression from this angle but I can imagine it vividly, from years spent watching him entertain my siblings; his warm smile making his eyes crinkle.
I watch as Snow tilts his head up to ask the woman a question before reaching out and grasping the child under their armpits, lifting them to their feet before honest to Crowley booping them on the nose.
I hear the child’s musical laughter from here.
I can see that the woman is incredibly grateful, smiling widely at him. I pick up the bags and step into earshot, hearing the end of her sentence: a breathy “...in shining armour.”
Hm.
Snow bends down to scoop up the box and I watch her eyes follow his movements, clearly checking him out. I can’t say I blame her, his arse looks exquisite in those jeans. (I should know, I picked them out.)
Snow is none the wiser to his new admirer; he never catches the way people look at him. (I certainly do.) He rises and balances the box on top of the woman’s precarious tower before leaning forward to pat the kid on the head with another dorky smile.
Miss Messy Hair twists and bumps Simon in the bicep with her shoulder, giggling out a “thank you.” I can see her fucking heart eyes from here.
Okay. That’s enough.
I stride over with my head held high. If I'm going to interrupt, then I won’t let this woman think I’m threatened by her presence. You can’t show fear around these people.
Snow is, of course, completely oblivious to her come on—he always is—chatting away to her about what sounds like the white chocolate strawberries I’m currently having to carry four bloody bags of.
I roll my eyes out of habit even though he’s not paying me any attention. (And he should be paying me attention. I’m the fiancé he left standing outside a fucking Carrefour.)
By the time I get to them, Snow has already started playing with the toddler’s snake, making whooshing noises as he drags it along the floor, jogging backwards and paying no mind for the people trying to use the pavement. (He’s half a fucking child still himself.)
The toddler chases after him, giggling and bouncing on the balls of their feet.
The woman turns to me to ask, “Can I help you?” But I can’t stop staring at Simon: at the grin on his face, the sparkle in his eye, the way he’s lighting up the street with his joy. Snow slows down and let’s the kid reach him and I watch as the toddler grabs Snow by the legs and shouts “Hab Ihnen geschnappt!”
A startled laugh escapes me and Snow’s head shoots over to us, eyes crinkling with his smile as they find mine.
Crowley, I love this man.
He makes his way back over to us, and I raise my eyebrow at him in an attempt to undercut the disgusting heart eyes I’m sure to be sporting myself right now. (Thank Morgana Bunce isn’t here, I’d never live it down.)
He reaches out for my hand the second he’s within distance, turning to the woman and announcing, “Bertha, this is my husband, Basil.”
He does this all the time. We’re not even married yet and he already refers to me as his husband. (It makes me weak in the knees in ways I would never let on.)
“Oh,” she says, eyes flitting between the two of us and our clasped hands before locking eyes with me.
I see Simon out the corner of my eye patting the kid on the head again. They're not a bloody dog, Snow. (Although they do seem to be enjoying it.)
“Anyway,” I start, “Simon and I have some chips and mayonnaise to devour, so.”
His head whips towards me, “Baz, you said that was a myth!”
I swallow down my sigh. Trust Snow to ruin my perfectly executed getaway.
“I asked a passerby just now and they gave me directions. Come on.” Snow bends down to say goodbye to the kid while I turn back to Miss Flirty Shoulder Bump. Of course she’s still watching Simon.
“Nice to meet you, Berta,” I say, with the polite smile I save for my father’s Coven friends, whom I hate.
Snow waves bye before grabbing my hand again as I lead him back the way we came.
“You knew it was Bertha,” Snow mumbles at me as we walk away, “you were being a dick.”
“She wanted your dick, Snow, so I was hardly going to be accommodating.”
I watch him bluster next to me out the corner of my eye. It’s never stopped being fun, winding Simon up.
“She was just grateful I picked up her box of doughnuts. Probably all smushed now. Shame, really.”
I throw my head back with a laugh. “Is that what was in those boxes? Doughnuts?”
Snow shoots me a look that says he’s worried for my mental health.
I squeeze his hand and continue walking. “I was playing our game. I had her pegged for more of the theatre attendant type.”
He chuckles then, squeezing my hand in return.
“The kid was cute though,” he muses.
I hum in response, not really willing to let on how seeing him playing with that child made me feel; overcome with longing, affection squeezing the breath from my lungs...
I feel like the Grinch from that awful kids’ movie Bunce made us watch last week: and the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day.
It scares me. It’s not like Simon and I haven’t talked about having kids—we both agreed that it’s something we would want, further down the line.
Just... maybe I’m a lot closer than I thought I was.
I know he’s worried about his ability to be a father, but he shouldn't be. I didn’t need the earlier scene to be certain of that.
We stop outside the chips and mayonnaise hole in the wall—where the queue is, of course, horrendous. I don’t mind though.
Snow has wandered off to go “look at the menu”—even though they only serve one bloody thing—and it’s freezing being stood still like this for a long time… but when he returns, his eyes are bright with that familiar childlike excitement; and, in the end, I’d do anything to make sure it stays that way.