Work Text:
BAZ
Baz Pitch is living the life of his dreams. He has a lovely flat in Chelsea overlooking the Thames where he lives with his cat Jane and his grandfather’s violin, which he gets to play all day, every day. But it wasn’t always this way…
Several years ago, Baz had been halfway through a bachelor of laws degree, as his father expected. He had woken up on a miserable grey morning with piles of work waiting for him and decided to hell with this. He was tired of doing things that were expected of him. Tired of working his hardest to be the best at things he couldn’t care less about. Tired of pretending to tolerate his associates who were, frankly, intolerable. So bloody tired. And he wasn’t going to do it anymore.
Instead of revising for exams or preparing briefs, he submitted applications to music programs and prepared his audition pieces. The following autumn Baz found himself walking through the doors of the Royal College of Music feeling like he’d dodged a bullet (like his life was finally about to begin).
To be sure, it had been an exceptionally awkward summer, what with all the ranting and sulking and coercing his father had engaged in. But Baz remained unmoved. His money was his mother’s after all and there was nothing his father could do about it.
Now it’s the summer before Baz’s last year of school and he’s been invited to perform at a music festival in Berlin as a soloist. It’s the kind of opportunity that could launch his career. He has just over a month to prepare the piece. He’s a bit apprehensive, but there is nothing Baz enjoys more than practising violin in his beautiful flat.
Baz wakes to a familiar tapping on his forehead – the relentless furry paw of Jane, who does not believe in indolence (at least not when breakfast is on the line). Baz groans and attempts to hide under the covers. Jane burrows under the blankets to join him. Baz relishes the feel of her warm furry back against his belly as he steals a few more minutes of sleep. But before long Jane rolls over and begins kneading his stomach. Her claws are catching in the silk of his pyjamas and Baz knows it’s only a matter of time before she bites him on the nose. He throws the covers back and blinks his eyes against the sun streaming through the windows.
“Come along then, you nightmare,” he groans. “Let’s go find you some breakfast.”
They wander into the kitchen and Baz stops to put the kettle on. Jane jumps up on the counter and rubs her cheek encouragingly against his elbow. When the wet food has been served, Baz takes his mug into the living area and sets it on the window sill. He picks up his violin from where he rested it on a chair the evening before. His fingers find their way into a comfortable old melody before he’s consciously decided what to play. He loves beginning his days this way – gazing out over London, filling his cosy flat with floating lines of song, stopping occasionally for a sip of tea. Later, Baz will settle down to the hard work of mastering that new piece, but these moments first thing in the morning are just for his own pleasure.
SIMON
Simon’s crew rolled up to the new work site at seven, with the hope of being able to snag some parking close to the building as people left for work. They’ve been waiting for forty minutes for the landlord to show up and let them in. Simon is getting antsy, but the rest of the crew is enjoying the time to just sit around and chat shit. Simon is new to the crew so he should probably keep his mouth shut, but he’s going spare sitting here listening to Shepard talk about his plans for a stakeout in Cornwall this week-end (he wants to try to get pictures of Owlman.)
“I’ve seen him, Simon!” Shepard insists. “Pinky swear,” he breathes, solemnly extending his little finger.
“Sure you have, Shep,” Simon mutters, halfheartedly grasping Shepard’s pinky in his own. “Do you think we should ring some buzzers?”
Shepard doesn’t think so, but Simon is done with waiting. He climbs out of the truck and heads over to the door of the building they’ll be working on. He starts pushing buzzers at random. He probably pushed some of them more than once, but who cares? Most folks have probably left for work already. Finally, someone answers, her quavery voice drifting through the intercom.
“Hello, m’am? My name is Simon. I’m here with my crew. We’re supposed to be doing some work on the roof, but the landlord hasn’t shown up to let us in.”
“You poor dears! How rude to keep you waiting. I’ll buzz you right in.”
As soon as Simon hears the click of the door, he’s pushing through and kicking a catalogue that was left by the mailboxes into place to hold the door open. The other members of the crew groan but it’s not like they’ll get paid for sitting there all day. One by one, they start unloading the gear from the trucks and clattering through the entryway and on up the stairs.
The sound is deafening as they climb – gear bumping against walls and doors and banging against other people’s loads as they round the corners. Their boots are barely muffled by the carpet and the crew continues their banter without switching to inside voices.
Simon is in the lead but he doesn’t know where he’s going. The access to the roof is from the machine room but the building makes a C-shape around a courtyard. They wander down one hallway then the other without finding it. Eventually a door opens and an older woman pokes her head out. She’s wearing a kimono and has a Pomeranian perched in her arms.
“Simon?” she queries.
“Yeah, I’m Simon. Are you the one who buzzed us in?”
“Indeed I am, young man. Forgive me, I do admire your can-do spirit, but you appear to be lost.”
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Simon grumbles. “The landlord should’ve been here by now. Do you know the way to the machine room?”
“It’s just at the end of the hall there.”
“Oh. Terrific. Thanks!”
“Think nothing of it. It’ll be my pleasure to have some young faces around for a while. Do you care for cake?”
“Um, yeah, I love cake...But, uh, that won’t be necessary. We’ve got to get working.”
“Maybe later, then. Let me know if you need anything.”
Simon finds the machine room but of course the door is locked. There’s still no sign of the landlord. Simon examines the lock. He’s pretty sure he could pick it if he only had a Kirby grip.
“Shepard, go see if that cake lady has a Kirby grip.”
“Can I ask for cake too?”
“That’s not fair to the rest of the crew. Just get the Kirby grip and don’t talk her ear off.”
Of course, it takes a hundred years for Shepard to return (the old woman’s probably second cousin to Jenny Greenteeth or something) (that’d be just Simon’s luck). But Shep’s got the grip and Simon’s lock picking skills are legendary (you don’t get by in care homes without some ingenuity). Finally, they’re up on the roof. Simon draws a deep breath. He will never tire of the views you get from a London rooftop.
BAZ
A situation has been developing out in the corridor. Baz should have known there was trouble brewing when someone rang the buzzer not once, but three times. He wasn’t expecting anyone so he didn’t answer it on the first ring. Then he heard buzzers going off all up and down the hall, so he didn’t bother getting it on the second or third rings either.
Someone must have relented (Baz has a feeling he knows who), because then all hell broke loose. Such thumping, clattering and hollering you never heard. Jane shot off like a bat out of hell the moment they started up the stairwell. Baz will have to coax her out from under the bed later with a dish of tuna.
The marauders pass right outside Baz’s door and then loiter in the hallway, practically yelling to be heard over the racket still issuing from the stairwell. Then Baz hears that cake woman call out to them and they quiet down a little. One of the men speaks up and Baz is a bit surprised by how young the man sounds. Crew leaders (Baz can only assume this is some sort of work crew) are usually gravel-voiced from years of barking orders and chain smoking cigarettes. This man sounds fresh and earnest; he's polite (in his own coarse way).
There’s a long enough lull in the commotion that Baz dares to venture back over to his practice area. He’s at the earliest stages of learning the new piece. He’s reading over the sheet music and marking it up with his own notes, stopping now and then to pick out a measure or two on his violin to experiment with phrasing and bowing patterns.
Baz is vaguely aware that the crew is on the move again. But nothing could have prepared him for the cacophony of a dozen pairs of feet fanning out across the roof right over his head. There’s also the clunking of buckets, the resonant clang of metal tools being dumped in piles and the scraping of larger equipment being shifted into place. There’s a chugging sound as a generator stutters to life, followed by a relentless hum that sets off a vibration somewhere in Baz’s ceiling, leaving his chandelier shimmying and casting a jittery light over his living area.
Sweet Sibelius! What fresh hell has Baz woken up to this morning?!
Now that his memory has been jogged, Baz does recall a notice taped up by the mailboxes about roof repair. He hadn’t really taken it seriously. He figured it didn’t concern him. He never dreamed that anyone would dare disturb his peace in this way. How could this be allowed? Surely there are other people in the building who work from home or work the late shift and are trying to sleep (isn’t there a paramedic on the first floor?) What about that frazzled mother at the other end of the hall with the twins? Who knows what she’ll come to if she can’t get a moment to herself while the babies nap?
The last straw is when the radio comes on. Its volume must be maxed out for Baz to even be able to hear it over the generator. But hear it he can – crystal clear. It’s an American oldies station…because of course it is (hell wouldn’t be complete without a soundtrack). It’s that infernal song about the man in the desert with the horse. And they’re singing along.
"La la la la la la…"
That’s it.
Baz flings open his window and leans his torso out dangerously far, twisting his back so he can scream in the direction of the roof.
“What in bleeding hell do you think you’re doing up there?! Have you no regard for the people who have to put up with your racket?!”
The noise level doesn’t diminish in the slightest. Baz is drawing another breath so he can yell some more when a head pops over the edge of the roof. Baz’s eyes are still adjusting to the daylight and the man is backlit against the sky. Baz can just make out the white of his teeth when he grins.
“Sorry mate,” the man says.
“‘Sorry?’” Baz parrots in a disbelieving tone. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? ‘Sorry?’”
SIMON
Simon and his crew deal with grumpy tenants all the time. The guys always send Simon over because he’s used to keeping the peace. Simon has found that a friendly smile goes a long way towards smoothing things over.
He could tell by the tone of voice that whoever was yelling had really worked themselves into a lather. But Simon wasn’t expecting him to be so young or so…well…cute isn’t quite the right word…but maybe it is? Even though the man was just screaming bloody murder, it’s hard to take it that seriously when he’s wearing a floral dressing gown and clearly hasn’t brushed his hair yet this morning.
Simon grins at him even wider.
“Yeah. Sorry’s all I got, I’m afraid.”
The man scoffs and rolls his eyes. He can’t be much older than Simon.
“I’m sorry if we woke you up,” Simon adds.
The man blanches and glances at his chest as he recalls his state of dress (or undress as the case may be). He gives a dignified sniff and meets Simon’s gaze with a sneer.
“I’ll have you know, I was already awake,” the man informs him. “As a matter of fact, I was about to sit down to work.”
“Were you now?” Simon teases. “Where do I get myself a job where I can work in my dressing gown?”
The man coughs out a flustered breath.
BAZ
Baz has no idea what to do with this exasperating man. He’s laughing at his own joke (or maybe he’s laughing at Baz) (Baz would prefer not to think about that possibility). In any event, Baz does not think the man is taking anything he says seriously. He obviously has no plans to quiet down.
What will Baz do if things go on this way? How long does it take to fix a roof? A day? A week? Two weeks? How will he possibly get his piece prepared in time? Baz hopes his panic is not written across his face, but the way the man has folded his arms on the edge of the roof and rested his chin on them to get closer to Baz before speaking again suggests otherwise.
“Hey,” he says in a softer voice. “My name’s Simon. Who are you?”
“Baz,” Baz spits out after attempting to swallow down his rising panic.
“Baz.” The man repeats his name like he’s tasting it. “What do you do for work, Baz?”
Baz doesn’t know if he can trust this man. He doesn’t seem like the vindictive sort that would get louder on purpose just to punish Baz for being difficult. But you never know…
“I’m a musician,” Baz leads off. Simon’s eyebrows shoot up with interest. Baz decides to just be direct about why the noise is such a problem.
“I practise for hours every day here in my flat. I have a piece to prepare for a very important performance in Berlin. It has to be perfect.” Baz stares hard at Simon as he says this. “That’s going to be hard to accomplish if I can't even hear myself think, let alone hear myself play.”
Simon grimaces.
“That’s rough, mate. I’ll talk to the boys. We’ll try to be quieter…But, we gotta get the job done, ya know?”
Baz sighs. “How long will it take?”
“One week? Maybe two…Depends on what surprises we uncover. There are always surprises…”
Simon shakes his head and gives Baz a knowing look which Baz returns with a blank stare.
“Listen, Baz. I gotta get to work. You come find me if you need anything. Will you?”
Baz gives him a weak smile and Simon returns it with a 100-watt grin of his own before disappearing behind the edge of the roof.
Baz tucks his torso back into the building and lowers the window. He sinks into his armchair and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. There will be no pretending or getting used to the disruption overhead. But Baz has to admit that having a beautiful face to put on it does help. He should probably feel embarrassed that he’s been pacified by a few freckles and a lopsided grin but he suspects he’s not the first to be undone by Simon’s charms.
As Baz sits there daydreaming of curls silhouetted against the morning light, the ceiling shakes with the weight of bodies moving overhead. Baz wonders briefly if the ceiling is strong enough to hold them. The feet move away again and Baz realises they’ve taken the generator and the radio with them. It’s not quiet, but it’s better. Baz forces himself to stand and decides to get dressed for the day after all.
SIMON
When Simon hears the first trills of the violin, he stops in his tracks. He’d been waiting to see if Baz would practise with them here. He’d just about decided that either Baz wouldn’t play or he wouldn’t be able to hear him with the window closed. Simon is relieved. He’d done what he could to help quiet things down.
As he listens his heart feels glad that, in this small way, he’s been able to make space for something beautiful. The next time he passes the radio, he turns it down a little further so he can hear Baz's music. Simon has been accused of being a bit of a stomper in the past; now, he finds himself treading lightly so as not to drown out the magical sound of Baz’s violin.
The melodies keep Simon company while he works. Before long, he knows Baz’s piece by heart. When Baz plays a sour note or gets lost in the bowing for a second, Simon is on edge, waiting for the chords to resolve or the rhythm to get back on track. When it does, he nods his head and smiles.
BAZ
The roofing work has been going on for a few days and despite Baz’s initial freak-out, he has more-or-less gotten used to it. It’s a whole different level of background noise compared to what Baz is used to, but he manages to mostly tune it out.
Oddly, the time of day when it gets the quietest is when he finds he absolutely can’t practise. When the crew breaks for lunch and disperses across the courtyard below Baz’s window, he becomes acutely aware of the fact that they can probably hear him as easily as he hears them. For some reason, Baz feels a little self-conscious about this. Probably, he reasons, they care for classical music about as much as he cares for the rubbish they play on their radio. It’s just considerate to allow them to enjoy their break as best they can. They’re obviously working harder than Baz is.
Plus, Baz needs to eat too. He’s not always the best about self-care when he’s in the thick of things with a new piece. Since Simon arrived (because, let’s be real, this is all about Simon) Baz has been showering and dressing every morning. He has to admit, it’s done wonders for his frame of mind. It doesn’t hurt that he also has been allowing himself to stare dreamily out the window over lunch, listening to Simon’s easy laugh.
SIMON
Simon and his crew are busy loading up their trucks at the end of the workday when the door to the building swings open and out steps Baz. The workers go quiet as they all stop to stare at him. He’s obviously headed to a performance. He’s wearing a black suit with tails, a crisp white shirt and a white bow tie. His violin is in a pink hard case slung across his back. Simon is stunned, but not quite speechless. A small smile spreads across his face.
“Hey Baz,” he says, his eyes gobbling up the sight of him.
“Simon,” Baz says in return, nodding curtly before stepping down the stairs and turning to head up the street.
When a low whistle cuts through the silence, it takes Simon a second to process what’s happening.
“Hey sweetheart, can I go wherever you’re going?” Gareth calls, with a smarmy grin.
A not insignificant part of Simon wants to cheer for his open-minded work crew which apparently doesn’t give a fuck that one of the guys is cat-calling a man. But the honourable part of Simon, the part that is disgusted and embarrassed by sleazy behaviour no matter who it’s directed at, wins out in the end.
Simon shoves Gareth and tells him to, “Shut up!” just as Baz pauses and levels them with a cool stare over his partly turned shoulder.
Simon calls out, “Sorry!”, and gives Baz an apologetic grimace. Baz just raises an eyebrow at him, turns and continues on his way.
The crew watches him reach the corner, hail a cab with the barest flick of his wrist, step gracefully inside and snap the door shut.
“That dude’s terrifying…” Shepard says in a hushed tone.
“Who does he think he is, The Godfather or something?” Gareth grouses.
Shepard’s heart eyes only get bigger.
Simon shoves Gareth once more. “Maybe if you weren’t such a blighter he wouldn’t hate us so much.”
“What?" Gareth says with a shrug. "If you like what you see, you gotta take your shot while you have it.”
As if any of them has a shot with Baz, Simon thinks to himself as he turns his attention back to loading the truck. He hears Shepard starting in on another one of his stories…“Actually, I shared a cab with Al Pacino once…you wouldn’t believe what a softie he is…”
Simon doesn’t care about Al Pacino; his mind is stuck on Baz. As obnoxious as Gareth is, he was right about one thing…Baz really does clean up nice. This Baz was so different from the Baz that leaned dangerously out his window to yell at Simon. That Baz, with his violin, was already haunting Simon’s dreams. Now, Simon’s trying to reconcile those visions with this new Baz. He already knew Baz was wicked talented, wealthy (this is not a postal code Simon could afford to live in) and a bit of a prat. He’s also apparently intimidating, gorgeous and cool as fuck. In other words, way out of Simon’s league. Which is a bit of a disappointment, to be honest. But it is what it is.
BAZ
Baz is finally playing the new piece up to speed. He stops here and there to drill the difficult parts over and over again. He’s just decided he’s happy enough with one of those tricky turn-arounds and has thrown himself into the following passage, when there’s an awful crunching noise above him. One of the workers has fallen through the ceiling.
“Fucking hell!” Baz exclaims. Followed by the perfectly reasonable question, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”
Getting no answer and still reeling from the shock of it all, Baz continues ranting…
“I could’ve dropped my violin! Do you have any idea how much my instrument costs?! More than you could earn in a lifetime!
“Not to mention you scared my cat!
“She’s a rescue and she certainly has not been appreciating the racket you’ve been subjecting her to this week. And now -– ”
“Oi! Arsehole!”
Obviosly the man who is dangling through Baz’s ceiling doesn’t have a lot of patience for this shit.
“Can you shut up a minute? I’m slipping.”
Baz pauses to really absorb what’s going on. The man in the ceiling is taut with the effort of not slipping further. Every now and then he scrambles a bit to try to retain whatever grip he has. His shirt is riding up. His pants are hanging low. The expanse between is painted in a constellation of freckles. It’s a whole scene.
“Can you catch me or get a step stool or something?” the voice asks from up in the ceiling.
There is no way Baz is going to touch this man (he’s pretty sure it’s Simon). The idea of grasping whoever it is by their grubby work pants and easing them out of the ceiling is inconceivable. It’s Baz’s worst nightmare and wildest fantasies combined. He pushes his kitchen table under the man, who then gingerly wriggles free of the ceiling. He lands awkwardly on the table and looks down at Baz.
It is Simon (of course it is). He isn’t wearing shoes. He’s totally dishevelled from falling through the roof but it’s the lack of shoes that really gets to Baz.
“What in Christ’s name are you doing wearing nothing but socks on a work site?”
Simon looks down at his grimey socks.
“You have to know how dangerous that is,” Baz continues. “You could step on a nail, or something could crush your toes!”
Simon shrugs his shoulders.
“Don’t tell me you can’t afford proper work boots,” Baz sneers.
Simon huffs an offended sigh and rolls his eyes at that.
“Well?” Baz presses.
Simon bites his lip and shifts his weight from foot to foot before eventually giving in and replying.
“I took them off to work over your flat. I didn’t want to disturb you,” Simon explains.
“What the fuck?” Baz asks in disbelief. Sure Baz asked him to be quieter…but this is just ridiculous.
“I’m a total arsehole!” Baz declares. “You can’t risk your safety for someone like me. What’s wrong with you?”
Simon shrugs again and Baz narrows his eyes at him.
“Do you have some sort of hero complex?”
“Sometimes…” Simon admits. “But this isn’t a hero thing. I just like listening to you play your violin.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You stop playing when we’re too loud. I like knowing that you’re down here practising. I worry when I can’t hear you playing. I don’t want you to miss your big break because of us…”
Baz was right – Simon can hear him practising. But Simon doesn’t hate it…he likes it. Or at least he likes it enough to want Baz to keep playing. He understands how important this is to Baz and he cares. Baz isn’t sure anyone has ever cared about his success as a musician before. It makes him feel funny and he doesn’t know how to act. He fights the urge to deflect and decides to be polite because Simon still looks nervous and embarrassed.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Simon.”
Simon brightens visibly and Baz is pleased that he made the right choice.
“I have to insist that you wear your boots though,” Baz presses. “I couldn’t live with myself if you were maimed or something because of me.”
“OK,” Simon agrees, scrubbing a hand through the shorter hair at the back of his head. “You’re right. It was shortsighted.”
Now what? Baz wonders. Baz has no precedent for how to behave when someone falls through the ceiling into your flat. Should he offer Simon something to eat? Christ, he sounds like the cake lady. Come to think of it, Baz thinks he heard her serving cake on the roof not that long ago. So, probably not hungry then…Baz should probably ask what will happen with the hole in his ceiling, but somehow that just doesn’t seem as pressing as the fact that Simon is in his flat.
Thankfully Simon solves the conundrum by easing himself down from the table and edging towards the door.
“Well, I should probably go check in up top,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll, uh, make sure there’s a tarp down so it doesn’t rain on you. And, we’ll take care of this hole for you, ok?”
“OK,” Baz replies dumbly before remembering himself. “Wait, are you ok?”
Simon pauses at the door and smiles back at Baz, who is hovering anxiously, brows pinched in the centre.
“Yeah, I’m alright. Happens more often than you’d think. Thanks for asking though. You’re sweet.”
Well, that’s a blatant lie, Baz thinks as Simon pulls the door closed behind him. He turns in place and really takes in the damage. There are drywall chunks and scraps of insulation all over the place. A film of dust has settled over everything, including the area rug and Baz’s couch. Baz sets about cleaning up in a daze. He still can’t quite believe that that happened. He loses the rest of his day to wandering aimlessly around his flat, pausing now and then to peer up at the hole in disbelief.
SIMON
Shit, shit, shit! Davy is going to kill Simon if he finds out. This is exactly the kind of thing that turns a job from profitable to a waste of time. And Simon knows who’s going to take the hit – him. At least it’s Baz he has to deal with. Baz can really get a good rant going, but he’s all bark and no bite. Simon is pretty sure he’s a total marshmallow on the inside. It was sweet that he freaked out about Simon not wearing his boots.
BAZ
The hole in Baz’s ceiling remains unpatched days later when he awakens to another sickening crunch. He rolls onto his back but doesn’t open his eyes. Maybe it was just a dream? Alas, no. As he lays there, hands pressed to his face, he hears the telltale cursing and sounds of scrabbling that confirm his worst suspicions. He also hears the sound of items shifting is his closet as Jane secrets herself into some dark corner. Finally, he hears a tentative voice call his name.
“Baz?”
He wishes it didn’t thrill him the way it does. What sort of lunatic gets giddy over the prospect of someone falling through their ceiling? Baz rolls his eyes and rises wearily from the bed, grabbing his dressing gown as he heads to the living room to survey the damage. This time there is just a hole, no legs dangling down. He walks over and stands beneath it so he can peer up at the owner of the voice.
“Hello, Simon.”
“Good morning, Baz.”
“I’m beginning to think you’ve failed to grasp the basic concept of repairing a roof.”
“Yeah, well, two steps forward, one step back and all, I guess,” Simon jokes. Baz can hear his nervous laughter echoing in the ceiling.
Baz doesn’t find it amusing. Except he does. Simon is an incomprehensible oaf and his luck is abysmal. But the blush that’s spreading up his neck? Delicious. The way his face squishes up into a worried knot? Adorable.
“My ceiling is beginning to resemble Swiss cheese, Simon. At this rate, it will be gone in its entirety in no time.”
“Listen – about that…” Simon begins, nervously. “Are you gonna be around this week-end?”
“Probably. Why?”
“My friend Shepard knows how to do drywall. He can fix your ceiling up real nice. He’ll match the texture and everything.”
Baz frowns. “This sounds shady…how do I know he’ll do good work? Is he even insured? If he ruins the flat, I’ll be left holding the bag, you know.”
“Baz, I wouldn’t do that to you. I’ll be here helping him. Shep knows what he's doing.”
“Why not let your boss deal with it? He must have insurance for this kind of thing.”
Simon huffs audibly.
“If I tell my boss about it, he’ll dock my pay. He’ll take my whole check, because he’s a twat. He’ll get his cousin to do your ceiling for free. Then he’ll use my check to go out drinking and I won’t be able to make rent.”
“I see.”
Baz feels like a complete prat. He’s never had to worry about his rent in his life. Also, he feels like a perv. The thought of having Simon in his flat, fixing things for him, maybe breaking for lunch together or sharing a bottle of wine at the end of the day, is unreasonably exciting. He should probably say no, but he doesn't want to.
SIMON
Simon’s been putting off talking to Baz about the ceiling for days, but now his own clumsiness has forced his hand. See, he’s been trying to figure out how to ask Baz out first. Now he’s gone and spilled the beans about his shitty boss and Baz is going to feel obligated to say yes to all of it out of pity. That’s the opposite of what Simon wanted. He wanted to make his intentions clear and get an answer from Baz before he felt indebted for the work on the ceiling. What a mess!
“I know it’s a big disruption and the last thing you need right now,” Simon says. “I’m really sorry. You’ve probably been looking forward to having a quiet week-end.”
“Actually, you’re mistaken,” Baz cuts in, in a moment of bravery. “I’ve managed a decent amount of practice time, despite all the commotion. It would be nice to have some company for a change.”
Hmm. Maybe this isn’t as hopeless as Simon thought.
“You don’t have to say yes just because of my sob story…”
“I think it’s only fair to allow you an opportunity to redeem yourself. You’ve made an appalling first impression on my cat.” Baz pauses to cock an eyebrow, then he tilts his head to one side, considering. “Though I suppose whatever chaos you’re going to bring upon us this week-end will hardly improve your standing with her…”
Baz sounds like a total prat when he says this but there’s a light in his eyes and a warmth to his smirk that makes Simon think he’s actually flirting.
“I think it could be fun actually,” Simon continues. “We could even get dinner together after.”
Baz peers up at him with a hesitant expression. Jesus, it’s weird to be asking someone out through a hole in the ceiling. And Simon has totally botched it…he just asked Baz out in an ambiguous way that could be interpreted as inviting Baz to join him and Shep for pizza after a job well done. Shep is not invited. As awkward as it may be, Simon has got to make that clear before this goes any further.
“Without Shepard. Just you and me. On a date,” Simon clarifies. “That is…if you want to.”
Baz smiles and the warmth is in his eyes now too. God he’s lovely when he lets his guard down. But it only lasts a moment before his eyebrow is quirked again.
“That’s a relief. I’m not sure I want to spend more time with Shepard than I have to. He’s not the one with the belt buckle, is he?”
Simon chuckles. “God, no. He’s definitely not invited…sweetheart.”
Baz sputters out a laugh and they both roll their eyes and shake their heads.
“So, what time do you wake up on the week-end?” Simon asks as he eyes Baz’s dressing gown.
BAZ
Baz has been up for hours when he finally hears the buzzer. He had no idea how to dress for watching someone repair his ceiling. A ridiculously fit someone who wants to take him on a date afterwards. He got dressed five times, finally settling on tight-fitting jeans and a black turtleneck (it’s the only shirt he owns that’s made out of jersey) and a pair of loafers.
Baz opens the door and there Simon is, smiling wide, dressed properly in heavy work trousers, an old t-shirt and his boots. He’s absolutely gorgeous and Baz suddenly feels ridiculous.
“How am I supposed to get anything done when you look like that?” Simon asks, deadpan.
Baz isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. Having people working in your space is always exceptionally awkward but this is on a whole other level. Is Baz supposed to be helpful or ignore them? Baz feels his face heating up and he wishes he could disappear into the floor.
“I was just joking, Baz,” Simon laughs, voice soft. “You look good.”
Baz tries to come up with a snarky reply but all he can think is that Shepard isn’t here yet and they're wasting precious moments when they could be snogging. He wants to wrap himself around Simon and never let go, ceiling be damned. He wants to lock the door and pretend he doesn’t hear Shepard when he rings the buzzer. He wants…
“I don’t know if it’ll help, or make it a hundred times worse, but…” Simon begins, snapping Baz out of his thoughts.
“Would it be ok if I kissed you before Shepard gets here?”
Baz doesn’t waste another moment before he’s crowding Simon up against the door. Simon drops his gear bags to the floor so he can slip one hand into the back pocket of Baz’s jeans and run the other one up into his hair. Baz gets one leg hitched around Simon’s hip and his hands buried in Simon’s curls. It’s perfect.
That is, until the buzzer sounds. It’s like they’re being called out by the lifeguard at the pool. Baz groans and Simon growls. Baz succeeds in distracting Simon for one last blissful minute before the buzzer rings again and Simon breaks away.
“We gotta let him in,” Simon says, buzzing Shepard up. “He’s saving my arse today.”
Baz sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. He knows he should be grateful, but he hates Shepard at this moment.
“Fine,” he pouts. “I think I’ll be in my room. At least until you get situated. It’s probably best if I stay out of your hair.”
Simon gives him a devilish grin. “I liked having you in my hair…”
“Well, hurry up then!” Baz snaps as he heads for his room.
SIMON
Simon allows himself to drink in the sight of Baz as he walks away. At his door, Baz pauses and looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “Just, Simon, please be careful.”
Simon’s heart feels like it could soar right out of his chest. No one has ever worried about Simon like this. He beams at Baz until Shepard bursts through the door behind him. Baz slips into his room as Shep comes in.
“Shit. Am I interrupting something?” Shepard asks, taking in the scene.
“Yeah, you are,”Simon says, turning to face him, grinning. “But it’s all good. Really good. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”