Chapter Text
Simon
There’s really only so much a person can be expected to take.
Breaking up with Agatha? Fine. The Mage trying to send Simon away? Whatever. Baz’s mum coming back from the grave to give him of all people a message? Great. Baz himself missing for a month and a half- plotting the downfall of everything and everyone Simon holds dear, no doubt? Also fine.
But Baz missing for a month and a half and one day ?
Really, enough is enough.
“Simon. I know you want to know what Baz is up to. But you cannot skip out on school to go find him. I’m sorry, but you just can’t- ”
He doesn’t even pause his packing as he cuts in to say, “Pen, I’ve got to. He could be enacting some nefarious plan to kill the Mage as we speak. I’ve got to stop him.” He’s already put his cross necklace back on. Just in case.
Penelope is half lying, half sitting on the bed, spinning the ring on her finger as she idly watches him pack his bag. For someone adamant that Simon shouldn’t go, she’s not doing much to stop him. “You didn’t let me finish,” she accuses.
Simon lets out a breath, and to his surprise and panic he feels some magic dissipating with it. He hadn’t realized it was building. Simon takes a moment to check himself- no smoke, no crackling- and then goes back to packing. “Sorry,” he says, because he is. “But I’m still going.”
Penny rolls her eyes. “I was going to say,” she starts, face serious, and something about how she says it has him pausing- something under her voice, a barely repressed mischief that he’s come to know and love. She smiles. “You cannot skip out on school to go find him without me .”
And for all Simon has been feeling stretched thin, for all that the bags under his eyes are deep and only growing deeper, for all the staticky sticky feeling cloying up his chest every time he so much as thinks about Baz out there being all…evil.
He grins back.
Penny
In retrospect, this was all much too optimistic of them.
Oh, getting out of Watford and off the grounds is easy as anything. They’re all packed to go- food, money, clothes, anything else they could reasonably need to take down a crazed vampire- and thanks to Penny’s liberal use of silencing spells, they find themselves outside of the gate in practically no time flat. It seems like it’s going to be smooth-sailing all the way through.
Then Penny says, “So…how are we going to find him?”
Then Simon says, “I’m going to try something.”
And she gets a bad, bad feeling.
All night Simon’s magic has been hanging around him like a cloud. A cloud that has the hair on the back of Penny’s neck sticking up, a cloud that makes her own magic feel drunk and hazy and pleased with itself- a cloud that’s been very steadily growing with every step they take.
It should have had her reconsidering this whole insane venture. But really, it’s in all likelihood why she agreed to do this in the first place. It’s hard to say no to Simon. It’s harder to say no to his magic.
She should have pushed through. But it’s too late now- his magic is growing and growing even more now, and worse, Simon has that look on his face- the one that tells Penny that even if she had gotten a word in, he would push on anyways- and, magic building up in the atmosphere like an electric storm, he says, “ Once lost, now found - ”
Almost before the words have even left his mouth, he’s gone, and Penny is left with: all of their money and general useful items; and the sinking dawning horrible hollow realization of what it would have felt like if she hadn’t grabbed his arm in time at the end of last year.
Simon
Ebb taught him that spell. It’s to find lost baby goats, the ones that strayed from the herd. It’s the only finding spell he’s ever used that’s worked for him.
…It’s never quite worked like this before.
He maybe should have realized it was going to backfire on him. Simon’s magic never works when he needs it to. It always goes ten times further. And now Simon is standing there. In a pile of slime. Under a bridge. With nothing but a duffle bag with his clothes and toiletries in it.
Surrounded by numpties.
Simon summons his sword with hardly a thought. He doesn’t want this to turn violent, but he’s been through too much to think it won’t. Especially if Baz is here. Plotting.
He hoists his sword up, trying to look menacing. His voice comes out hard when he asks, “Where’s Baz?”
The numpties shift and move as one, as though to surround him. They’re big, troll-like creatures, looking like mishappen lumps of clay. They smell like it, an earthy wet smell that almost makes up for the sharp tang of garbage and sewer that otherwise occupies the space. They move like clay, too, terrible stop-motion-animated caricatures. It’s surprising how quickly they surround Simon, shoving up close enough that his arms are pinned to his chest, sword uselessly up in the air.
Already, his magic is building again. He grits his teeth and reels it in as best as he can- thinking about nothing and nowhere- while simultaneously trying to free his sword hand. He starts to ask again, “Where is- ”
It’s then that he notices the coffin.
Really, it’s the first thing he should have noticed, even tucked back in the deepest shadows of the bridge like it is. It’s dark and wooden and elegant, standing out against the other clutter like a- like a really nice coffin in a pile of trash.
Simon’s limbs lock up. He goes still, even as the numpties continue to press in. He can’t breathe. (It’s not because of the numpties.) He can’t stop staring at the glorified wooden box.
It’s a coffin. Why is a coffin here? Why did his spell take him to a coffin? It was supposed to take Simon to-
To Baz.
The Sword of Mages wavers. There’s a sort of rushing in Simon’s head, and he can’t tell if it’s his heart or his blood or his magic.
The rushing gets louder.
It’s his magic.
When he blinks back into himself he’s absolutely covered in dust and the space under the bridge is almost completely empty. Where there had once been piles of garbage there’s now spotless concrete. Even the little creek that had been running mud and silt up to its banks is gone, although water starts to trickle in once more. The numpties are gone, too. Not a trace of their uneven eyes, lumpy hands. Simon can’t even smell a lingering scent of clay.
Normally there’s at least the slightest pang of grief when he goes off like this. When he’s not in a real and present danger, when there’s a chance that they weren’t going to hurt him.
Not this time.
Simon is by the coffin in a flash. He’s not thinking of anything really, or feeling anything either, just moving. He hooks his fingers under the lid of the coffin and pulls up, hands shaking- the magic must have strained him more than usual. A burst of said magic has the lock on the lid breaking, and it comes free.
His hands stop shaking as the lid lifts. So does everything else. The world is completely and utterly still as Simon stares into that coffin.
Baz.
He’s pale. Cold. Unmoving. Dead-
Baz’s eyes flash open. Simon doesn’t startle. He doesn’t even breathe. Baz’s eyes look black, until Simon realizes his pupils are just dilated all the way. They sharpen as his gaze falls on Simon’s face, pupils contracting to reveal a slate grey. Simon feels words he already didn’t have get lodged in his throat, and he has to swallow them back.
What would he even say? “Hey Baz, long time no see, I thought you were plotting so I came to possibly murder you- I hadn’t gotten that far yet- but now I see I was gravely (ha) mistaken but I’m definitely not apologizing,” or “how come you look so good if you’ve been here this whole time,” or, “so you are a vampire, then. Right? Because you’re sitting here in this coffin and there’s definitely flecks of blood around the corner of your lips and you’re really, really, really grey, soooooooo- ”
As Simon continues to stare, wordless, Baz’s lips part, his head tilts, his eyes flutter. Simon’s face goes warm. Because Baz is clearly about to mock him, and he’s getting pre-emptively angry.
But then Baz’s expression smooths over, so fast it’s like he never looked like anything but perfect stone. “What are you doing here?” Baz asks.
Good. Yes. Simon’s got a really good explanation for him. And he’s about to say it, eloquently, when his gaze catches on Baz’s lips again. They’re really chapped. And his cheeks hollow. And there are bags under his eyes. And Simon has seen that before. Not on Baz. But in the mirror.
Which is why instead of his (previously noted) extremely eloquent come-back, he bursts out with, “Have you eaten?”
Baz blinks at him. Again, there’s an expression on his face. In this case, it’s bafflement. It’d be funny if Simon didn’t hate him so much- if Simon wasn’t feeling so panicky, for no reason. “No,” he says, slowly. Then- again - with the smooth face. “And I’m not hungry, thank you. Close the lid on your way out.”
Baz
At first, Baz was certain that he was dreaming. What else could it be? Simon Snow, actually here to rescue him? Inconceivable.
Then he realized he still hurts. So much. An unbelievable amount. Which means this is real. And by real, he means a fucking nightmare, because the only thing worse than being kidnapped by numpties is then getting rescued from them by the godforsaken Chosen One , like some wilting damsel in distress.
And he’s right there. Still. Staring at Baz with those stupid cornflower blue eyes, his mouth open (idiot) and his hands fidgeting (damned idiot).
“I mean it,” Baz informs him, because he does. He really would like nothing more than for Snow to close the coffin lid and leave, and then Baz can let himself out and crawl his way over to some payphone, and make Fiona pick him up, and then Baz never has to speak of this to Snow, ever again.
“...No,” Snow says, and it’s lucky for him Baz can’t move because otherwise he’d kill him.
“Right. No. Okay then, well, what do you propose? Killing me?” Baz asks, through the spike of useless fear at the thought of Simon Snow killing him (even after all these years).
Completely irrationally, Snow looks a little scared too. And like Baz just hit him.
Even if it’s news to him that Snow wouldn’t want to kill him, Baz knows this- knows how to keep pushing until Snow either goes away or blows up. As cruel as he can manage, even with the pain running up his arms and legs like electric shocks, he continues, “Go ahead. No, really. It would be easy. I can’t move on my own, and I don’t have the energy for spells. It’d be like shooting a fish in a barrel. Your magic is a disaster though, so I’d recommend the sword- ”
“You can’t move?” Snow cuts in. He looks somehow even more alarmed.
Damn it. That had the opposite effect Baz was hoping for. Usually he’s better than this. He curses his addled mind- living on an all-liquid iron-heavy diet will do that to even the best of them- and says, “I was being facetious. Just go away.”
“That’s not really what being facetious means…” Snow says, slow, confused.
“Oh, and you’d know that how?” Baz asks, tilting his head. Then he forces a laugh, even though his stomach tears itself up over the effort. “Oh, of course, Bunce. Well you can just tell her- ”
Fortunately, Baz is cut off from saying anything less than completely and utterly scathing by Snow reaching into the coffin and picking him up.
Unfortunately, every other part of that string of events.
Simon
Simon doesn’t really know what he’s doing. He hasn’t really known what he’s doing since…well, since Baz didn’t show up for school that first night. But now he really doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s sort of just…going with it.
As he lifts Baz out from the coffin- one arm under his back, the other under his legs- it occurs to him that Penny is probably worried sick about him. After he gets Baz some food, he should find a phone. Actually, considering how light Baz is, maybe they should find a phone first? Surely he needs medical attention.
Wait, what medical attention does a vampire even need?
Oh, shoot, vampire.
With some careful finagling- considering Simon has someone taller than him in his arms (and said someone is very, very unhappy about it)- he reaches up and pulls his necklace off, before stuffing it in his pocket instead. There, that should be good.
Baz has been hissing and spitting at him pretty much the whole time Simon has spent picking him up, but at that he goes quiet. “You are so fucking stupid,” he finally says, words carefully enunciated and icy enough to freeze over the whole world.
Simon doesn’t really let it bother him. He might very well be fucking stupid. He’s not sure. He doesn’t know what he is at all, in fact. Other than getting out of here.
Baz
Snow carries Baz out from under that bridge, hardly even struggling to climb up the hill leading into the nearest town. Baz spends the whole time planning out how he’s going to tear Snow limb-from-limb. He can, now, since Simon’s not wearing the cross and neither of them are protected by the Anathema.
Well, except for how Baz still can’t really move his own limbs without pins and needles shooting through him like red-hot spikes of pain. And how Snow is really, really warm.
Has he always been this warm? Baz imagined Snow probably ran hot- how could he not?- but it’s one thing to think and another to know . And he does know, now. Baz can feel Snow’s arms and chest through his clothes, and thinks he might be burning. It’s not taking Snow nearly enough work to haul Baz back into civilization, but he’s still breathing hard, short puffs of air that keep making Baz thinking thoughts. Thoughts such as: maybe if he can trip Snow at the exact right time, they might both fall backwards and break their necks and Baz will never have to think about what’s happening right now at this moment ever, ever again.
He closes his eyes for a moment to revel in that dream, and then opens them again when Simon is suddenly setting him down on some bench- way too gingerly for someone that hates him- and says, “Stay here. I’ll get you something to eat.”
Baz can’t muster up anything but a couple of baleful blinks in Snow’s direction. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep (in Simon Snow’s arms) but he had, apparently, fallen asleep (in Simon Snow’s arms). Long enough for Snow to get them all the way to a corner shop, bench and all. Who knows how long Baz was out for? All, all, curled up.
If anyone ever learns about any of this, Baz is lighting himself on fire and he’s taking out as much of the world as he can with him.
Simon
So, the main problem is that Penny had all the money.
Simon decides to worry about that when he gets to the checkout counter. For now, he works on gathering any and all food he thinks Baz might be able to stomach. He’s still mostly trying not to think, since he thinks he might crumble into a million pieces (he’s helping the enemy ! Why is he helping the enemy!) (Baz fits surprisingly nicely in his arms, for someone so tall) but he does need to turn his mind on a little bit for this. He grabs a loaf of plain white bread, and some water to wash it down.
He hesitates. Do vampires drink water? They do, right? Right. Simon remembers Baz drinking water when he plays football. So, yes. Water. Water and bread and…
He grabs a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Baz has a secret stash. He probably thinks Simon doesn’t know, but he does. There’s not a lot about people that goes unnoticed when they live together. Simon’s not so sure how the crisps are going to settle on an empty stomach, but he figures- well- if Baz was really in that coffin for six weeks, then he could use something…like these.
As Simon casually (not casually at all) heads for the door without looking at the cashier once, he thinks that there’s a chance Baz hasn’t been in that coffin for six weeks at all. That this is some kind of elaborate ploy to fuck with Simon.
Except Simon doesn’t think that’s it. Not with how Baz looks. Not with how light he was.
“Excuse me, sir,” the cashier says, just a beat too late, and Simon is out the door. The cashier shouts behind him, and he picks up the pace. He reaches Baz in three steps, shoves the food in his arms, and then picks him up again. Adrenaline is humming through his veins, so is magic. He’s never actually stolen anything before, and he’s getting lightheaded from the heady rush and fear. Even though he's faced down dragons and chimeras before, something about outright theft feels riskier than anything else.
Baz smacks him on the top of his head. “Put me down,” he demands, for what’s probably the twentieth time since Simon first picked him up.
“Can’t,” Simon says, already running out of breath from running. “We’ll be caught.”
Baz twists his head so he’s looking over Simon’s shoulder, then down at the food in his hands. “You- did you steal these?” His gaze lingers on the food, expression shifting. It’s as though he’s just now realized that he’s holding food. “Nevermind,” he says, and starts tearing the plastic wrapping the bread.
“Slow,” Simon says.
“I am not a child,” Baz says, hand covering his mouth, which is full of food. And…his cheeks look a little full, even with the bread. So…fangs, too?
Yes. Fangs.
Simon decides to watch where he’s running. It’s easier to get his words out this way, anyways. “I have experience with this stuff, okay?”
Baz pauses, halfway through his second slice. He’s looking at Simon, Simon can feel his gaze burning into his cheek. To Simon’s complete surprise, Baz pulls the slice of bread down. “Fine,” he mutters, so quiet Simon’s not sure he heard him correctly. Or at all.
Simon keeps running for a couple minutes longer, and then decides they’re not in any real danger of being run down by the police. What’s a single loaf of bread, some water, and some crisps, anyways?
“Phone,” Baz says, almost as soon as Simon slows.
“What?”
Baz points, and Simon follows the line to where there is indeed a payphone. “I don’t have- ” Simon starts.
“I’ll spell it,” Baz says. “Just…move.” He’s talking rather stiffly, but Simon elects to think that’s a good sign. The food is probably working. He’ll be better enough to go back to fighting in no time!
Simon does as Baz directs, but stops just shy of the phone. “Wait, should you be using magic?”
“Shut up,” Baz says. To Simon’s alarm he pushes out of Simon’s arms. He immediately falls over, except for how Simon manages to catch him, practically holding him up with two hands on his arms.
“Oaf,” Baz says, which…doesn’t actually make any sense. Simon wasn’t the one being clumsy just there. Still, he decides to let Baz have it, instead helping him the rest of the way into the booth. As he slips in behind Baz, Baz gives him a very unimpressed look. Simon pretends not to see it, continuing to hold Baz up so he can make the call. Not that it takes much effort now that Baz is practically leaning on top of him. What with the close quarters. And all.
Baz doesn’t smell like bergamot right now. He mostly smells like clay, and copper. He’s cool to the touch. Simon decided not to worry about that earlier, he’s not going to worry about that now. Except for how he’s a little worried about it.
Not because he wants Baz to be better, or anything. Because he doesn’t. Baz is the enemy. But- just- because.
“Are you going to call someone or what?” Simon asks, louder than he maybe meant.
Baz sends him one more Look, capital L, and then turns to the phone. He murmurs, “ Take a number ,” and then shudders so violently Simon momentarily thinks he’s dying. But no- it’d just been the spell rushing out of him. Still, as the phone rings, he somehow seems a whole shade greyer, and Simon can’t help but press in just the slightest bit more. If Baz notices, he doesn’t mention it. He just stands, and Simon just stands, and the phone just rings.