Archive of Our Own ^beta

Baz is pale. Paper pale. His dark eyelashes stand out like tiny stitches over the satin of his cheekbone. I touch it to make sure it's still there.

And to think that an hour ago, I was planning on breaking up with him.

"What's wrong with him?" I choke out.

"Mr. Grimm-Pitch has suffered a sudden amnesia," Dr. Wellbelove says. "Parts of his brain are still intact. He has the capacity to walk, speak, and do everything else. But someone cast a 'hard reset' on him."

"Why would they do that?" Tears bead on my lashes, and I can tell you, they don't look as poetic as Baz's do.

"I believe it was his cousin, Dev. He tells me he was aiming at his computer."

I knew I hated Dev for a reason.

Like, honestly. Hard reset? Why would someone even need a spell for that? It's in settings.

I'm deflecting. Or something.

Because the truth is that this is all scaring the living daylights out of me.

"So. What can I do?"

"Be patient with him. It should wear off."

"W—what?"

"I've cast 'back-up and restore.' It will take a while for his system to reboot—"

"He's not a computer!"

"—because his brain has essentially been wiped, leaving all of the development but none of the knowledge."

"So he won't recognize me?"

"He won't recognize anyone."

"But—but I'm his boyfriend," I say, feeble.

Or I think I am still.

He nods. "And he will be lucky to have you."

Dr. Wellbelove gives me a list of vitamins and a reminder that Baz has no memories of any of his life, then sends me on my way. Baz is still unconscious—apparently he's 'restarting'—so I lift him up so his legs are slung over my arm. He's so light, and it makes me a little sick, how vulnerable he looks. It makes me want to squeeze him and never let go. Which I won't do, because he looks so immensely fragile.

The tears finally fall as I'm entering the lobby. No one looks judgmentally up from their magazines. Everyone's probably used to people crying at a magkical hospital. Still… I drape Baz over my arms a little more securely and rush to the car. It's definitely not safe to use my wings where it's so over-populated. Otherwise I'd fly him straight home.

He flops over as I buckle him in, which just doesn't reassure me at all. I put him in the front with one arm around him, driving one-handed. It'll be fine. I was taught driving by the best, most competent person in the world.

I really am crying now.

I decide it's best to take Baz to his flat, especially since Fiona's away. Plus, mine's an utter disaster. I'm an utter disaster.

We get there all in one piece, and I detangle Baz from the seatbelt, pick him up, and walk into the flat. Baz decorated it for Halloween. It's very tasteful, very spooky, and very him. There are jack-o-lanterns grinning from the windowsills and delicate spiderwebs hanging from the lightbulbs. I sit Baz down on a couch, but as soon as I drop him, it's like a switch flips. His eyes pop open and he flinches. He falls off the couch, onto hands and knees, and scrambles beneath the coffee table faster than I can follow. It's a normal-sized coffee table, so even though Baz is curled up, you can still see his feet and his dark head poking out each end. He's plastered himself to the ground to fit.

"Baz," I say coaxingly, then remember he won't know his name. I try to get my voice out through built-up tears. "It's okay. Honest. It's—you're okay."

Then I remember a little bit from the deluge Dr. Wellbelove poured on me earlier. He has the capacity to talk and understand words. That doesn't mean he can yet.

"Baz…" I take a step closer, and he scrambles away, forgoing the cover of the coffee table to scurry behind the couch. Granted, it is a better hiding place. Objectively. Not that I want him to be hiding. Or scared of me. Ever.

I don't want to spook him, so I stay still. But I do start talking, hoping it will calm something in him that might still like the sound of my voice.

"I—Baz, I missed you so much today. I was just sitting here doing nothing because of my day off, and it was like—all I could think about. That's not an exaggeration either. You were just gone. And I know you're gone every day, but it still surprises me. It's still an injustice.

"I know you love your cousin. But you've got to agree with me now. I mean, you might hate him too, when you—"

I break off. Not just because the thought of Baz not remembering makes me ill, but because Baz has moved again in that display of preternatural grace he usually keeps from me. He's crouched much closer to me, having moved around the side of the couch. He's not within reach, though. His grey eyes are wide and childlike, nothing of my Baz in them. Still, it's him. It's my not-boyfriend, and I love him, no matter what. I still love him.

"Hi," I whisper, knuckling at my eyes to get rid of the tears. "I'm Simon."

We sit there like that for a few minutes. His gaze darts away shyly when I try to look at him, which isn't unlike how it used to when we were younger, and I'd catch him looking. But I keep myself smiling, non-threatening, not trying to grab him. After a while, he inches closer. He's fully rounded the couch now, and I can see that his hair is mussed from lying down. I want to reach out and touch it, but I keep myself very still, heart beating like mad. Will he run away again?

But no. He moves again, just a centimeter, but he's close. While I wait, he braves the last distance between us in a flash, hand reaching out to pat my knee before it withdraws quickly. He looks even more shocked, like he's just pulled off something exhilarating.

I smile down at him. "Hello," I try again, gentling my tone until it's little more than a brush of sound.

He peeks up at me. I reach forward, ever so slowly, and he shies back a little. I pull away, letting him make the next move. He looks uncertain, hands hanging limply. Then he reaches up, again putting a hand on my knee. Before he can pull away, I place mine atop his, so gentle and feather-light that he might not even feel it.

But he does. He looks up, and our eyes meet. Blue on gray. I offer him my other hand.

Instead of taking it, he leans down and examines it, the very tip of his nose brushing against my wrist. I'm not expecting it, so I burst out into a hysterical half-laugh. He doesn't flinch away, but looks up at me, his mouth in a perfect little O.

"Ha ha," he says after a moment, and it's his voice, but softer. Halting, unsure. A close mimic, but not quite—just like with my laugh.

Still, I grin at him and clap my hands. "You're a quick study. I knew you would be."

He regards me curiously, his head tilted to one side. I hold out my hands again, so he'll take them. "You hate being on the floor."

He inspects my hands like they're art pieces. Every groove, every notch of the knuckle, every tiny scrape—he turns them over with a sudden push, examining them again with renewed interest. I sit there and be patient like Dr. Wellbelove told me to do, even though I really don't need to try.

"They're my hands," I say, after a while. "You have them too."

Baz makes a small noise and touches my left hand with just the tips of his fingers. He must have been expecting me to pull away, because when I don't, he gawks at me again.

He does it again, but this time he holds on. I take his other hand and, very slowly, tug him toward me. He falls, legs slipping out from under him, and those wide, wounded eyes are back on me again. I can almost hear his incredulity.

"Sorry. Sorry, I'll help." I haul him up, bodily this time, and we manage to get him onto the couch. (By we, I mean me. He's flaily and limp, somehow at the same time). He's now seated with his back against the cushion, bending his head slightly so he can look at me.

"Is that better?" I say, a little hesitantly.

Baz squeezes his eyes shut and leans in to me in a sudden movement, again like he's going to get caught. When I don't pull away, he presses his face into the sleeve of my jacket and inhales.

I grin again, but manage to keep from laughing. He's cagey about it, but I know he likes the way I smell—he does have heightened vampire senses, which I'm sure puts scent more into focus than for the average person.

"It's because of that cologne you bought me. Or maybe because I eat too much butter."

He lifts his head so he can keep looking at me. His mouth moves in a few uncoordinated shapes, like he's puzzling over what to do with it. I take his hand again, because I can't help it.

"Uh," he says, looking down at where our hands are joined. I give his a little squeeze before turning gentle again, carefully holding him like he might break apart.

"I have to make dinner soon," I tell him. "I bet you haven't eaten all day."

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. I grin and click mine right back, which is astounding to him for whatever reason. He points at me.

"What?" I say.

He clicks his tongue. I click mine. He makes a happy little gasping sound and grips my hand. My heart feels like it's going to melt out of my ribcage and spill down to my toes. I never spent much time with babies, but I imagine it's something like this.

"Baz, I really do have to go now. You'll be alright, won't you?" I'm really not sure how to go about this. He clings to my hand as I try to extract it. I have to use my other hand to uncurl his fingers.

When I stand up, his gaze follows me, but he doesn't move. I walk into the kitchen, still with my eye on him, but he seems to be content just watching me. I start cooking, pulling steak and veggies from the fridge and setting the steak to fry. Baz makes a little sound behind me, and it wouldn't faze me, except he sounds distressed. When I turn, I see that he has blood dripping from his lip.

I curse under my breath. I'd looked away for two seconds. He points at me as I get closer, then at his mouth. He pulls his top lip back, and I only just manage to stop him before he touches his fangs. "Careful, love," I say softly. "Shh. It's okay."

There are tears pooling in his eyes. He's taking sharp, distressed little breaths.

It never occurs to me that he'll bite me. Maybe I should be more cautious, but he's so sweet, even like this. I know he wouldn't.

I brush my thumb gently over his lip, wiping away the blood. "It's just a little cut," I sooth. "It will go away."

His face is screwed up, and it breaks my heart seeing little teardrops clinging to the tip of his chin. "Shh," I say, holding his face still so he doesn't nick himself again. "It's just the smell of the meat. It's okay, it'll pass."

I go in front of him, grab his hands, and try to pull him up again. He gasps and stumbles into me, but I reach forward and put my arms around him, steadying him. "It's okay, Baz. It's okay. I've got you."

I edge us backwards, holding most of his weight. It feels like dancing. Tiny steps. He starts to get the hang of it, his feet tapping, his legs readjusting. I rub circles into his back, urging him forward. "Just another step," I say. "You're doing so well."

I guide him to the stool at our counter. He lets me sit him down, then reaches up and grips my arm.

I smile down at him. "Just another minute, yeah? I can't do magic like you. Gotta do it by hand, so we can have something to eat."

He, of course, doesn't understand, but eventually lets me pull away. I'm well within eyesight, and I keep watching him as I finish cooking everything. Soon I have a heaving plate of steak, potatoes, and salad for him. I sit next to him and feed him forkfuls.

His eyes are back to being huge as he looks between me and the food. I can't keep a straight face. "Is it good?"

He points at me. Then at the food.

"Mm-hmm," I say. "Later, I'm going to remind you that you told me I'm a good cook."

Except. Later we'll be back to the way we were. And that's… I don't want that.

After that's done, I eat my own plateful. Baz watches me, and I half-expect him to try and take some of mine, but he waits, patient and attentive, watching me as I finish eating.

He's still Baz. There's something about him, something you can't replicate. An essence. And I thought—I feared—that it'd be gone. But it's here. He's here with me.

I have to blink back tears again. I take our plates to the sink and wash them, looking up at the sound of scuffling. Baz is attempting to stumble to his feet, clinging to a chair. His legs have the strength, but I imagine everything feels weird and new to him right now. I open the fridge and pull out a carton of blood for him. I convinced him that the butcher's was a much more viable option after our road trip. I'm not sure why he still listens to me, but in any case, there's a good amount of blood here that he must've bought recently.

When I pull out the blood, Baz's head snaps up, and he falls back into the chair. It seems I'm never going to stop surprising him.

I step closer, the first sign of worry that he might lunge and grab the carton from me creeping up. But he doesn't. He's very still as I sit down beside him and hold it out.

He peeks into it. Then he leans down and sniffs it.

"Is it to your liking?" I say lightly, which is only funny because he lived off rat blood for three-plus years.

He reaches out for it, but falters, looking at me. I have no idea why. It's like he wants to make me cry.

"It's for you," I manage. "It's okay. You can have it."

He points at me.

"Oh all right." I hold his face still and tip the carton to his lips. A little of it spills out and dribbles down his chin, because I'm a dunce and forgot he can't remember how to drink. But once I gently pry his lips open, he gets the hang of it. Soon the carton is gone.

I wipe the excess from his chin—hopefully this will be the last time—and, on impulse, wrap my arm around him. He huffs out a breath, almost soundless, and holds very still while I hold him. "Bedtime," I murmur.

I get him dressed and ready without a hitch. His fangs have retreated, so I can brush his teeth—because he'd kill me if I didn't. Please, let him have the presence of mind soon to think about things like brushing his teeth.

He spends most of the time looking at me and pointing, and doesn't fuss as I guide him into his bedroom. I help him into bed—he's wobbly still—and pull the blankets to his chin the way he likes. He runs his fingers over the comforter.

"Good night," I say softly, turning to head for the door. But I'm stopped by a distressed noise behind me.

I turn. Baz has pushed himself up on his hands, turning to pin me with a wide-eyed gaze.

"I was just gonna sleep on the couch," I say, though why I'm defending my choices to him when he can't even understand me is still a mystery.

He climbs out of bed again, wobbles across the room, and grips both of my arms.

Okay. I get the message. The bed's big enough anyway.

I gently pry his fingers from my arms, then help him back to the bed, climbing in on the other side. He looks up at me, astonished again.

"I'm still here," I say weakly, a little laugh breaking out of me.

He reaches out and touches my face. His fingers are clumsy, but thankfully, he manages not to poke my eye out. He seems fascinated by my forehead.

"It's bedtime," I say feebly, but Baz doesn't understand the concept. He traces down my eyebrows, past my eyes, down my cheekbone, and onto my chin. His finger taps a little bit, absent.

"There was no need to do the hard reset," I say sulkily into the pillow. "The computer was probably fine."

Baz withdraws his finger. It was getting squished under my face.

"Why was he even on his computer? You're such good company."

Baz huffs a long sigh.

"That's what I'm wondering," I say, perfunctory. "That's what's bothering me."

Baz 'hmmm's.

"I love you," I whisper. Because I can say it like this. To myself, practically.

When I look up, Baz's eyes are closed. He's breathing deeply.

It takes me much longer to join him.

…

I wake up early with a little jolt. Baz has to be back, right?

I look over and realize I've starfished out and covered basically the entire bed, owing to my wings and tail. I can tell immediately that Baz is still… reset, because he's not sleeping like he'd normally do early in the morning. He's hanging off the edge of the bed, eyes wide (as per usual), watching my wings and tail.

"Oh. Baz I'm so sorry." I slide out of bed and walk around the other side. He curls in on himself, scooting a little farther toward the edge of the bed. I stand in front of him, then kneel and meet his eyes.

"It's still me," I say. "Do you remember? The wings and tail are just. You know. Add-ons. They aren't gonna hurt you."

My tail, evidently trying to be helpful, snakes around Baz's wrist. He gasps a little, but after a moment, reaches tentatively forward to touch it. The tail's spade thumps against the bed happily, and I'm shocked when I see the corners of Baz's mouth come up.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Baz shivers. His shoulders are up by his ears. I guess not.

I go back around the bed and turn my back to him. My wings unfurl and, very slowly, wrap around him.

I'm frozen for a moment, waiting to see if he'll cry or run away. But instead, he lets out a shaky breath, all the tension bleeding from his shoulders, and I feel his cold hand settle heavily on top of my wing. I smile.

I shouldn't have been separating them in my mind. This is my Baz. He likes all the same things. He gets cold at night, and hates the dark, and likes my wings. Nothing could strip him of his nature.

Maybe this is a chance for me to understand him even better.

Baz falls back asleep, and I wait until it's a more reasonable hour before peeling myself out of bed, ever-so-carefully, and—

Yes. I still wake him. He looks at me, and his eyes are still so intense. Like he's trying to puzzle something out.

"Breakfast," I say shakily, and get out of bed. "You can stay here."

It's a small flat. I'll be able to hear if he says something.

It doesn't take me long before I've got his tea made just the way he likes it, a plate of eggs and bacon for each of us, and some water with the vitamins Dr. Wellbelove wanted him to take. (Even amnesiac vampires need them, I guess).

I walk back into our room, balancing everything on a tray, just in time to hear Baz say, "Oh!"

Worried it's his fangs again, I plop the tray down on the bedside table and rush over, only to see him gazing into the mirror, where a perfect replica of him is gazing back.

I can't help a huge smile. "Baz, it's you," I say.

He reaches up to touch the mirror. "You?" he says, quiet. I didn't expect him to mimic me in words yet, so I flinch a little.

"Yeah. It's you. You're Baz."

"You're Baz."

"No, I'm Simon."

"I'm Simon," he says thoughtfully, and I laugh a little bit, unable to resist the urge to wrap my arm around him. He leans his head on my shoulder, then pops up again, startled to see that I've now joined him in the mirror.

"Let me start over," I say, then point to him. "Baz."

"Baz," he echoes, stumbling a little over the z.

"Simon," I say, pointing to myself.

"Simon."

"Baz." I point to him in the mirror. Then to my reflection. "Simon."

He looks between me and my reflection, gauging our similarities, before breaking into a huge smile. "Simon!"

"Good." I clap my hands again, strangely proud of him, and wrap my arm gently around him again. He surprises me by turning to face me, throwing out his arms, and squeezing me tight. It feels like he's maybe using his vampire strength, and I wait for the icky feeling that usually comes with him touching me these days. But it doesn't come. I like how he's holding me, almost lifting me off the ground, his head nestled between my shoulder and chin. I touch his hair, tenderly, and he hums. The sound vibrates into my throat. That's how close we are.

He looks over at the food and drops me, startled. I realize it's because his fangs have dropped.

"That's okay," I say, taking his hand. "It's alright. Those are add-ons too."

I guide him back to the bed, and we eat breakfast together.

When I pull out his shirt to get him dressed, he takes it from me and does it himself. The buttons are all wrong, but I let him keep them that way, because I don't have the heart to tell him.

We walk into the living room. Baz's sofa is not as good as mine, but I reckon that's because Baz never lounges uselessly like I do. He studies and things.

Baz still likes to hold onto me when he walks, but he doesn't let go as we sit down, his grip tight on my hand. He regards me expectantly, eagerness taking up all the space that fear had inhabited the day before.

"What… do you want to do?" I say, more to myself. "Watch telly? I bet you don't even have—never mind. Um—"

"Simon." His voice—my name—startles me. He's saying it like he's just discovered it. Which I guess he has.

"Yes?"

"Yes?" He tilts his head. Then points at me. "Simon." At himself. "Baz."

I realize he's asking me what 'yes' means—or really, for anything else to put meaning to. I should have known he'd want words as soon as possible. His eyes—I couldn't place it before. They aren't just wondering and wide, there's a desperation there. A thirst for knowledge and understanding and something to cling to.

He has me. I guess it'll have to be enough.

But I don't know how to teach him.

I try nonetheless.

He says my name again. "Simon."

"Yes?" I say back. Predictable. Prompt. He does it again, and so do I. Soon, I decide to see if he understands.

"Baz." I look at him.

Cautious, he looks back. "Y—yes?"

"Good." I smile. Clap my hands. "That's it."

He smiles back. Shy and tiny and ginger, but a smile none the less.

I think about what else to teach him, and I guess the logical next step works well enough.

But I'm not sure if he even knows what he wants. Which would mean he can neither say yes or no to anything.

"Simon," he says, insistent, and I laugh a little.

"Yes. Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Never mind." I wave it away. "Let's start again."

"Again," he says, careful.

This word, I might be able to teach.

I hold out my hand to show him, then cross and uncross my fingers repeatedly. "Again. Again. Again," I say as I do it. Baz watches me, rapt, until I stop.

He points at me, crossing and uncrossing his fingers. "Baz," I say gently.

"Yes," he says, pointing at me more insistently.

I don't answer, and now it's my turn to look at him expectantly. I make a point of waiting, holding my hand very still.

He pouts for a moment, as if unsure why I don't understand him. Then his eyes light up. "Again!" he shouts, and I burst into laughter, crossing and uncrossing my fingers. But I have to show him it's about more than just this one action. I'm worried he'll associate 'again' too specifically, so I wrap him in a hug. "Good job," I murmur, then abruptly pull back.

He looks deeply affronted, pointing at me and gesturing for me to hug him, but I shake my head. "You've got to put it into words, love."

He studies me for a long moment before a lightbulb clicks on. "Oh. Again again again," he says quickly, the words spilling over each other. I'm happy to oblige, giving him a hug.

"Good job, Baz," I say into his chest. He doesn't let go of me for a long moment, but finally remembers he'd much rather be learning words and pulls back.

I hold up my fingers, wiggling them a little. "Fingers," I say.

He repeats the word, stumbling over it a little.

"Simon's fingers." I wave them, then take Baz's hand, holding it up right next to mine. "Baz's fingers."

His eyes widen, and he grabs my hand, seemingly shocked at the fact that we both have the same make-up. He's full-on smiling as I teach him more words. Nose, ears, arms.

I open my mouth wide, touching my teeth. I have to close it again to talk. "Teeth. Simon's teeth."

Carefully, I lift Baz's chin and point at his teeth. "Baz's teeth." Then I point at where his fangs have popped, probably because he's thinking about them. "Baz's fangs."

Baz reaches for my mouth suddenly, with none of the grace or demureness of his regular self, which makes me smile. But all that melts away as he pulls back my lip and says, "Simon's fangs?"

"Oh. No, I don't—" I shake my head, gently pulling away. "I don't have fangs."

He looks completely devastated, whether from me pulling away or from the fact that I don't have fangs, I can't quite tell. Either way, I quickly pull him to my chest, rocking us back and forth. "Shh shh, that's okay. It's okay, Baz."

"Yes?" he says tearily, and I smile, reaching down to wipe his face.

"It's okay. See, we both have hair."

But this does nothing to soothe him. He looks exhausted and heartbroken, clinging to my sleeves and crying silently. I just hold him, confused and hoping that I'll be able to ask him what's wrong later, when we both have the words.

"It's time for lunch," I say gently, standing us both up and sitting Baz at his stool. He takes a few shuddering breaths and lets go of me when I prompt him.

I wonder if he's ever emotional like this normally. I've seen him cry, but… this is different. I've a creeping feeling that he's been hiding this side of him from me. Maybe it doesn't exist at all. I don't know.

I make us soup, sit next to him, and go to put the spoon to his lips, but he takes it from me. He ends up spilling some back into the bowl, but in my opinion, that's the soup's fault. It shouldn't be so sloshy.

After a moment, he makes a face. "What? What is it?" I look at him, worried.

He spits something out and holds it out in the spoon. It's a mushroom.

"You… don't like it?" I say, hesitant.

Then I do a little charades. Holding up a mushroom, I stick it in my mouth and swallow, smiling exaggeratedly. "Mmm. Like."

"Like," he echoes.

Then I scoop up another mushroom and spit it out. "Don't like."

"Don't like," he says. I repeat the same thing with a piece of chicken, and he gets that lightbulb look in his eyes.

He points at me. "Like. Like Simon," he says.

And here I am crying again. But I can't stop smiling. "Yeah. Yeah, Baz, that's how you—that's right."

I hug him, and he sighs, resting his head on my shoulder.

After a moment, his face falls into a scowl, like he's remembering something unpleasant. "Don't like fangs," he mumbles.

"Oh, sweetheart." I pull him closer, kissing the top of his head. "Baby."

I rarely use pet names with him, because I'm self-conscious about it, but I can't help myself now. "I like Baz's fangs," I say staunchly.

Baz blinks at me, and I feel stupid for not teaching him this. "Sorry. I." I press a hand to my chest, and he copies it, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Simon. I." I tap my chest, then wait.

"Baz," he says, hesitant. "I."

"Yes! Good!" I smile, then lift his chin. "So. I, Simon. I like your—Baz's—fangs."

It takes him a moment, but I can tell he understands. His face curls into a hesitant smile.

"Again," he whispers.

My heart clenches. I take his hand. "Baz. I like your fangs."

A tear rolls down his cheek. He holds out his arms, and I hug him tight.

I realize it doesn't matter how terrible a boyfriend I am. I can't leave him, not if he doesn't want me to.

He reaches out and taps my wing. "I like."

I can't help but laugh, tearfully, for a long, long time.

Baz looks at me like I'm crazy. But I couldn't stop if I wanted to.

I loop my fingers through Baz's, and we stand up together, walking through the kitchen toward the sink. I set about scrubbing the dishes, using soap until the metal squeaks beneath my fingers. Baz rests his cool chin on my shoulder, watching me intently.

"Hands," he says, waving them in front of my face.

"Oh," I say. "You want… okay, that's a good idea."

I switch with him, leaning him against the sink while I stand behind him and take his arms. I show him the soap, and soon he's smiling as he rubs his hands together, filling the sink with bubbles. I dry them with a soft towel, and he turns that soft smile to me.

I wrack my brain for what we can do as I walk him back to the sofa. I'm sort of running out of ideas here. I think about what I might want if I were in his position. I know I always wanted someone to read to me when I was little, and Baz loves books. But I bet he only has Dostoevsky and Chekhov and Crowley. Which, not only will I have a hard time reading them, but Baz won't understand.

"Oh I know!" I pull out my phone. "I'll call Penny."

Baz leans into my side, his presence cool and comforting and weighty. I never knew he was this affectionate. I mean, sometimes he would—

But I guess I didn't—

Maybe he's changed.

I dial Penny's number, and she picks up on the first ring. "Pen. Hey. Um. There's been a—situation."

That's when I start crying. Again.

"Simon? Do you want me to come over?"

"No! I mean, yes, but—I'm not over there. I n—need a favor."

"Don't worry about it. Simon. Seriously. It's not a burden for me to help you."

Her voice is so calm. I take shuddering, hiccuping breaths, trying to calm down.

"Baz is—he's, like. Well, you'll see. He's not hurt, but he needs me to take care of him for a while."

"What happened? Simon—"

"You just have to come see for yourself. But I need books with pictures. Baby books, maybe, but also—"

"Simon. Is Basil a baby?"

"No! No, he's—he's an adult still. But. Yeah. Anything with pictures. Maybe comics or graphic novels too."

"I'll be right there."

When I hang up and look over at Baz again, I'm shocked to see that he's glaring at me. I haven't seen that expression in a minute, so it sort of unravels me. Like a cold snap when you thought it was finally Summertime.

"Baz, what…" I trail off. "Oh."

It's much easier to read him now. I don't know why I didn't see it before.

Maybe this was always being shielded by a sneer.

Maybe he always wanted—

I pull him in so his back rests against my chest, gently running my fingers through his hair while I hug him from the other side. He relaxes instantly, all the unhappiness melting from his face, and his head flops back onto my shoulder. I kiss the top of his head, unable to help it.

"I'm sorry, love. You're scared and alone, and here I am ignoring you, and you don't even know what's going on half the time—" I take a slow breath. Baz regards me with interest. His fascination with my face has evidently returned, because he reaches up and pokes my cheek.

"Simon."

"Yes?"

He gets distracted tugging at my skin, watching it bounce back. I go into a kind of daze as he draws nonsense patterns across my cheekbone, walking his finger up and down like a tiny insect. It's sweet. He is.

The door bursts open and Baz startles. He does actually poke me in the eye this time, but I really don't care. I'm busy comforting him. "It's okay, love. Baz. It's just Penny."

He hides his face in my shirt, and I hear him breathing, fast and trembling.

"What… what's wrong with him?" Penny says from the doorway. She has so many books. Like, an ungodly amount of books.

"He's…" I twirl a lock of his hair gently around my finger. "He's kind of forgotten everything. Like, how to be a person. So I. I've been helping him."

Understatement. I've been undergoing a transformation right along with him.

"But—how does that work?"

"He's got his intelligence still. He just—in his mind, he's never done any of this before. Never talked or anything."

"How did this happen?" she says. "Did he hit his head?"

"No. It was a rogue spell. Hard reset."

She scoffs. "What idiot would—"

"Dev Grimm."

"Oh. Well, that tracks. How long until he's back to himself?"

"I—I don't know. Hopefully soon. But I don't want him to be bored. That's why I asked for the books."

"Simon, I'm so sorry. Has everything been alright?" She takes a step closer, stack of books teetering in her arms.

"He's—we've been okay," I say, my voice shaking a little.

Penny's eyes stray to the top of Baz's head. "Basil?"

"He doesn't—you have to say his nickname. His other one."

"Baz?"

He peeks up at her from the refuge of my arms, his gray eyes dipping shyly between long lashes. He notices the books in her hands and points.

"He does a lot of that," I say with a small smile. "I've been trying to teach him words. But I thought the books might help."

"They will." Penny steps closer, slowly, then rests the stack on the coffee table. "Immersion makes a big difference. What does he know?"

"Simon," he says, right on cue, pointing at the books.

I laugh. "You want them?"

He blinks at me. Then his gaze strays to Penny.

"I…" He wavers, uncertain, his gaze flitting back and forth between us.

"It's okay, Pen. I can handle it."

"Of course you can." Penny rounds the couch and ruffles my hair. "He'll… be back, won't he?"

"It's still Baz," I say. "He's the same person."

She must see something in my expression, one of those things that everyone else can clearly notice about me that I can't. Then she wraps me in a hug. "Call me. Text me. Just… keep in touch, yes?"

"Okay. Love you."

She smiles at me and leaves us alone again.

Baz follows her with his eyes until the door closes behind her.

"Okay." I feel calmer after Penny's visit, exhaling slowly. I hope Baz will like the books. I reach forward and spread them out so he can see the covers.

"Baz. Which one do you like?"

He slowly eases himself out of my arms, running a hand over the spines of the books. He looks back at me, uncertain.

"Go on. Choose one you like."

He picks a Dr. Seuss book. Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You?

I pull him back onto the sofa and begin to read, showing him the pictures as I go.

"Oh, the wonderful things Mr.
Brown can do…"

It's scary at first, but soon I get the hang of it. It's actually rather fun, doing the voices and listening as Baz happily mimics me.

"He can go like a cork—pop, pop, pop, pop!"

"Pop," Baz echoes, obviously delighted at the way the word pings off his tongue.

"He can go like horse feet, klopp, klopp, klopp."

I click my tongue, and he makes that happy gasping sound again, clicking his tongue back.

"He can go eek, eek, like a squeaky shoe! He can go like a rooster, cock-a-doodle doo!"

He stares at me in shock for a beat, probably because I'm practically shouting. Then he bursts into laughter. It's his real laugh, not the cruel one he used to practice in the mirror—melodic, quiet, and breathless. I missed that laugh. I didn't know how much.

Encouraged, I continue. "He can go like an owl, hoo, hoo, hoo!"

Baz copies the shape of my mouth, brow puckered in concentration, as if this is the most serious tutelage he's ever undergone.

"Mr. Brown can whisper, whisper, very soft, very high—like the soft, soft whisper of a butterfly."

"Whisper," Baz says, and he's much better at whispering than I am. I smile at him, turning the page.

"He can go like a clock, he can tick, he can tock." I know I certainly can't do that. "He can go like a hand on the door, knock, knock."

I rap my fist against the wood of the coffee table, and his mouth falls open again. This time I think it's because I made a sound without using my voice.

"You can do that, too," I say, putting down the book and taking his hand. He curls it into a fist and bangs it against the table, and I have to agree it's a very satisfying sound. He looks so pleased, his eyes twinkling, and all I can think is that I wish he were this happy all the time. I know how to make this version of him smile, but I don't know about the other version.

We read what feels like a hundred books, and I pause as I go to teach him a few words. The pictures help. I never get tired of reading to him, not only because I like the silliness of it, but also because he loves it so much. His attention hasn't faltered once, and more often than not he's looking at me instead of the pictures.

We're in the middle of reading Dragonvine when he points at the dragon's wings and whispers excitedly, "Simon!"

"Yes. Those're wings."

He reaches out to touch my wing, and it unfurls like a banner and drapes over him. He lets out a long sigh and blinks sleepily up at me, pointing between me and the book.

"Yeah! It's the same."

"Same." He draws out the word, pondering. "Baz, Simon, same?"

"Uh… I don't know."

He gives me a Look, not moving from his position beneath my wing.

"I—no. We aren't the same."

"I—like—" He takes a breath, hands fluttering ineffectively between gestures.

"Oh." I squeeze his shoulder. "You want us—" I show him what I mean by pointing, "—to be the same?"

"Yes."

"But I like you. Remember?"

"Remember?"

"It's—uh, never mind. Don't worry about it yet." I bend my head again so I'm looking at him. "I like you. Baz. I like that we're not the same."

"No." He shakes his head. "No I—Simon."

I bite my lip, watching helplessly as his face grows more and more dismayed. Then an idea strikes me. "Here." I place the dragon book into his hands. "Show me?"

Apparently, he doesn't need more explanation than that. His eyes light up, and he starts flipping quickly through the book, trying to find a picture—or I hope that's what he's doing. Maybe I've distracted him accidentally. He puts down the dragon book and grabs the next one, examining it with just as much gusto. Finally, he says, "Ah!" and shoves a book into my hands. Coincidentally enough, it's Heartstopper: Volume One. Nick and Charlie are holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes, surrounded by fanciful bubbles and hearts.

"Oh." I feel like the breath has been knocked out of me. "Oh. Do you mean 'together?'"

I pull my wings in so they're touching, then press my palms against each other, too. "Together?" Then I wrap Baz in a hug, leaning the side of my head against his. "Together? Like this?"

His eyes have never looked so bright. He nods and nods. "Yes, yes I like us together," he says all in one breath.

It's the first full, coherent sentence he's managed. My throat constricts. "I like that too, Baz. So much. I like being together."

His face morphs from ecstatic to concerned as he lays his palm against my cheek. I realize I'm crying. "Oh no, I'm fine. I'm happy. Just… Baz."

"Yes?"

I smile at him. "I like you a lot. Remember that, okay?"

"Remember." He rolls the word around, like a mint on his tongue. Then his arm tightens around me. "Okay."

…

We tear our way through the rest of the books, and by then it's mid-afternoon. When I flip the back cover closed on the last one, Baz nudges my side with his elbow. "Again?" he says politely, and Merlin, he's polite, of all things, even in this state. I feel as if I'm seeing him past the mask that settled so tightly over his face during school, and the bare bones of him are made of sweetness and wonder and love, and why am I surprised?

"My voice is shot," I confess. "But I know what else we can do."

I open up my phone. Baz and I share a Spotify account, and our playlists are a patchwork of different genres, almost too chaotic to parse. But Baz has got them all organized by the most hyper-specific of moods.

Since I don't know what Baz will like at this moment, I pick my usual: shuffling the entire library. The first song that comes on is one of Baz's classical ones. This one, even I recognize.

"It's called Claire De Lune," I tell him softly. "You'd pronounce it better, I'm sure."

His fingers tap along the edge of his denim trousers, counting out the notes. His body seems to swoon into the music, his knees bouncing with the rhythm, his head tipping back. I've never seen him this loose and happy. He keeps looking at me, eyes a little misty. I take his hand hesitantly.

"You always—I mean, you never made a big deal of it. But you were always ace at violin."

The next one is something sad from Sleeping At Last. It tugs at my heartstrings, but I keep myself from crying. Baz is staring contemplatively into space, his mouth slightly open.

Sleeping At Last fades into Bohemian Rhapsody, which is just as well because I really was on the verge of tears again, thinking about Baz. Queen would never make me cry like that.

(Not that I hate Sleeping At Last. Just—Baz's music has no right being so melancholy!)

Baz begins humming along on the second verse. Maybe it helps that I'm fully bopping to the beat now as well. By the operatic part, he's spellbound.

"Simon, again," he says as the outro fades out. I grin and skip back to the beginning.

We listen to Bohemian Rhapsody eight times. I'm never going to get tired of it. It's a masterpiece. I think part of me loves it so much, listens to it so much, because I want to override its associations with the Mage. I want this song to be for me and me only. I don't want anyone to have the satisfaction of ruining it for me.

It's for Baz and me both now. By the ninth time, he's starting to sing in his soft, smooth, understated voice—and he gets a surprising amount of the words completely wrong. Probably because he has no grasp of what they should be. Still, I wonder if that's something he does on a normal day, when he's not being backed up and restored. Does he dance like this when no one's watching? I know he sucks his fangs. I know he taps his fingers. But now there are myriad moments I realize I've been missing.

"Beelzebub has a devil for a son for me," he sings to himself, and I can't help it; I burst into laughter.

He looks at me, and his gaze is flat. Unimpressed. "I'm not making fun of you!" I say quickly. "Just—I didn't know Beelzebub had a devilish son. Guess it makes sense—"

Maybe it's hysteria. Maybe it's leftover jet lag. But I can't stop giggling.

"So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye!" Baz sings, his voice growing louder and more confident. He's looking at me, singing with me.

I remember what he said, that he likes us together. I sing with him, even though my voice is terrible when it hasn't just read what had to be a hundred pages, plus funny voices.

"So you think you can love me and leave me to die!"

Baz stares at me, frozen, before his face splits into that lovely grin. "Oh, baby!" I crow, sweeping him up in my arms and dancing him around the living room. "Can't do this to me, baby!"

"Just gotta get out," we sing together, narrowly avoiding a collision with a wall. "Just gotta get right out of he-re."

Baz's eyes are aglow. He's looking at me, fingers curling and uncurling on the sleeve of my shirt, mouth moving but no sound coming out. He looks like there's so much he wants to tell me. But all he can say is "Simon."

"I know. It's a good song, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes." The frustration has fled from his face, and he's smiling again. He likes that I understood him. I like it, too—an indescribable amount.

"Dinner then bed?" I pivot us into the kitchen. He's gone boneless suddenly, tired. His head hits my shoulder.

I guide us to a chair. Sit him down. He's clinging to me, and this time I can't extract myself. "I don't like," he mumbles.

I kiss his curls. "I know you don't need food as often, but I do have to eat. Do you want to go to bed first? I can order in."

"Hmm." He's twisted in the chair so he can hold me tighter, and look at me.

"Okay. Okay I'll just—" I haul him up again, and we're back to the couch, where it's comfy. He points at my phone.

"Music?" I say.

"Music."

He's heavy, sprawling his legs out onto the couch, his head dragging down toward his chest. I pat my shoulder, and he slumps into me. His eyes fall closed, and he whistles out a breath through his nose.

I play something classical again. Vivaldi this time, so he knows what a violin sounds like. I don't think he hears it, really—he's droopy and slack on the couch, slipping slowly toward gravity's pull. I smile fondly, pushing a dark strand from his face.

This all makes me wonder. Will Baz love me still when he returns? Will he want to cuddle on the couch? Will he look at me with sad eyes until I hold his hand, and then will he never let me go?

I want him not to. I want him here with me, but I've never had the things I wanted. I've never had time for them, and after Eighth Year, I wasn't good enough for them. Still feel like I'm not.

But maybe I could learn how to want things. And ask for them. And have them.

If Baz still wants to be pressed into my side, warm and safe, then I imagine it won't be as hard.

…

The next morning brings a surprising coldness. The chill from outside seeps into the foundations of the house, through the cracks and into the vents. I hope they don't infiltrate the blanket shield I made for Baz.

I got up early (well, earlier than usual) to bake scones for us. They're cooling on the counter by the time Baz pads out of the hallway.

I know immediately he's still not been restored, not only because he stumbles a little when he walks, but also because he's shivering with his shoulders curled inward, huddling into the jumper I lent him. My Baz would never relinquish his posture so easily.

He spots me almost immediately and lights up, leaving behind whatever had made him look so sad and lost before. He crosses the kitchen in quick, unsteady steps, standing beside me at the counter. "He-llo," he says hesitantly, quickly looking up at me as if for confirmation.

I grin. "You remembered! Hello!"

He reaches out for my hand, and I give it a quick squeeze. "One minute, okay? I'm making tea."

As I fill the kettle with water and set it to boil, Baz watches me shyly, his gaze occasionally straying to take in the rest of the kitchen.

I chatter aimlessly about everything and nothing while I fill our plates. How I can't get my wings to behave themselves. How I like the idea of soft blankets, but don't like being hot. Baz swirls his finger in a leftover dusting of salt on the table in front of him. I finally settle next to him with two mugs of tea, a heaping plate of scones, and some fried potatoes.

Baz stumbles into a sentence. "It… you like break-fast?"

I laugh a little, partly because he's got my accent instead of his own. "Yeah. I love it. Do you like it?"

His fork scrapes against the plate, and he chews his lip. "I like… you like—" He breaks off, shaking his head, grasping for something I haven't yet taught him.

I brush my fingers over his wrist as I grab the sugar for my tea. "S'okay. Keep going. You've got it." I exaggerate the encouraging tinge of my tone, so he can tell what I'm trying to convey without knowing the words.

"You like breakfast," he says slowly, carefully. "I—don't like it. I like…"

"When?" I prompt.

"I like when you have happy."

"Oh." I smile. "I understand. That's how I feel sometimes, too. I actually don't love to read—you know, words?"

He nods.

"But you like it. So I like it."

"Yes." He smiles, then his eyes darken again. "I don't like when I—have no words."

My heart sinks. "I know. I know, love."

"Why?" His voice breaks a little, and he stares down at his near-untouched food.

I hold his hand again, abandoning my food. "You'll have words again," I say. "I promise."

He nods. Then he pulls his salt-stained fingers away and dunks them in his teacup.

I choke on a laugh. "Baz, what are you doing?"

"Hands," he says, like it's obvious.

"Okay, yes, but." I point at the sink. "Why not that?"

He blinks at me. Sighs. "It's same."

I pretend to have a coughing fit so I can get myself under control, then look up at him again. "No, love. It's not. See?" I lift up my cup. "Tea."

"Tea," he mumbles.

I point to his water glass. "Water."

"But you—" He begins gesturing emphatically, and he's a terrible mime. But I think I get the picture.

"I put the water in the tea? Earlier?" I gesture at the pot.

He nods, lip jutting out in a disbelieving pout.

"But I put other things in." I pull the teabag from my mug. "Like this."

He keeps right on frowning.

"See? They taste different." I sip dramatically from my cup.

And though he looks supremely unhappy about it, he follows suit. After drinking from both glass and cup, he mumbles, "Okay."

I smile. We've had these types of arguments at school, but never over something so mundane. Plus, usually I'm the one who has to be taught something that Baz thinks is oh-so-obvious. I think maybe it's just a part of being in extended proximity with someone.

"It's okay." I give him the peace offering of a smile. "Go wash the tea off your hands, maybe?"

He huffs, but evidently the tackiness of his hands overrides his emotions. He swings his legs to the side, stands, and walks to the sink.

He's halfway through turning on the faucet when he collapses.

I'm not fast enough. He bangs his chin on the sink's metal lip before I manage to heave him up into my arms. He's completely unresponsive. I ring Dr. Wellbelove.

"Baz passed out!" I say in one breath before he gets a greeting out.

We go through some questions, then switch to FaceTime so he can see Baz's condition. After fact-checking, Dr. Wellbelove smiles.

"This is good. It means the last stage of the spell is almost complete. He should be back with you in no time."

"But…"

"Please be sure to ask him some basic questions," he says kindly. "Just to make sure his memory is sound."

I sink onto the couch, Baz in my arms. "Will he… are you sure he'll be okay?"

"I promise that if there are complications, I will be right over. We'll make sure he fully regains his memories."

Baz stirs, an unhappy line forming between his brows. I start to shake. "I have to go," I whisper.

I press the 'end call' button just as Baz opens his eyes.

I know instantly it's him. The full version of him—every nuance, every facet, fully restored.

It's in the brief moment of wide-eyed confusion. The shuddering breath he lets out. The instinctual fist he makes with his fingers.

"Simon?" he says.

I burst into tears and wrap him up in a hug.

"Darling, breathe. Breathe," he murmurs, and his elocution is flawless. His voice is sure.

I touch his face, his hair. "I was so scared I'd—mess everything up—I thought you'd be gone—"

"Listen to my voice," he says, coaxingly. "Breathe with me. I'm all right. I'm all right."

"You r—remember everything?"

"I do hope so. I don't think I would know if I forgot something."

I laugh weakly, pushing at his chest. His hands are hovering uncertainly above me, just like they used to before all this happened. Like he doesn't want to touch me.

I swallow. "I meant… do you remember the last two days?"

"Listening to 'Bohemian Rhapsody' a grand total of eight times? Telling you I wanted us to be Nick and Charlie? Washing my hands in a mug of tea? Does all that sound right?"

I bury my face in his chest, overcome with a thousand different shades of the same emotion.

We laugh together for an amount of time that asks for no label or number. It passes and passes and doesn't try to take us away from each other.

I look up at him. I don't know how to ask this question.

"Do you still…" I swallow. "I don't want you to be tied down. Here with me. I know it's different now—"

His gaze goes tender. "Is this about the trip?"

"It's about everything."

"All right." He stares down at my hand for a moment before shyly taking it. A zing of rightness dances up my spine. "If that's all it is."

"Yeah. Just everything."

He smiles, but it's gone all too quickly. "There's been a misunderstanding, I think. Not that I'm surprised. We've been speaking in code for eight years.

"I can't describe to you what it was like, losing all of my memories. My mind was racing. It was so much and so quickly, and I wanted to understand so badly, I thought I might burst. But I was scared out of my mind, because I felt so alone at first. Like nobody would ever know me, because I didn't know them."

"I'm sorry."

He squeezes my hand, and his eyes tell me to be patient, but I feel so guilty because I'm the one who couldn't save him in the first place—

"Then there was you. And you were so kind and so good and so right, and I thought, if you were there with me, everything would be okay. Because you knew all the answers. You were like a skylight, Simon—shedding brightness over every confusing thing in the world.

"And you were so patient with me, even though I was—" He winces.

"Sweet? Adorable?" I suggest.

He smothers a laugh. "Insufferable. Crowley, Snow, how did you manage it?"

"It wasn't hard."

"Mhmm." He stares into some uncharted, faraway point. "If you were in that position, I'd feel the same, I think. Do you know why?"

I swallow hard. "Um."

"It's because I love you. And if I'm not mistaken, you love me."

I smile at him, and it's edged with sadness, but it's real. We're real.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm glad you picked up on that."

"Then why don't we start from there? Start over? A soft reset, if you will."

I snort. "Oh no, please no."

His face falls, a subtle thing, and I quickly correct myself. "I meant—I can't hear the word reset ever again. But yes. Yes to this. If—if you want, I mean."

"What a silly question." He smiles fondly at me, then reaches for my face.

Inexplicable dread shoots through me, and I shout, "Wait! I—"

I think about what I said to Baz. And to myself.

You've got to put it into words, love.

"I liked the way you hugged me before," I whisper. "Like you—wanted to. Like you weren't afraid to. Like it wasn't a—a question."

I'm so embarrassed, I feel like I might catch fire. But Baz just cups my face in firm, steady hands.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he says softly.

I laugh, a little brokenly. "Because I didn't know until yesterday."

"Oh." He kisses the corner of my mouth, quick, like a secret. "Well, we're both learning, then."

"Yes."

And suddenly I know what it must've been like for him. Looking at Baz, I feel something—not quite thirst, or hunger, or tiredness. It takes me a minute to place it, this unknown ache.

Then I feel silly. It's yearning. It's missing him even as he's right here with me. It's wanting more and more and the most. It's wishing to spend forever with him.

We crash into a kiss. I drink him in like a man in a desert.

"Don't," I say softly. Then I don't know what comes after. I cling to his shirt.

He runs a soft hand up the curve of my scalp, then over my forehead. "I'm not going to leave you again, darling," he whispers. "I can make promises, too, you know."

It's not going to be easy—there will be times when I don't have the words.

But I believe him. I do.

It's a start. Not a clean slate, but a refreshed one.

And maybe a new start isn't such a bad thing.