#are directly related to being confined to my desk chair

[monster-noises]

I need a Tablet like So Bad Having something I can draw/write on but it's Portable would be Life Changing I'd get so much more Done.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

10 and 13 please please please 😌

@poppy27 and all who requested 10 and 12 here they are! I combined them since they are related. And a bonus slightly creepy but sweet Simon one.

and yes I’m still working on #13. That’s been the most challenging one so far!

10: What sorts of things would they give each other “just because”?

12: Which one likes to surprise the other with a lot of small random gifts?

1.

Baz

One of the particulars I noticed about Snow, that first night in our room, after the Crucible had encumbered me with him (burdened me with his mole-dotted skin, ordinary blue eyes, bronze dusted hair) was how few possessions he had brought to Watford with him.

Worn trainers on his feet. A scant number of ratty t-shirts. A few threadbare trackie bottoms. That fucking red ball.

That was it. Not another bloody thing.

It’s not like I brought much with me. Uniforms, text books, notepads, writing utensils—all were provided to us.

I’d packed some clothes. Pajamas, of course. A few favorite books. A tiny, contraband iPod Fiona had lent me the summer before (discreetly hidden in the depths of my closet, thanks to the Mage’s ludicrous ban on electronics.)

Over the years more items traveled to Watford with me. More books, naturally. Some family photographs (Mordelia was an exceptionally ugly baby) (She’s marginally better now) (it would be devilish hard to look any worse.)

By fifth year there were posters, meticulously confined to my side of the room. Some abysmal drawing Mordelia had made for me that I kept spelled to the wall. A whole shelf of books.

And Fiona’s old lava lamp, for the sheer ridiculousness of it (it was mesmerizing) (and retro) (and I liked to spell it different colours.)

Snow never added anything. Other than larger sizes of the items he’d brought with him initially. And a winter coat. A few nice jumpers, after he started spending Christmases with the Wellbeloves.

No personal effects. No books. No photographs.

At least he got rid of that fucking ball.

It took me years to understand. To realize he went into care every summer, wasn’t with the Mage as I thought. To recognize that he couldn’t afford or even really risk owning anything of value.

It was much the same when I helped him move into the flat with Bunce earlier this year (I did help, no matter what Snow says) (I supervised) (Someone had to.)

Most of their furnishings were tatty cast offs from Bunce’s family home.  Some mystical wall art that she had found in Camden. A mismatched selection of mugs and tableware. Typical uni apartment.

But Snow’s bedroom was so sparse. Just like his side of the room had been at Watford. A bed. A desk. A lamp on a rickety nightstand. A dresser with virtually empty drawers.

Blank walls.

It’s not like that now, no thanks to Snow.

It’s not like he doesn’t have money. Bunce finally convinced him to do something with that sack of leprechaun gold. I took him to a Normal bank, helped him open an account and the bank helpfully converted the gold to legal tender.

It’s a tidy sum. Enough for him to indulge himself a bit.

He doesn’t.

So, I do.

It started before he moved to London. Those weekends second term, when I would visit him at the Bunces.

When he was all long silences and thousand-yard stares.

I held his hand and tried to distract him. Dinner dates. Film nights. Clothes shopping.

I bloody adore taking Simon clothes shopping. He has no idea how fucking attractive he is. Buying him fitted shirts and tailored jeans is as much a gift to myself as it is to him.

I can’t help it.

I think of him when he’s not with me.

I’ll walk by a shop and see a shirt that reminds me of the color of his eyes.

Strolling through a bookshop I’ll find a title I actually think he might like.

A peculiar trinket will catch my eye at a street market and I know he’ll be captivated by it.

I buy them all for him.

Even my old lava lamp has taken up residence on his dresser.

Bunce says Simon’s room looks like a tatty shop stall from Spitalfields Market. It looks nothing of the sort. She’s prone to slanderous hyperbole.

What it looks like is home.

2.

Simon

I’m not sure what I love best about living in London. Rooming with Penny. Getting to see Baz every day (and most nights) (almost like when we were roommates) (but better.) Going to uni. Exploring the city. All the food.

The variety of food is astonishing. There’s posh restaurants and so many curry take-out shops. Neighbourhood pubs. All the street markets.

I don’t know if I like Borough Market or Camden Market best. Or Maltby Street. Or Brockley.

I love them all.

I’m only taking two classes per term this year. My therapist thought that would be plenty, with all that I’m trying to sort through right now. Uni’s been very understanding and accommodating about it all. My therapist sent a letter and spoke with the dean.

Professor Bunce mentioned Metropolitan first, when I was still living with them. Said she knew they had some pathway that wasn’t full-time to start.

But I think Baz’s father had something to do with it too. Baz had dragged me along, to their family lodge near Oxford, for a weekend visit soon after he’d left Watford.

I hadn’t really seen the Grimms much since I’d run away from them, the night the Humdrum had attacked Baz. The night I’d extinguished all the magic for miles around their home.

Well, I’d seen Mr. Grimm, at the Coven meetings investigating the death of the Mage. He’d not said much to me, just gripped my shoulder a few times and said “Simon” and nodded at me.

It wasn’t much. But it helped. Helped to know he didn’t hate me for the hole in Hampshire. For driving them all out of their home. For being with his son.

It was just a quiet encouragement, something I’d never expected from him.

But when Baz took me to Oxford with him, to tell his father he would rather be staked than go to uni there, to tell his father he was moving to London with me, I was anxious.

I was going bloody mental.

So of course, being me, I started babbling on at dinner about moving to London, living with Penny, our fourth floor flat, what my therapist had said about uni. Just nattering on, face turning red, hands shaking but unable to stop the fumbling words coming out of my mouth.

Baz, the prat, just looked at me with one eyebrow raised and a half-smile. Bloody twat. He could have cut in and stopped me any time.

Mr. Grimm looked a little glassy-eyed and Daphne had a fixed smile on her face. I finally took a large swig from my water glass and stopped talking.

“That’s … that’s very interesting to hear, Simon.” Mr. Grimm’s face was impassive. “Have you thought about where you might like to study?”

“London’s got so many options,” Daphne added helpfully.

“Uh, Professor Bunce mentioned Metropolitan. Said it’s got some flexibility, with part-time programs and such.” My face was flaming. Baz’s hand slipped into mine and I could breathe a little easier.

“I’m familiar with it. Sebastian is there, Baz. You remember him?”

And then they’d moved the conversation on and I’d slumped back in my chair and taken another helping of pudding.

But a few weeks after I applied to Metropolitan I received a letter from a Mr. Sebastian Palmer-Lloyd, informing me that I was approved for a part-time pathway and providing information on a scholarship he felt I was qualified for, if I filled out the appropriate paperwork.

I think Mr. Grimm arranged it all.

I haven’t dared ask him or attempted to thank him directly.

Baz said not to worry about it, when I asked him what to do. Said his father wouldn’t want me to mention it. He had an odd expression, when I told him about the letter. A distant, fond look.

I don’t think it was for me, though. I think he was thinking of his father.

So that’s how I ended up at London Metropolitan. With only two classes per term. I got that scholarship. I’ve got tutors and a foundation year advisor who stays in touch with my therapist and is surprisingly helpful to me.

Which means I’ve got a fair bit more free time than Baz and Penny.

Which is why I’m wandering through the market on this blustery Thursday. I’ve had a kebab and an ice cream so far. There’s a stand with baked goods that look wonderfully appetizing. Might take some home for later.

I’m strolling along, eyes darting from the food stalls to the art displays when I see the table across the way. The wind’s picked up and my ears are getting a bit cold. It’s not even the end of October. It’s shouldn’t be this blustery yet.

The table is covered with woolen hats and mittens and scarves. Bright colors, soft jewel tones, dark greys and browns. They’re soft and thick and look so very warm.

I don’t wear gloves much. Or hats. Get too hot still, even without the magic. I’m like a personal space heater, Baz says.

Baz gets cold. He’ll whinge about it tonight, how the temperature’s dropped today. But he still doesn’t do a bloody thing about it. Still wears his posh tailored wool coats, his thin leather gloves. He wears scarves but only because he thinks they make him look mysterious and aristocratic. He looks bloody gorgeous in them but I’ll not tell him that.

I will. I have. I can’t help myself.

Baz won’t wear a hat. He wore the boater at Watford because it was required (he loathed it) but once we didn’t have to wear them anymore he wouldn’t wear any type at all. Not even in the frigid depths of winter. Thinks they make his hair look bad, the tosser.

He’ll wear gloves but the ones he has now are useless. Thin leather ones, no good at keeping his fingers warm at all.  I should know. I hold his hand constantly.

I thought he had lined ones, when we were at Watford. I’m sure of it. I remember seeing him putting them on before he’d go to his violin practice. Cashmere lined, I’m sure.

They must be at his place. I’ll have to see if I can dig them up when I’m over there next. It’s only going to get colder.

I run my finger over a pair of mittens. They’re so many—simple knit ones, ones with a flap you can flip over to free up your fingers, ones made from cozy old jumpers and lined with fleece.

Mittens would surely keep Baz’s hands warm.

I find a simple charcoal grey pair with a thick, warm lining. They’re trim and neat, subdued and sedate.

He’ll still find something to complain about but at least his hands will be warm while he does.

3. Bonus Simon slightly creepy ficlet

Simon

Taking only two classes means I’ve a lot more free time than Baz and Penny.

I don’t have class today but I’m up early, as always.

Baz spent the night at his place. Had a paper due today so he didn’t make it over. Probably for the best. He doesn’t have class ‘til noon today. We usually just stay in bed all morning when he sleeps over on Wednesday nights.

But I’ve got plans for the day and an early start is what I need.

London is the best place I’ve lived, other than Watford. There’s so much to do, to see, to explore.

It’s not great for hunting though. At least not for the kind of hunting Baz does. The non-human hunting.

London’s probably more like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the regular vampire types.

But Baz isn’t a regular vampire. He argues with me about it but he’s more human than vampire. Always has been. All that rubbish about being half-dead. It’s all rot.

He’s basically a human with a taste for blood.

But it’s a bit sparse here in the city for him. There’re rats, yeah, but not as concentrated in one place, like they were at Watford.

Places where they do congregate aren’t places I want Baz going to alone. I know he’s got super strength and super speed and whatnot but I still don’t fancy him lurking in Hackney in the middle of the night.

London’s not even in the top twenty rat-infested areas of Britain (yes, I looked it up) (Research.) There are some right big ones in Hackney but it doesn’t even make the list.

There’s a fair amount of birds but they’re a bit dodgy to catch and Baz isn’t too fond of them. There’s deer in Richmond and Greenwich but it’s not that easy to drop a deer in the middle of London, even at night. There’re people around all the time.

You can find badgers in some of the parks but Baz says they’re an endangered species so they’re off limits. That’s taking it a bit far if you ask me. What’s one badger, here and there?

Baz draws the line at bats too. I tease him about that. He’s just too fastidious. Drives me mental. He’s got to feed somehow.

Odd thing is he’s not needing to feed near as often. He used to feed almost every night, he would, at Watford. But since last term he can go two days or sometimes even three and not be worse for the wear. I’m not complaining, mind you, but it’s odd.

Maybe the whole Numpty incident reset his vampiric metabolism? I don’t know. I’m no expert on vampires.

Probably more of an expert than most. On one particular vampire.

So anyway, feedings have been a bit chancy for Baz now that he’s in the city. He’s made do with rats and pigeons, the occasional deer if he can manage it.

He lets me go with him, mostly, now. At least when he hunts for deer. I’m good at lookout, making sure no one’s about, distracting people if I need. Gives him a few moments undisturbed it does.

Even with his altered metabolism it’s still not ideal. He needs a more consistent supply. He’s got a heavy class load. He can’t be out all night trying to feed.

Tried dried blood. I found it on Amazon, of all places. It’s mainly for making blood pudding. Thought it would work all right.

Baz hates it. Made him gag, it did. Says it smells funny and has a chemical aftertaste. Probably all the preservatives. Used it in emergencies a few times, like when it snowed for three days straight in February.

I found some in an Asian market. In the freezer section. I swear to Merlin I had no idea you could get frozen blood in a grocery store.

I’d actually found the place on some Reddit forum on blood pudding. I keep having to clear my browser history. Don’t know what my classmates would think if they saw the searches for blood products on my laptop. Think I’m mental or part of some cult, I’m sure.

The frozen blood wasn’t much good either. Something about the freezing process and coagulation and whatnot. Baz and Penny went on and on about it. I couldn’t follow it all. Just crossed frozen blood off the list of options.

This one Asian market in Catford had fresh blood. Thank you, Reddit. I got a tub of it and brought it home on the tube. Lid must have loosened up at some point. Ended up with the front of my shirt all soaked in it. Looked a nightmare I did.

Walked into the flat and Penny took one look at me and started shrieking about Goblins.

I haven’t seen Baz look that frightened since … since the whole Weeping Tower incident.

He looked terrified. Face shades paler than usual, nostrils flaring, pupils blown, eyes wide and fixed on the bloodstain on my shirt. His fangs popped (I can tell) (His cheeks puff up.)

And then he was right there, running his hands over me, searching for a wound or injury or some such. Got blood all over his hands, patting me down like that.

It took some time for everyone to settle. I hadn’t realized what I looked like, big blood stain in the middle of my chest and splatters of blood on my hands where I’d snapped the lid back on.

Thought I’d been attacked, is what they thought. The Goblins still think I’m fair game so I suppose Penny and Baz had a point.

I put the tub of blood in the refrigerator and went to take a shower. I think Baz burned my shirt. I don’t know why they didn’t “out, out damn spot”it. That should get blood out.

I kind of liked that shirt. But I don’t think Baz or Penny were quite rational at that moment. It’s their biggest fear for me, played out, now that I don’t have magic anymore.

Took me half the night to get Baz settled down enough to try the blood.

Better than the dried blood for certain. Better than the frozen too. Not sure how I was going to manage transporting it back and forth from Catford without another disaster like this one.

Got a big thermos is what I did. Went back a week later but they didn’t have any in stock. Finally got some a few weeks later and transported it home without incident. Thermos did the trick.

Their supply isn’t that reliable. I’m on their list to call when they have it now. The owner thinks I’m some private chef who specializes in blood sausage. The language barrier helps keep them from asking too many questions.

So that’s what I’m up to today. I’ve got a list of butcher shops I called Monday that said they get fresh blood every so often. I’m going round to see if they look reputable and clean. Won’t be getting dodgy supplies for Baz.

I’m hoping if I find enough suppliers I put them in a rotation of sorts. You know something like Catford first Friday of the month, Ealing every other Thursday, Camden on alternate Tuesdays. Something like that. So I’ve always got a supply on hand for Baz.

Keep him from having to prowl around as much at night, especially once it gets cold again. Keeps him out of the dodgier neighborhoods too.

It’s almost six by the time I get home. I’ve got a list and dates and I’m going to put it on a spreadsheet to keep it all organized.

I’ve got two thermoses in my backpack so that’s all right then. I tuck them into the small refrigerator under my desk and head to the shower.

It’s almost eight by the time Baz texts me that he’s on his way over. I’ve got the spreadsheet all done and put the pick-up reminders in my phone.

He’s going to fuss about it all. Baz doesn’t deny it, like he used to, but he still hates talking about it. So I won’t say much. Just tell him I’ve found a steady supply and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know the details.

That I went all over London today to find reputable distributors. That half of London thinks I’m a blood sausage specialist. That I set up a schedule for myself of when to get the blood. That the frig under my desk isn’t just there because I get hungry all the time.

Baz does so much for me.

I just want to do something for him.

Baz

My heart is pounding in my chest and I can't catch my breath. Simon is staring at me and I can't speak.

I've completely lost the ability to form coherent sentences and I can sense the anxiety rising in him at my continued silence.

This boy. This absolutely fucking gorgeous nightmare of a boy.

He's been fussing with different ways for me to feed for weeks now but I thought he'd finally given it a rest.

But no. I should know by now that Simon Snow perseveres and digs his heels in when faced with a conundrum.

I'm the conundrum.

I know the enormity of what he's done for me. He's minimizing it all, not telling me what I know is true.

That he's traipsed the length of London, personally scrutinizing these butcher shops. That despite his utter loathing of Excel he's put the effort in to make spread sheets--spread sheets, for Merlin's sake--to keep track of dates and times and locations. That he's volunteered himself to pick up the blood, so no one becomes suspicious of me.

Simon’s done all this for me and I'm speechless.

He’s said he loves me. I know he thinks he means it. I want to believe that Simon Snow loves me as desperately, as passionately, as absolutely as I love him.

But I've never really let myself believe it. Not until now.

And it makes me love him even more than I already did, if that's even possible.

I can feel the tears coming on so I grab Simon's shoulders and pull him towards me, burying my face in his neck, my arms tight around him.

"I love you, Simon Snow."He relaxes in my arms and pulls me closer.

"I love you, Baz."

And I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, just how much he truly does.