#baz himself gave us that last one BLESS HIM | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

diningpageantry · 6 years ago

Text

Like A Rom-Com

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16917009

Word Count: 9363

Summary: Baz Pitch doesn't think he'll ever get to love Simon Snow the way he wants to. A trope-filled weekend proves otherwise.

Carry On Countdown Day 14: Cliché

Of all places I thought I'd ever find myself, sitting on a train beside Simon Snow on a Thursday night is not exactly at the top of my list

There's plenty of more seemingly plausible situations I could be in. For example, a ditch, or in the middle of Mumbai without my mobile and only one shoe. Or, better yet, the goddamn moon. But, no, I’m in a seat beside him, our three-days worth of overnight bags tucked up into the slots above us as we sit in complete and utter silence.

I didn't even get the window seat. He took it first, and despite my protests, he told me to “Suck it”, then sat there.

I'm starting to wonder why I got myself into this. Why I asked Simon Snow of all people to do this. We aren't even fond of each other’s presence (well, on the surface; dare I admit further). Yet, with all our past squabbling aside, here we are. About to spend a whole convention under a façade of a relationship purely as a ploy for money. Theoretically, I should feel disgusted over my actions, but instead I’m a tad proud of how easy it was to get Snow to cave and help me. All it took was telling him the event would include a free banquet, then suddenly he was all there for it.

“I don't see why you wanted me to come, though,” he'd brought up on the platform, wearing his dark green bomber jacket. “I mean, of all other student leaders, you really thought of me?”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes and turning my head towards the wind. “Don't flatter your capabilities, Snow. You're simply a pretty face to look at, andyou're incredibly sociable.”

“Sociable, am I?” he grinned, nudging me with his elbow, making my head snap towards him and throwing him a somewhat convincing look of disgust.

“To those who don't find you undyingly insufferable, sadly, yes.”

I'm surprised at how hard it is to really insult him. Sure, we’re at each other's throats all the time during charity events and whatnot. Supposed to promote positivity and show up as the student leaders of the school, but I may have once tripped him and sent him flying into a plate of cocktail shrimp (give it to him to somehow make that charming, though). Once, he took the piss to ask me how I got to my positions of power by just buying everyone else off the council.

I'll give it to him, people like him. That's why I've got him sitting beside me on this rattling train instead of anyone else on campus, but he seems to dismiss any mere hint of hard work. It must sound foreign to him, to have to work towards a place of respect.

People fear me. They always have. But I don't get here out of fear, I get here out of work built from furthering that fear into respect. Goddamn full time job.

“So,” he pipes up, yanking his earbud out as his head swivels to face me. “What do I have to do exactly ?”

“Look pretty. Smile and nod, make people care about us. At least, during the banquet and the aftermath. Feel free to be as aloof as you usually are for the rest of the conference--sleep in the hotel room, for all I care.”

He twists the cords to the earbuds, eyes casting downwards before rising back up to me. “What conference is it, again?”

I can't help but roll my eyes at him. It isn't like I explained twice already. “Social Awareness and Activism.”

He nods, letting it process before his face contorts into a frown. “Hey, wait! Why wasn't I invited, then?”

“Because” I begin, not even giving him the satisfaction of my gaze as I stare ahead. “You're student council. I lead the Gender and Sexualities Association and lest you forget, I run the Diversities office.”

He lets that one slide, because he knows he definitely doesn't have me beat in this one. Student Council pricks usually have such an air of superiority over us. Arseholes.

“That's why you asked me to be your fake date…” he says, absolutely more to himself, but still making me scoff as loudly as I physically can.

“Dear god, please tell me you did not just now figure out I'm gay,” I mumble, my head falling into my hand as my fingers pinch my bridge. My head turns to a completely oblivious Snow shrugging at me. “What, a closet full of florals and the rainbow pin on my satchel never gave it away?”

“I… I don't like to assume…” he shrugs, looking back out the window before turning back to me quickly. “It's all fine, by the way!”

“Wow, I'm absolutely delighted that you give me your blessing to be queer,” I monotone, staring at him. It does matter, though. Just a bit, but it does.

That properly shuts him up.

The rest of the ride starts off awkward, but eventually he falls asleep, arms crossed over his chest as his mouth gapes open. He breathes with his mouth, like some dog.

In all honesty, I wish I wasn't in love with him. It's so ridiculously unfortunate that it came to this mess being the one I long after. Granted, he's ridiculously handsome in that nearly crossline between rugged and ‘Perfect Man’ way. He obviously forgets to shave regularly, but his stubble comes out a soft blonde (like right now). He's got knick scars over his hands, injury marks from years of use, and lasting muscles to prove it. His hair always seems a mess, but in the most innocent of ways. It always seems so soft, so thick.

He's one of those straight guys you hate to love. The kind that you had a class or two with, but never spoke to; the kind you see on campus with his girlfriend at his arm. Or, used to. Heard that's history.

I steal a long look at him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. I hope it's history.

Maybe this will be like one of those cliché rom-coms where he warms up to me over a weekend of exposure and suddenly, he figures out he's loved me too this entire time, he just wasn't ready to come to terms with it.

With a groan, his head turns in his sleep and faces towards the window. With that, his neck shows on full display, revealing that little mole, right below his ear, that I've had on mind since I noticed it. I map it out with my eyes, cheeks flushing in the slightest as my mind runs over what I'd do if I just had the opportunity…

The train screeches to a stop, pulling into the last station from ours.

Brilliant.

My hand rests against Snow's forearm, resisting the urge to curl around his bicep as I give him a jostle. “Snow,” I start gently before clearing my throat and saying “Snow” clearly. He jerks aware, eyes flying open and glancing around before landing on my face. I feel him relax underneath me. I'm still holding his arm.

“Nearly there?” he groans groggily, eyes drooping closed again.

“Sort of,” I say without my usual bite, stretching my arms. “maybe 10 minutes more, 15.”

He just gives me a nod, eyes running over the cabin as he yawns. “Do we have anything to do tonight?”

I shake my head as I pack away my (untouched) book. “No.” I punctuate it with the snap of my satchel pocket. “We check into the hotel, and I have to check in with the coordinator. I have a half an hour introduction, then I'm free.”

“I could go to the introduction with you,” he offers, no hints of hesitation in his voice. Throws me off a bit.

“You don't need to.” I don't tell him no. I don't have to. I don't want to.

“I want to,” he says bluntly, throwing me for a fucking curveball. I gape at him shamelessly for a second before he finishes it (with a little delay), “I mean, it'll make our couple play a lot more believable, right?”

Sure. That. “You're not wrong,” I relent, standing as the wheels squeal against the harsh metal. I steady myself against a seat as the train pulls into the station, reaching for the bags and settling them down wordlessly. Simon takes his cue and grabs his own, following me as I wheel it off towards the exit.

“We'll need to get a cab,” I say, awkwardly patting for my phone as we follow the exit signs within the station. “Hotel's not far, it's just that I'm not too keen on a half an hour walk right now.”

Leave it to Snow to flag a cab in less than three minutes. All it takes is for him to flash his gorgeous smile and one comes to a halt right in front of us.

After tossing our bags in the boot, I glance up to see Snow, holding the door with gentlemanly grace and an unmistakably friendly grin. “Come on, then,” he urges, trying to wave me inside.

Leave it to Snow to make my heart skip a beat.

The ride there is awfully brief, but I tip the driver generously, sliding out and hurriedly drawing our belongings out before taking a silent second to myself. This is fine. Everything will be fine.

Everything would be fine if Snow stopped staring at me as if I were bonkers.

“What?” I snap, crinkling my nose in his direction.

“I… it’s just…” he stutters back, eyes shooting wide as he searches for an answer. “you look… like you're thinking about something. That's all.”

I tame my expression back, inhaling sharply before pushing past with my suitcase dragging behind me. “Piss off.” That's all I really manage, a halfhearted ‘piss off’.

For the first time today, I feel like this truly might’ve been a mistake.

The inside lobby’s quite nice; reminds me a little too much of my dining room at home, with the chandelier and all, but it's welcoming.

“Double room under Pitch,” I tell the concierge, fingers drumming rhythmically against the marble countertop. My eyes drift, looking up and around but never forward. Not until the typing stops and I’m greeted with a friendly grin as the room key cards slide across towards me.

“You're room 1124, continental breakfast runs from 6-10, and your checkout time is Sunday at noon. Any questions?”

“No,” I say quickly, pocketing the cards and nodding my head as I thank her before making a b-line towards the elevators. Luckily, Snow seems to know when to shut up.

Unluckily, maybe I should've spoken up earlier.

“A double bed,” I breathe, staring at the single queen sized bed against the wall. “Not… a double room…”

I feel Snow’s eyes turn towards me from over my shoulder as I flush a deep red, groaning and running a hand through my hair to push it back (despite the fact that I slick it).

“I… can sleep on the couch?”

“For three nights? Nonsense; you’ll kill your back, then I’ll have to listen to you complain the whole trip back.”

“Then what do you suppose we do?”

Shit. Maybe I am getting my terrible rom-com. “The beds large enough to share…”

I watch as he steps into the room, his bag dropping beside the dresser as his hand smooths against the sheet. “Suppose I'm fine with that, so long as you are too?”

Fine? With sharing the bed with most likely the most attractive man I’ve ever met? “It's bearable.”

With a nod, he stands back up and stretches. “I take the left side,” he calls out, strolling in front of me and into the bathroom, closing himself inside and leaving me motionless at the doorway. This cannot be happening. I refuse to believe that this, this very event is occurring. If it wasn’t strange enough to be going on a trip and acting in a fake relationship with Snow, it’s even worse that I’m sharing a bed with him.

I feel like it’s only a second between when he closes the door before stepping back out. As he comes back into view, he’s wiping his hands on a hand towel and looking at me like I grew a second head. “What’re you still doing there?” he asks, frowning a tad. I want to wipe the look clean off his face.

“I’m… nothing. Thinking.”

He grins at me with all his teeth, like a fucking sunbeam. “Well, stop that. Don’t you have an introductory session to get to?”

I snap out of my daze, blinking rapidly before settling my belongings inside. “Are you sure you want to come?” I ask, fixing my hair in the mirror as I send side-eyed glances at him. “You don’t have to…”

“I think it’d be best if I do.” He stretches in the middle of the room, cracking his back before jumping (why do straight men do that?)

I can’t help but roll my eyes and grab my key card, thumb running over the back as I send bored glances at him. “Can we leave yet?”

He nods, bounding out the door in front of me and bouncing down the hall.

As we exit the elevator, I feel something press against my lower back. At a glance, I realize that it’s Snow’s hand, settling against my shirt and giving off the clear implication that there is something definitely between us. Clever, but heartstopping.

He keeps it there as I sign in, following me to the conference room and settling in the seat beside me with his arm resting delicately around my shoulders. It’s nearly too overwhelming; the proximity, the publicness. I’d assumed, when I invited him, that it’d simply be a one-night show we’d put on. Go through dinner, act cordial enough to seem like we’re a plausible couple, then remain in a state of disdain and turbulence until we both graduate and proceed to never see each other again.

I had not considered, though, that he’d go above and beyond in this ‘fake relationship’ business. Especially not to the point where he is now with a hand settled against the back of my head, threading in between strands of my hair. I send him a look, eyebrows knit together as I try to read whatever’s on his face.

It’s like his handwriting; unreadable.

Another thing I had not considered, though, was the possibility that Penelope Bunce would be at this event too.

I don’t think Simon thought so either, because the moment we both spot her, his hand yanks out of my hair and he sits bolt upright. As if he was caught with his tongue down my throat (I’m allowed to have fantasies).

She’s rushing over, face riddled with confusion and a tad amount of amusement. Her mouth opens to say something as she stops, hands on her hips, but Simon’s already cutting her off.

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” he calls innocently, eyes wide and puppy-like, almost like Bunce is his mother or something.

“Of course I’m here; I told you I was going to a conference this weekend, Simon.” Her eyes flick between us before she laughs. “Holy fuck, how did Inot see this? Si, you could’ve just told me you two--”

“What? N--” he stops himself, flinching in his spot before shooting up to stand. “Let’s, uh, find somewhere else to talk.”

The expressions coming from Bunce’s face are priceless, especially the way she gapes as she’s pulled away, head turned towards me as I wave goodbye.

Snow looks like he’s had the shit beaten out of him when he gets back.

Not physically, but he definitely looks shaken while Bunce just looks a bit pleased with herself. In all honesty, she could easily take over the world and destroy it in under a week, if she wanted to. Instead, she’s off getting her English degree with a minor in Women’s Studies. Fascinating.

She sits herself on the other side of me, leaving Simon to settle against my arm after she laid it out on him. “So, Basilton,” she hums, “clever idea, really.” She curls a hand around the cuff of my sleeve and yanks, pulling me down so only I’m in earshot as she glares daggers at me. “But if you so much as hurt Simon, I will make sure that you’ll never find your precious styling products anywhere in this town again.”

I truly hate to admit that I actually gasp at that. As in an audible, full on gasp. Like some pathetic fucking twink that I refuse to be labelled purely as. “I’ll buy it online then, Bunce.” She’s still downright terrifying, though.

She just grins and turns her head forward, mumbling something about it being an interesting weekend as the speaker comes on. Slowly, I feel Snow's arm snake back around my shoulders, simply resting on my neck this time. Over time, his thumb starts absentmindedly stroking the skin it's resting on, but it doesn't go further from there. Although undeniably comforting, the looks he’s getting from Bunce are, mildly put, unsettling.

Thank fuck it's over before I know it. There's a cheesy joke about travel exhaustion before the round of applause fills the crowd. My head slowly turns to face Snow’s, heart racing as his fingertips trail my hairline. “Let's head back to the room? I think there's room service…” And Bunce is nerving me out.

Retracting his hand, he stretches and nods. “Sounds good.” He practically leaps to his feet, throwing a smile at Bunce and cheerful giving a goodnight hug as I stand at my leisure.

As we make our get-away, I can feel her eyeing us up from behind. It feels like I’m a guilty party; like I've got some ulterior motives. Honestly, Iwish I was suave enough to have them. If I could just plan a weekend away with Snow in the expectation of him falling in love with me, then I'd just retire my education and turn to a life of magic, because I'd have to have him under a spell to make that work.

On the way to the elevator, though, Snow makes a tug at my sleeve, stopping me in my tracks. Raising my brows, my mouth starts to form a “What?”, but gets cut off before it even starts.

“I'm not too tired, if you want to go sit down…?”

I look sideways at him, blinking and letting myself process it. “Get dinner. You want to get dinner?”

“Well… yeah? We're here, and there's a place in the hotel.”

From a moment's glance, there’s nobody in sight (nor earshot, for that matter) here to witness it, so I’m not really sure why he's asking me to get dinner with him rather than stuffing away in the room where we can avoid each other on our phones. In fact, it'd be significantly easier for him to tell me to fuck off and go eat dinner by himself. But, no. He's asking me to sit down with him.

“Fine, but let's not take forever.”

A drink or two (or three) later, I don't care about time anymore. There's only two things I care about; Simon Snow's foot touching my leg, and Simon Snow himself.

He polishes off his drink (I can't remember, 2nd or 3rd), wetting his lips as he runs a hand through his curls. “What’d you think about soulmates?”

It's an innocent enough question. After all, what do I think about about soulmates? The question’s easy enough to answer, and the way his face has been pink and smile grows even looser makes me wonder which response I wanna give him. Reasonable-brained Baz would probably say something protective and flat enough to drive away any admissions of feelings..

I'm not quite Reasonable-Baz right now, though. “I think it's a thing,” I mumble into my glass, sipping slowly and meeting his eye as it settles back onto the table. It’s the cosmopolitan speaking through me. “Not like… something stupid, like everyone’s off to be destined to love someone because they're star-matched or whatever the fuck. No red string of fate. It’s just… people matching. And they always match. Not perfect, but complements to each other.”

He's staring at me like I've said something profound, but I’m not entirely sure what came out as coherent and what else came out as an intoxicated slur.

“So…” My elbows rest against the table in terrible etiquette, chin settling on my palms. “Your go.”

“I… I was… well… that string thing. I'd heard it, and I think it’s somethin’ like that, yeah?” His knee bumps back into mine, shooting tingling down my leg. “Like you've got a pull to your soulmate.”

“A pull?”

He nods as he waves for another drink, eating off the last of my chips. I think he’s bound to polish them off.

“Like it’s in your gut. It yanks you forward, more and more, until you get that meeting it wants.”

Is it a joke? Who knows if it's a joke, but shit, I laugh at it anyway. “W'don't live in a fantasy world, Snow. Wish we did, but it's not Harry Potter.”

Snow pouts in somewhat an endearing way, studying my face as he shoves another few chips into his mouth. The server drops off another drink, to which Simon draws his attention to as if it's the most lovely thing he's ever seen in his life. I wish he'd look at me like that.

His face lazily lifts, smile keeping as he stares across at me. “I… think you're a Hufflepuff.”

“Dear God, Snow, you're smashed. Stop talking.”

“Noooo!” he complains, hand reaching out and resting over mine. “You're friendly under all that mean boy bullshit!”

Someone at a nearby table throws a glare at us, and suddenly I remember we're not quite alone.

Without much thought, I turn my hand over and slowly drag my fingers down Snow's palm. He shivers against me. “I'm a Ravenclaw. The test said so,” I murmur, my voice dropping to the privacy of just him and I.

I choose to believe his blush is in my imagination.

He takes a long drink, fingers dragging back before threading forward and interlocking between mine. “‘M Gryffindor.”

“No shit,” I laugh, suddenly becoming aware of how we're sitting. Leaned forward, heads much closer than they were before. The scent of hard cider and fried chips waft off him. I hate to admit that it makes my heart race faster.

After minutes of what's most likely just an odd closeness, I find myself stopping whatever this is. With a wave to the waiter, they stop by and run our room key through.

Snow's hand keeps against mine, his eyes locked on me and starting to sag with drunken tiredness.

He stays like that, all the way up to our floor.

The chime of the elevator makes me bump his shoulder, urging him out into the hall. “Come on, Simon.”

He jerks himself upright, blinking back to somewhat coherence before following me to the room. I swipe us in, letting him dislodge from my side as he throws himself onto the bed fully dressed.

After a run to the bathroom, changing into my flannel bottoms and a tee, it hits me that Snow's probably planning to pass out like this.

“Hey,” I whisper, practically pushed up to his side. He lifts his head, squinting at me curiously. It takes a second to realize his eyes pinpointed to my lips. “Don't you need to change?”

Sleepily, he closes his eyes again and shrugs, head falling towards mine. His forehead brushes against me.

“M’ fine,” he whispers, “‘m sleepy…”

In this moment, it'd be so easy to just reach out and touch his hair. I can feel it now, tickling against my hairline as he curls up into himself.

“Can… you get my shoes?” he slurs, feet wiggling.

I think I really love him.

I love him so much that I'm unlacing his Converse, sat up at the end of the bed and settling them aside. My hand steals a brush against his calf, mind not completely working as I tug it a little.

He gasps somewhat under his breath. “Y'can take off my clothes, if you want…”

I more than fucking want to.

I'm respectful, of course, but fucking hell, I want this man to rip me to shreds.

I don't let on, though. Respectfully, my eyes advert as I take my time to help him undress, ignoring the frankly obnoxious amount that I’m blushing.

“Thanks,” Snow mumbles as he yanks up the sweats I'd handed to him. “M a bit trashed.”

“A bit?”

He giggles. He sounds like sunshine feels. “Maybe a bit more than a bit.” An arm lazily throws across the bed and pats. “Lay down. Sleep.”

Somewhere in him, he must be a fucking genie, because I'm following his commands.

One of my hands moves down and drags the blankets on top of us, the hand resting in the middle of our empty space.

It's so odd to hear him breathe. To witness him live so openly and so close.

I want all of it.

I want this forever.

My body, though, doesn't. I don't remember falling asleep, but waking up feels like a bitch.

The room's loud. Why is the room so loud?

Oh, fuck, that's my alarm.

I slide it off, tiredly rubbing my eyes and dragging myself upright. Beside me, Snow's groaning and covering his face with an elbow. “‘S too bright,” he complains, turning away from the light.

It's sort of endearing to watch him like this. Although, honestly, it'd be more endearing if my head wasn't thumping.

After rifling through my bag for far too long, I grab out some pain relievers and swallow them with a cupped handful of tap water. Not ideal, granted, but helpful.

After painfully getting through my morning routine, I stand at the end of the bed in a full day's outfit with crossed arms and a pointed glare. With a clearing of my throat, Snow jolts awake and lowers his arm to look at me. “The fuck you want?”

“I'd much like to actually get breakfast, and if you'd wish to join me for some seminars, I'd recommend getting up now.”

“Y'had me at breakfast.” Scrubbing his face, his legs swing over the side of the bed and kick a little. “Do I have to dress like a tit?”

“And wearing a hoodie with jeans every day of your life doesn't make you a tit?”

He just huffs in response.

It isn't hard to get him to breakfast, but it's a bit difficult to get him out of it. Eventually, though, he relents (while stuffing three napkin-wrapped muffins into his hoodie).

The seminars aren't exactly enthralling; everything discussed is relatively baseline. I have a tendency to educate myself without an outside source, but there is one major benefit to attending them. Snow's hand has not left my hair in the past hour and a half. Well, that’s when he’s not eating the food he’s snuck in. I want to call him a pig, but at the same time, he offers me half the muffin and I think that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.

I'm relatively sure that I've been purring when he rubs the back of my head. I don't know this for sure, but fucking hell, it feels like I most likely have been.

Even when we do move, he settles his hand on my lower back, sending my nerve ablaze. It's a tad self-indulgent, but I feel myself drift closer to him as we walk, subtly placing my hand onto his shoulder and rubbing back and forth slowly. Every movement makes my heart race a bit more than I think I’ll ever admit.

They provide lunch, and Snow ends up eating half of mine as we discuss what we just listened to.

“So people don’t just know not to be dicks to each other?” he says through a mouthful of sandwich, not bothering to swallow before he goes off.

“Some people don’t know, no.”

“Well that’s bullshit and I don’t like it.”

My cheeks tease a smile, warming to a mild blush. “Well, I feel like I’m obligated to agree on the premise.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, taking a few more bites before managing to chew thoughtfully and swallow before speaking again. “Was your mum as outspoken about this stuff?”

It throws me a bit off guard, making me nearly drop the apple in my hand. “How do you know about my mother?”

“I… well... um…”

“Spit it out, Snow.”

“I went to your speech last year.” The words tumble out of him, nearly jumbling in the process. “The one where you talked about inclusivity on campus and all that shit--not shit! Just, you know, stuff. And well, you’d mentioned your mum was the first non-white president of the uni and I was just wondering if she was as vocal as you are. That’s all.”

While he’s talking, my heart starts swelling. For starters, he actually went to my speech (which just saying he did doesn’t fully make sense as to why he went), but he was also listening to it. It just sounds unbelievable.

My weight shifts. “Yes, she was,” I begin, dropping in volume and sounding softer than the typical voice I use with him. “She was always honest and so, so bold. She’d give speeches fairly regularly, too. It’s a shame I never really got to see her in action, thought.”

As I speak, I nervously fiddle with the empty sugar packet from my coffee and wait for him to do something, anything to make this easier.

That something, apparently, is his hand reaching out to grab mine (which doesn’t really make it easier on me, since it makes my heart explode into a swarm to fluttering butterflies).

“I’m sorry you never got that chance,” he says ever-so-softly, sweeping my hand over and resting ours together, palm-to-palm. I’m afraid he can read my pulse. “If it makes you feel any better, I never met my mum. Or my da, for that matter.”

“Oh.” Orphaned. That... sort of makes sense.

He just nods to that, shrugging his neverendingly complicated I’m-Doing-This-Instead-Of-Talking shrug. It makes me want to sneer.

I don’t, though. I hold myself back, pulling my lips back into my mouth and biting to keep them shut.

I don’t suffer in silence too long, as everyone else around us starts wrapping up and heading off to the next seminar. We both catch a gaze at Bunce as she converses with a table of students, seeming enthralled with her discussion. It’s easy to tell that Snow’s a bit disappointed, but I squeeze his hand in subtle reassurance that he’s not a backup (I don’t mention that she saw us holding hands while coming in, therefore avoided us).

The rest of the day is just as much as a bore as the start, and we don’t bother with a big dinner like the night before, either. Instead, we both silently retire back to the room and I phone for some takeout while we put on the telly. Flipping through channels provide a true bore of a time, though, so ultimately we just end up talking again.

And talking. And talking.

And break for dinner, and talking, and talking.

A few days ago, I wouldn’t image we’d have so much to talk about, but now he’s laughing at a story I’ve got about a teacher we both happened to have, just for separate classes. He’s got such a brilliant laugh; it’s one of those kinds that tosses his head back and fills the room with a deep, mirthful wave. It amazes me how much he’s relaxed, sprawled back in a tee and his jeans, which are now without his belt. Makes my heart race just watching him be happy and makes my head spin even more with just knowing that it’s in my presence alone. I wish I could bottle it and it keep it in my pocket for harder days.

Before we know it, it’s half past one and we can barely keep our eyes open. But, nonetheless, we sleepily mumbling back and forths with heavily blinking eyes and soft smiles. Thank god he changed himself into pajamas tonight, and I did so while he was taking a brief shower a few hours ago. Now we’re simply laying here, albeit incredibly closer than we were the last night. I can nearly touch him; if only I extended a hand out, I could brush it against his ankle, since he’s got his legs pulled in.

We speak between yawns, not really having much in particular to talk about in depth without

In the pale moonlight shining through the drawn curtains, I can see the outline of Simon’s head slowly lifting from his pillow, propping up at his elbow. “You know,” he says, “I don’t know if I’m straight or not.” He’s stretching back out now, feet brushing mine as they extend downwards on the bed.

I smile mostly because I know he can’t really see me in the shadow of his own head. “Why do you say that, Snow?”

“Well, I’ve never snogged a bloke.”

“You think that’s the qualifying factor to make you queer?”

“Not make me queer, but I wonder if snogging a bloke would make me realize something in one way or another.”

I shouldn’t be answering. “Well, why don’t you try?” It comes out as a whisper, eyes searching his nearly unreadable shadowed face.

His shoulders shift, the fabric of his tee straining at his side. “I dunno,” he says hushedly back, sounding closer than before. Even through the weight of my tired eyes, I can tell he’s getting closer now. “Why don’t I?”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I freeze. My limbs go all tingly and numb as my mind races to various ends. Is he trying to say he wants to snog me? It’s probably some sick joke to make me flustered and maybe a little turned on (which thankfully he probably doesn’t know, since I’m on my side/stomach and my legs are laying a bit oddly to press my hips to the bed). Or, maybe, he’s just losing his mind.

As he draws closer, I can barely feel myself breathe. It’s his breath that’s clear as day. “Can I kiss you, Baz?” he utters, eyes lowering to my lips. I want to catch his with mine.

I want something that's been offered, and I’ll take it even if it’s a joke.

So, despite all reservations, I nod anyway.

He takes a full moment’s pause, head looming closer before brushing his lips against mine.

Heart pounding out of my chest and mind reeling, I kiss him back completely on impulse (or, rather, poor impulse). Every part of my body feels like it’s simultaneously in an ice bath and set on fire, but he’s snogging me back and doing this nice thing with his chin that I really want him to do again and fucking hell, is it hot in here? Or freezing? Perhaps both?

He draws back after a minute or so, face barely moving inches away from mine as his body shifts closer. The sheets between us gather, pinching like my gut as his knee raises up and brushed against my outer thigh. There’s seconds of silence within the movements between us, his hand slowly raising up and brushing some hair off my check before settling there. I reach out unsurely, hand resting on his chest as his head lies closer and lifts to look up at me. His heart’s racing out of control, a horse loose off it’s track.

This time, he doesn’t ask. His nose brushes against mine, causing my breath to hitch in a way it’s never gone before, and he takes that as the proper sign to kiss me again.

Thank fuck he does.

We kiss for what feels like hours, his hand eventually running back to my hair and holding the spot he’d had it in earlier today. Mine travels down a bit, pushing away his shirt and resting against his side.

We kiss our lips chapped and tire ourselves out, and even then some. Even as I struggle to stay awake and he’s let back to yawn a few times, we still keep chasing back for exhaustedly excited presses of lips and teases of tongue.

Eventually, though, he’s smiling so tiredly against me that his head falls back and eyes stay shut as he breathes out an “‘M passing out.”

I can’t manage a word right now. I don’t quite know anything about words anymore, except for the very real fact that they’re slipping my tongue.

So, instead, I nod my head and study his face. Just enough of it’s lit, showing the grin on his cheeks as he falls asleep without saying another word.

He keeps pressed to me, though. His hand’s still in my hair, and the leg that was previously thrown over mine is now where it was when we ended; between my thighs.

That’s how we wake up, too.

Except, this time, when my alarm goes off, he’s the one to answer it.

I watch as he swipes it off, looking down at me with a flushed, guilty face as I squint up to him.

It doesn’t last, though, because he seems to answer it with a shove of his lips against mine.

We snog for maybe ten minutes before he pulls himself back with a panicked face. At first, I think he’s about to go absolutely bonkers on me and say some ridiculous shit to break my heart, but instead says the most Simon Snow thing I think anyone could ever say. “Shit, when’s breakfast ending?”

I gawk at him, squinting before saying “10” with a gravely, sleep-filled voice. I don’t even bother to clear it away. “My alarm sets for eight, there’s time.”

He looks absolutely disgusted at that notion. “I can’t eat breakfast in an hour; that’s practically stuffing and running.”

Honest to god, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone get up as fast as he is now.

To cover my probably clear disappointment (and, well, semi I’ve got going), I scoff and roll my eyes as him as he shuffles his body into jeans. “You’re like a bloody Hobbit, Snow. Can’t stop eating.”

He grins at me, grabbing a pair of my trousers from my suitcase and throwing them at my head. “Come on, slowpoke.”

And just like that, it’s not spoken of.

Not through breakfast. Not through the time in between the morning seminars. Not through lunch, either.

He does the same things as the day before; his hand plays with my hair and we hold onto each other while shifting places, but it feels so different today. Every time he touches me, my mind goes completely blank as my heart beats out of control. As if it weren’t bad enough when he did it before, it’s even worse now that we’ve done that .

Whatever that was, anyway.

Fucking hell, what was that? We snogged until we get too tired to even keep awake, and then some.

If I had half a mind, I’d say we woke up in an alternate timeline where we actually are boyfriends, since he’s doing everything he would be doing if he truly was mine. Except, right now, I have no clue as to why this is all happening. He isn’t treating the situation as odd either, which is what throws me off entirely. He’s still chatting about anything and everything else; he’s laughing with my jokes and he’s frowning when I say something sharp, but there’s a new twinkle in his eye whenever I make a biting commentary. It’s the sort of look you give a cat when they’re being an arsehole.

When we finish the afternoon seminars and get dismissed to prepare for the banquet, I find myself jolting at the sudden wrap of his arm around my middle. He starts to draw back at first, but I quickly press my hand to his and keep it against my hip, not daring to look him in the eyes as I press the going up button for the elevator firmly.

The ride’s unnervingly silent, especially with the fiddling of Snow’s hand against my belt loops. He makes my heart pound without much, driving me absolutely mad at each of his subtle movements.

Back in the room, he lets the door slowly swing shut as I go to grab our suits from where they’re hanging in the dresser. The moment it’s clicked shut, though, I find the everliving chaotic energy of his presence right behind me and closing in.

Gently, a kiss falls to my shoulder blade. I shiver unintentionally.

“How long have we got?”

For once, I’m the one choked for words. “W-well, we should be down there by six, and it’s nearly three right now. I was planning on showering before it starts, and probably doing my hair properly, and--”

He’s turning me around as I ramble, hands settling on my hips before shutting me up with a kiss.

He’s good at that. Not just the kissing thing, but the making me stop thinking thing, too.

I give in completely, legs basically turning to jelly as I duck down. I feel him lower back to his feet (as he was originally on his tiptoes to plant the kiss to me), hands keeping tightly to my hips.

I let him untuck my shirt and press to the skin, rounding his hands around my back and tugging me closer towards him.

At this rate, I’d say fuck the dinner. Fuck anything else about everything. I don’t care that we haven’t talked about this, I don’t care about the veryreal possibility that Snow’s using me to experiment his sexuality on in full disregard to my feelings, I don’t care that this could all be a ploy to make me seem weak. I want this to never stop.

It has to, though. I know it has to.

I firmly plant my hands to his shoulders, keeping him still as I pull away. “I really do need to shower.”

For a split second, I’m half convinced he’s going to ask to join (to which I wouldn’t say no, obviously), but I’m fairly sure he decides that’s a poor idea, too.

So, instead, he relents with a nod of his head and a searing peck of his lips to my cheek. It makes me blush like mad.

I spend my entire shower rushing to get out, scrubbing my hair and losing myself in the thought of what’s to happen after this ends. I’m fairly certain that this isn’t going to leave this hotel, but it’s nice to even fantasize the thought of him in my bed, stripped down to his boxers and laughing like he did last night.

Not fucking me, although that’d be a nice follow-up, but just laughing. Sharing a good moment, just him and I, and not letting ourselves fall back into our old habits.

It’s such a weird wet dream to have; to want him to be happy. Most people think about getting plowed in the back of their car or snogging somone senseless against a wall, but with Simon, I just want to see him smile. (Disclaimer, I’ve gone through the motions of wanting him to take me in every situation and position possible, but I was a different man. That was pre-snog Baz).

I go through a routine of blow drying and styling my hair, brushing my teeth again and making myself as aesthetically proper as I can be before stepping out of the room and immediately getting the wind knocked from my lungs.

Snow’s standing in the middle of the room, looking himself up and down in the body mirror dressed up in the suit I’d bought for him.

It’s not perfectly tailored; it’s slightly too tight in the middle, and his shoulders are a bit too unexpectedly broad, but it looks really fucking good on him.

I’ve got to bite my lip from gasping.

“Looks proper,” I let myself say, heart skipping a beat as his head snaps up towards me and grows to a quick grin. As I pass by to grab my own suit, I’m floored by a quick peck on my cheek and a cheeky smile.

He’s going to be the death of me.

I grab my clothes and change in the bathroom, dropping the towel and carefully pulling on layer after layer.

I tie my shoes outside of the room, trying to forget that of course, Snow’s ‘fancy shoes’ are decades old Docs that look like they could very easily be Fi’s.

“Ready?” I ask, making sure I’ve got my cell and room key in my pockets.

He nods, arm looping around mine wordlessly before he drags us out.

Dinner’s… dinner. The food’s pretty good, and Snow and I make easy conversation with the people at the table (as in, Snow starts it with something friendly, then shuts up for most of it as I say intellectual shit and he just rubs my thigh under the table for some unknown, mind boggling reason). We drink a good amount of wine, we laugh, and talk some more.

Then continue to talk around once it ends, mingling within the crowd.

Snow works like a bloody charm. He strikes up cheerful conversations with them, then we all talk for a bit before they hand me a business card with a happy shake of my hand or a clasp on my shoulder.

Soon enough, there’s plenty of people wanting to sponsor events and fundraisers, ranging from donating to involvement. On top of that, there’s countless people coming up to us and ending our conversations with “You make such a cute couple.”

Each time, Snow ends it with an “I know”, arm tugging me closer.

I’m a bit tipsy, so I just lean into him and grin my face off (it feels weird to smile so openly).

After an hour or so, it starts to die down. The attendees are ignored by the workers cleaning the tables, so I slip away from Snow for a second as he chats with an enthusiastic woman, telling him I’m off to the loo. In reality, I’m just sneaking a couple bottles of wine and holding them as subtly as possible in my suit jacket (which is, for note, not subtle at all).

Snow’s alone when I’m done, so I just grab his hand, stuff a bottle into it, and whisper “Run”.

We both break it to make our getaway, nodding to people as we start to quickly head off to our room. Nobody notices us, or more realistically, cares to stop two sort-of drunk early 20s blokes running off with somewhat okay bottles of wine.

In the elevator, we exchange wide eyed grins before bursting into laughter that quickly draws tears from our eyes and makes our stomachs ache from strain. We’re laughing the whole way back to the room, too, and leaning on each other for support as I search for the door key.

It buzzes us through, letting us stumble inside and set the stolen bottles on the coffee table.

After resting mine after his, I feel his hand sweep under my suit jacket and yank me close that way. We’re still laughing, my face planting into his hair and savoring my sweet moment’s luxury.

“Pop them open,” I whisper into him, pressed up close. “I wanna make a toast.”

He giggles and nods compliantly, letting go of me and pouting at the corked tops before rooting around in his backpack for a minute.

As he’s doing whatever it is that he is, I’m untying my shoes and half-throwing them across the room towards my bag, untying my tie and letting it hang around my neck as my jacket finds itself on the floor, too.

I hear a pop as my eyes shut, and soon enough Snow’s looming over me with two opened bottles of white wine.

I take one, scooting to the side and turing my knees onto the bed as I grin at him. He tries to raise his brows in a mock and mimic of me, but it instead looks like he’s shocked (I want to kiss the look off his face).

“A toast,” I begin, giggling before fully raising it to him. “To successfully finessing a room full of rich arses to give the gays some money.”

He smile widely to that, cheeks creasing as he raises his bottle and gently knocks it into mine. “To taking money.”

We both down about half the bottle before I end up in his lap, having him play with my hair as I recite as much of Hamlet as I can remember (given I was in a production when I was 16). He’s silent, this big grin stretched across his face as I glaze over chunks of scenes with “And fuck Claudius” or “and Hamlet, who was fucking hot in the movie”. I break between scenes and take a gulp of my wine, as compares to Snow who sips his throughout.

Easy to say, by the end of the play, we’re both completely plastered.

Our mostly empty bottles end up on our nightstands as I dive my face into his stomach and nuzzle shamelessly. Any ounce of dignity that I’d once held is absolutely gone now, filled instead with unequivocal adoration.

He clearly doesn’t mind, though, because I can feel the chuckle as I grin into him, and the tug of his hand in my hair sends me to sit upright as the room spins around me. I laugh, because I can’t stop myself.

Even as I’m wrinkling my nose to snort, Snow’s leaning closer and quickly steal a kiss from my lips.

Everything stops. My heart’s soaring, and I’m opening my eyes. “We’re drunk,” I remind, mostly slurring as I lurch forward.

I know that doesn’t fully apply.

“Do you want me to stop?” he breath’s hot on my face, smelling entirely of alcohol and the chocolate cake he’d had for dessert.

I should say no, I should say no.

“Just don’t go below the belt,” I whisper, because I’m the weakest man on Earth, and I’m the one leading the kiss this time.

It’s a little strange, since every time we’ve kissed so far, it’s been with his initiative.

Frankly, I was worried that he’d think I was taking advantage of him as a gay guy. But, now with all the alcohol in my bloodstream and how soft he looks bathed in the glowing yellow lamp-light of the room, I push away all inhibitions for the sake of one last night of having him hold me like that.

I lead fully this time, feeling his hand take hold of the ends of my tie, yanking me closer as I kiss him with everything I’ve got in me.

With every bit I give him, he gives me double that.

His hands find themselves at my shirt buttons, slowly pushing each one out of the hole as I’m finding out what kind of sounds I can elicit from biting his lip.

Eventually, we find ourselves laying back on the bed, the light now off and shirts both pushed off of our shoulders. I’m still in my suit trousers, and he’s just in his boxers and dress socks, still snogging the life from me. I think we’re sobering up, but frankly, I’m too scared to figure that out. The truth would make it too real.

For the first time, I dare to take my lips away from his mouth and leaving him whining beside me before I test the waters of neck kisses, scattering them around.

A tug of my hair tells me it’s more than okay.

It’s so tempting to go further. With each pull of my hair and groan rumbling from his chest, I’m struggling to stop myself from peeking under that waistband.

I don’t, though.

I force myself back up, back to his lips, and stay there. Stay in this moment that makes me believe that it’ll last.

“Baz,” he mumbles into my mouth. It feels so distant that, at first, it feels like I’m imagining it.

Then he says it again.

“Baz.” It’s more firm this time, sending me back and staring at him with wide, nervous eyes. He laughs, though, and reaches out to rub his hand against my cheek. “I just gotta take a piss, fucking hell.”

I melt into it, closing my eyes and nodding slightly as I exhale.

He presses a last kiss to my face, this time, to my forehead, before stretching and heading off to pee.

And that’s the last thing I remember before waking up, wearing the trousers I was last night and basically the same position he’d left me in bed in, but now he’s back and laying right across from me. We’re not fully pressed together, like last night, but his hands are holding mine, and his face is close enough to lean my neck out and kiss.

I’d say, by the way the light’s shining, it’s about half an hour before my morning alarm is set to go off.

I’m not quite sure where this leaves us. By sometime later this afternoon, we don’t really have to interact again for a while. We can, realistically, avoid each other as we usually do. Therefore, I’m drinking him in as much as I can in this moment. The way his hair falls against the pillow, the way his lip hangs open, the way his chest rises and falls. I take in as much as I can, knowing that I could very well not get it again.

With the eventual clamor of my morning alarm, Snow’s eyes scrunch as he groans. I leave our space together, hitting it off before joining him again and meeting his eyes. I don’t care about my headache now, I just want to hold him one last time.

As I latch myself to him, though, he cuddles up to me properly and kisses my hair, whispering something I would’ve never thought in a million years that I’d actually hear. “Good morning, darling.”

I shoot back, frowning for once. I can’t live like this. We can’t leave like this.

“What are we doing?” I insist, setting my jaw and studying his seemingly innocent face.

“I… what do you…”

“You’ve been snogging me for days, and you wake up and call me darling as if it’s one of my obscure fucking fantasies, and it’s not fair. I can’t live on uncertainties, and I’m scared to fucking death that you’re just going to pull some sick joke when we get back to campus and say ‘Great afternoon, goodbye’, and you’ll be gone.” Snow reaches out to me, but I flinch instead. He pulls away. “Tell me what game you’re playing at.”

“There’s no game!” he snaps at first, then realizes the bite to his voice before lowering it and mumbling. “There’s… there’s no game, Baz. I like you.”

That wasn’t really an outcome I’d fully prepared for. “You what?”

“I… I fancy you, Baz. I have for some time now. Fuck all, I’ve been talking to you all weekend, and I hate talking. I thought you were smart. I thought you’d noticed beyond all the snogging.”

He’s got me stunned.

“Hadn’t thought about that.”

“Of course you haven’t,” he mumbles, pouting at me.

This time, I do kiss his expression away.

He leans into it, hand finding mine again and tracing my palm slowly. I love it when he does that.

As he lets back to catch a breath, I eye him up curiously. “What does this mean for us?” I whisper. “Are we something now?”

“We can be. I want us to be.”

“Will… you say what that ‘us’ would be? Say it properly, for me.”

“Why?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Even without looking at him, there’s a smile in his voice. “Baz Pitch, will you be my boyfriend?”

133 notes · View notes

im-confusedandgay · 7 years ago

Text

As Luck Would Have It

A Snowbaz Fic Genre: a lil mix of angst/fluff (i swear its more of fluff at the end) Word Count: 4k Summary: Simon Snow does not know how lucky he is.

She ran. she ran so much, so fast. Her knees were throbbing so severely, she was afraid they might disconnect from the rest of her limbs. It was like everything lost meaning, every definition and motive, all gone to her.

and this was her only purpose. this right here. The running and the escaping. and the tiny little ounce of hope she carried with her, like a narrow light beaming in her chest. still, at the back of her mind, there was always that voice, that damnable voice that reeked of fear.

That voice said "This is the part where it all ends in flames." She couldn't tell if it was her own voice. couldn't tell if it were his. She turned a corner and nearly tripped on the jagged rocks. Every breath seemed impossible, incoherent. Her head was pounding, aching. numb. her arms wanted to give in, to let go. she didn't allow anything of that sort.

She ran. She didn't know how. She didn't know how it was possible. Her magic could be carrying her every step with some abstract energy, maybe. thats possible right? The last tendrils of her magic, at least, because she was so certain she gave all of it away.

Trees were fading past her, the ground tumbled beneath her. She did not think about the man chasing after her, did not think of the bare future laid before her. she did not think of anything else besides the baby in her arms. He wailed, a heavy shrieking noise. his tiny arms were reaching for her face, fists unclenching, clenching. reaching, always reaching.

She would never let go. she didn't allow anything of that sort.

this promise would carry her in her solemn grave. This promise, she thought, is the only thing that could keep my son alive.

And maybe this was why she ran.

"Simon, Im home."

Simon sprang to the living room, all giddy and vivacious ecstasy radiating off of him. He's smiling that amiable smile of his.

Baz raised an eyebrow. "What?" Despite himself, he mirrored simon’s smile, that same easy and lively light aglow in both their faces. still, Baz felt his face linger in bemusement.

And still, simon wouldn’t say a thing except high squeals, tugging on Baz's sleeve like a five year old. Baz didn't mind. “Alright, Simon, whats going on?”

Simon then fished for something in his jeans pocket, retrieving what seems like a plain white sheet of folded paper. He passed it to Baz with excited hands. Baz took the sheet of paper with a confused glance. He gently unfolded it.

July 19, 2017

Dear Simon Snow,

We are pleased to notify you that, of the many proposals we received, we have selected your portrait ‘petite étoile’ , Your response to the RFP issued by Cambridge Art Association stood head and shoulders above the rest. We are looking forward to moving forward with the installation.

Thank you.

Baz blinked at the words. He read it again just to make sure. and again. He looked at Simon.

Simon, seeing the stupefy and awed expression in his boyfriends face, squealed, “I KNOW!” Baz hugged him in response, smoothing out his bronze curls, kissing his forehead, taking his face on both his hands and nuzzling his nose with his because he's a fucking tragedy when it comes to Simon Snow and both of them know it. “I knew you could do it.” he whispers, wiping the tears off Simons face.

They felt each others smiles radiate of their lips in smooth, lethargic bliss.

“we should throw a fucking party.” Baz announces.

“you don’t have to do that-“

“shut up, Simon.”

he already had his phone in his hand, calling penny’s cell. “We are celebrating the shit out of this letter.” Baz held the phone by his ear as he took his boyfriend by the waist. Simon leaned his head against his shoulder in response, breathing him in. Baz smelled explicitly of Cedar and Bergamot today.

“Hello? Penny? Guess who received an acceptance letter!?”

He could feel Baz’s piercing smile in those words. Simon laughed in response.

She didn’t know it was going to end like this. or maybe she did. maybe she did all along and denied it. She knocked on the cottage door twice. she was sure she lost him. he probably tripped over some twig and lost her tracks. maybe. hopefully. A nervous energy filled her veins as she continued to rasp at the door until an old women by the age of 50 opened it.

“Hello,” She greeted.

The old woman continued to stare, bored.

She shifted her arms so she could adjust herself to the weight of her baby, holding him close.

The woman still continued in silence.

“M-may we please stay here for awhile? We don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.” She could feel her teeth clatter in hunger. or fear. Fear, she thought. Its always fear.

Finally, the woman made the smallest gesture of glancing at her baby. the next thing she knew it, a closed door appeared in her face, inches away from the peak of her pale freckled nose.

A sob escaped her as she continued walking off into the distance, the wail of her baby traveling with her in a soothing presence.

She was sure she lost him. maybe. hopefully.

Its times like this when Simon Snow wakes up at 12:00am.

Times like this when he wakes to the sensation of arms around his waist. a body instead of space beside him.

He wakes, sullen and drowsy. patches of blue and silver moonlight teem down the window panes. His eyes travel to where Baz’s head lays down in the cushions, peaceful and quiet.

It was just 5 weeks into their relationship when Baz presented the thought of moving in with Simon and Penny just days ago. Penny, god bless her, approved. Of course Simon approved as well. Hell, he may as well rent a place of their own if he could.

It wasn’t official or any of that sort. But he knew they’d make it through that point.

They made it through watford, anyway. If they could make it through that, Simon’s pretty sure they’ll make it through anything.

He continued to gaze upon Baz’s sleeping figure.

“you know what would be a great idea?” Baz had said just the day before.”you could paint portraits. paintings. Just for a change.”

Simon scoffed. they laid in the couch. He was busy sketching some pieces he thought of that day, cross legged beside Baz, who was reading a thick pretentious novel.

“Nice one Baz,”

“Well, no offence love, but you sulking around all day with nothing else better to do is an image we’re all tired of”

He shrugged in response.

“So what if i’ll start painting and make pointless portraits? What could i make of it? what would change anyway?”

“well for instance,” Baz glanced at Simon’s sketchpad, a grin plastered on his face. he returned back to his novel. “Change is happening right now, Snow.”

Simon shifted in their bedsheets. he wrapped his arms around the sleeping boy beside him.

He’ll start painting tomorrow.

As luck would have it, She turned to the right direction after all. Now all she has to do is wait for a car ride. The street before her laid bare and remote, as if no venichle has passed by since god knows how long.

The baby she held in her arms grew silent and still. she looked at him, tracing a forefinger over his smooth rosy cheek. Her finger traveled down to his neck, where a tiny, indistinct mole lays there.

His eyes were closed in tranquillised sleep, not a single worry or doubt in the world in those closed lids. She smoothed out his blanket, tugging it this way and that.

It wasn’t far long ti'll she grew helplessly weary. She settled herself on the edge of the curb, waiting for a miracle. Her knees felt like heavy rocks dragging her body down, and she couldn’t help but think of herself as a statue, numb everywhere, inside and out and at this point it was a marvel she could speak, a miracle she could so much as utter a single word.

Her stomach growled. It was only when she pursed her dry sandpaper lips did she noticed how thirsty she was.

She looked at the baby in her arms, still asleep. Somehow, she held tighter.

in that sweet, lullaby voice of hers, she cooed, “I’m going to love you so much, no girl would ever be good enough for you.”

“But I do believe a girls going to love you so much. or boy. I wouldn’t care. As long as you love them and as long as they love you back just as much.” she reconsidered. “i’ll still love you the most though.”

she nuzzled her nose in her baby's neck. He smelled of smoke. Smoke and brunt trees. He smelled like everything she thought he would smell like. “I’ll always love you.”

“And if by some larger force separates us,”

she wrapped his tiny fist with her single finger. she squeezed. he squeezed back.

“Then know that i’m always with you okay? know that i’m with you no matter what and nothing could change that. nothing.”

The baby opened his blue eyes and as he did, a Camero’s headlights were headed their way. Lucy jumped, standing up, balancing herself. The sudden movement made the baby wail.

then she saw the plate number.

Dread filled her system like a slow, creeping snake.

Oh god.

But it was too late to start running.

Baz knocked on Simon's door again. And again. No answer. Only the sound of Simon's obvious sobs, sobs he tired desperately to hide then. It was useless to keep them in, anyway. "Simon," He didn’t know what he could possibly say. Assure him everything is okay? Tell him he'll move on? Tell him lies, lies they both know would do nothing, nothing but display themselves ostentasiouly in the air once they’ve been said.

Baz was not one for lying. So he told him the truth.

"This isn't okay. Your magic will never come back and we can't do anything about that." Inside the room, Simon grew deathly silent. From the living room, Penny shot him a treacherous glare that says what the fuck are you doing. Her eyes were gigantic plates and really, it was a marvel how she could manage to do that to her eyes. Still, Baz continued. "The mage is dead. Holes were made and holes were filled." no response from inside the room.

"Simon, love." Baz was surprised when he heard a choking sound leave his lips. Even Penny grew silent for once. He tried his best to carry his now trembling voice,

"You want the truth? Thats the truth. The truth is your the most alive being in the whole damn world. The truth is with your magic, you were fucking untouchable and I was scared Simon. You were the sun and i was crashing into you and the world revolved around you and it was like i couldn't even reach you, it was like everything depended on you and i couldn't possibly give you the satisfaction of knowing that i depended on you too. You were on the other side of the galaxy and you were so far away. The truth was i was so bloody scared Simon. The truth is with your magic, we would have never met in the middle." He laughed at that probable thought. "There was no fucking way."

Silence.

"Simon," Maybe he said enough? Maybe words were enough. it didn't feel enough for Baz though.

Simon's own words were still echoing in his head, words that nearly shot him dead at the spot, words that were so untrue, words said with sharpened tips -- "I don't feel alive Baz! I was alive with my magic! I'm nothing without it and theres no fucking point to all this a-and I --" Simon wiped his eyes then. "I just want to feel fucking alive again!" That was when he stormed to his room and shut his door, locking it with heavy breaths and trembling shoulders, looking for all the world like a precarious, fragile thing.

Baz softly says -- though not that softly so Simon could hear him through the door -- "Your so alive Simon Snow."

He thought he heard the door click. He goes on, "You got my share of it."

Before he could even blink, Simon’s pink swollen lips collided with his and at that moment it was as if words didn't matter. As if they never did.

"You can't just take him!" Lucy Salisbury was desperate, yes, though she was also many things indeed. Angry. Furious. Confused. Determined. But Davy didn't see any of this. Davy didn't need to see any of this. He's seen it a thousand times before, has seen desperation claw at peoples stomachs with hunger and the need to devour. He's felt it a thousand times too, but now looking at Simon, looking at his blue eyes...maybe he finally completed it. Maybe he actually finally did it.

The chosen one. Davy laughed. Its still hard to believe, even after all these months of waiting.

"Give me my baby back you bastard!" Lucy screamed. She was pulled back, carried away by Davy's men. She didn't even know he had men. "Simon isn't yours to take!" Sobs were leaving her like drool and she reached out with her arms towards her baby, she willed herself to reach out to Simon, and maybe she was close, maybe she wasn’t, but all she remembered was a blade, a sharp blade, a sharp and silver blade in Davy’s hands and she thought --

No. He wouldn't.

He thrusted the blade into Lucy's abdomen.

And thank god it wasn't her baby’s abdomen. She thought for a second there…

But then the last thing ringing in her mind was the fundamental issue of Simon.

Because even without that dagger in her boy's stomach, she had that nauseating feeling that he wasn’t safe with Davy, blade or no blade.

This was the last thought she could think of before The Mage willed the blade to go in for the kill.

Simon cried all the way to the Camaro, where the Mage cooed and cradled him as if he were a loving father who'd never let go of his son.

Baz was told he would have to end him in some way. Kill him. Maybe he could bite him, savour every drop of blood the notorious Chosen One has. He could place him in a stake. Burn him. Maybe he would do the classic blade in the chest move, or a spell powerful enough to end him.

He was told he would have to end Simon Snow in some way. People have been telling him this since he was five years old, small enough to walk, but also small enough to follow what the adults say, no matter what that thing is, even if it meant theft or murder.

as a result of this, he followed his instructions to kill the chosen one without question, followed it like a manual or a booklet. He kept it to heart and practised his spells to complete and utter perfection by the time he turned eight.

Because maybe then he could avenge his mother. Maybe then she'd come back to him.

then, of course, the crucible paired Simon Snow and Basil Pitch together and that was when it all went downhill from there.

It was summer. The second year of watford came to a bittersweet closure. All was well. The family was doing good, everyone was healthy. The air in the dining room was alive with conversation with sparks of laughter here and there. Champagne glasses were being passed around like a game of hot potato and the chandeliers were sparkly and glistening, crystal and divine even amidst the sullen, medieval and almost melancholy structure of the Pitch's mansion.

He didn't know when the conversation started, didn't know when or how it turned to that direction, but the one thing he heard that day that got his attention was when his aunt, Fiona announced, "Simon Snow isn't human."

The fuck? Fourteen year old Baz raised an eyebrow. Perhaps joining one of these adult conversations would be a little fun. "Why do you say that?"

All Grimm-Pitch eyes turned to him expectedly, as if Baz had something imposing to offer them. Fiona smiled that devil smile of her's. "He was brought by the Mage. Everyone knows anything brought by that tyrant isn't natural." She took a agonisingly long sip of her red wine -- she didn't care for champagne -- and pursed her lips in an effort to retrieve the sweet and bitter aftertaste. With a feline grace she placed her glass back down on its coaster.

Baz picked up his fork, thinking that that was the end of a lovely exchange of words, but when Fiona cleared her throat and faced towards him, he had the obvious sense that she was just getting started.

"Simon Snow is a weapon, Basil. Name me one hero who wasn't built for a single, certain purpose." Baz didn't bother answering. Just get to the point, he wanted to spit out.

"Exactly. After Simon completes that purpose, after he's done saving the world of mages, lord knows what would happen next. A few celebrations, sure. Maybe even some cake and confetti. Then what? That's the only thing separating us from heroes, Baz. They're granted with a life purpose, we aren't. We live ambiguously, they don't. We have choices. Everything around us is a life choice. We get to be anything we will ourselves to be. But for people like Simon Snow?" She turned her head and grabbed her spoon, turning her ice cream around her glass like stew. "He's a weapon. He'll always be a weapon. Nothing will change that."

But if you could be anything, Baz thought. If you could be anything, then why do i feel like i have no other choice but to become the villain?

He almost felt bad for him. Almost. Besides, he was doing this for the greater good, so there was nothing to feel bad for, nothing to worry about.

He could have had a childhood. This was Lucy’s voice. Or was it his own? You could have given him that. He could have been a normal mage with likes and dislikes. A normal boy who plays soccer, who plays in the rain and jumps in rain puddles. You had the power to do that. You could have presented that boy with choices.

The Mage dismissed this voice. Simon wasn’t normal. Simon was the Chosen One. Who wouldn’t want to be the hero of their own story?

He was sure he left Simon here. Shame, maybe he could have placed him down in some other care home. Out of all the care homes it had to be the one with walls so old its ugly orange paint was peeling off around the corners. He could see mold around the space where the walls met its roof.

The mage wrinkled his nose in disgust. It is possible that Simon may have learned the value of simplicity at least. Staying humble and all that. Though none of those trivial values mattered now.

He went through the Chosen One’s schedule for the next week, listing off all the essential bits and all the least important ones. He’s going to need training. He’s going to need lots of training. And supervision. Perhaps he could be there for Simon ti’ll he gets the hang of the whole Chosen One business.

He’s already planned it all. He’ll give Simon his wand — and what a powerful, experienced wand it is — and he could show him some tricks. He would give him special classes, explicitly for him.

Next thing he’ll know it, he’ll be the saviour. The hero. He’ll be the Chosen One and save the whole world of mages. That is the hope anyway.

Though people like Davy don’t rely on hope. People like Davy call hope goals. They call goals objectives. People like davy see these objectives as check boxes ticked off by the second.

So he adjusted his suit jacket. Looking over his shoulder, he gestured over to one of his men to come close. “Make sure Simon gets in the camaro once he gets out.” The gentleman nodded in response.

History was in the making since the time Davy was in watford. Today, history is about to change.

Her mom told her that Simon Snow was dangerous. Everyone tells her Simon Snow is dangerous. Soon, as Penelope Bunce has come to learn, she noticed everyones been telling her lots of things about the Chosen One. They tell her to be careful. To never go near him by the time she would enter Watford. They tell her that he is the most powerful mage to ever walk, and that his magic isn’t normal, that it isn’t contained. That he is a monster. One night, when she and her brother were trading ghost stories by the fireplace, he told her the story of the Chosen One and how he was sent by demons. She tried so very hard not to roll her eyes.

The point was, Simon Snow came off as many things. Maybe it was because of her stubbornness, maybe it was because of how insistent she was on proving to everyone that Simon Snow was not what everyone declared him to be, or perhaps it was simply because she was intrigued of Simon even before she met him. Maybe these were all valid reasons as to why Penelope befriended him on the first day of watford, despite her family’s warning.

Thinking back to the past events, to every word her relatives have said about her friend, every lie and rumour, she couldn’t help but smile. She smiled because she knew she was right once again and that the rest were wrong: Simon Snow is not a monster. She didn’t think he ever was.

They’re seated across from each other on the breakfast table. It was their fourth day here in Watford, and Penny was pleased to find out that she was already leading top of the class. Well, that is, if it weren’t for Baz Pitch, maybe she really would have been top of the class and not fall on second. Second sucks. According to Simon, Baz sucks as well. (It turns out not a day away goes by without Simon mentioning his roommate. Penny tries her best to stay inquisitive throughout these discussions with her friend, but most days the whole conversation gets too tedious.)

Speaking of discussions, she wanted to lead today’s conversation towards a direction — literally any direction — that has nothing to do with Simon’s roommate, so before he even gets the chance to open his mouth, Penny says “You know, i’ve heard a lot of things about you. Even before I came to Watford.”

Simon stared. This was an indication enough for Penny to continue. “Like how your the Chosen One and all that.”

The boy swallowed his cherry scone and almost as swiftly grabs another one. “Yeah, well, I am the Chosen one, so that figures.”

Penny thought for awhile. “Why are you the chosen one though? Out of everyone?”

“Because of my magic?”

“how’d you get so much magic in the first place then? Your magic has to come from somewhere. Why would your parents leave you when they knew how much magic you contained?” She stopped herself from asking further questions. “Gosh, Simon I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

Simon kept his eyes plastered on the cherry scone in his hands. His eyes betrayed no emotion. “Thats fine Penny. I’m sure they had a reason though.” His voice sounded positive despite the subject of discussion, and that was the exact moment Penny knew this boy was nothing close to a monster.

Simon Snow is just a boy. A boy with as many questions as she has.

“Sometimes i like to think that my mom was a teacher. A really nice teacher who gives blueberry muffins to children who answer things correctly?” Simon dropped his scone, and the mere sight was a wonder to Penny’s two eyes. She decided it was best to encourage the conversation. “What would your dad be?”

“He’d be a football player. Like as in, celebrity football player. He’s the one who wins all the trophy’s, that one player the team couldn’t win without. He’d be riding in a limo and everything and there would be light shining everywhere from the paparazzi.” He smiled, thinking of these concepts.

He knew it would do him no good to think of these things. But no one told him he couldn’t pretend. No one said pretending was bad.

So he pretended. He pretended he was loved. He pretended he was wanted and cherished. He pretended he had a mom and a dad and a life.

The next thing Simon feels is a hand on-top his shoulder. Looking back he see’s the Mage in all his glory. “Simon, we’ve got work to do.” He had sounded so official, so down to the point. He also sounded like a leader, and the mage certainly dressed like it.

Simon stood up.

It was evident to Penelope that Simon wanted to be like the mage someday. She saw it in the way he looked at him, like the mage was some kind of statue he needed to replicate. As if the mage was the only person in the room who mattered to Simon.

Like he was the only person who bothered to care.

Simon left without question, leaving Penny looking dumbfounded and surprised.

She knew that Simon Snow was just a boy, yes. What she does not know is if everyone could see that as well. Soon, she found herself hoping the mage out of all people could see that.

Soon, she found herself by Simon’s side the next year, and the year after that, then the next year until her family had grown used of him, until they considered him family.

Soon, she discovered that Simon no longer had one person in his life who cared.

Then when Baz Pitch strides by, when she catches the way Baz glances at his roommate or the small moments like the way he sneers at him…it turns out she wasn’t the only one who cared.

They're seated in the dinning room and Penny can't handle it anymore. "Alright assholes tell you what, how bout i cook some fucking chicken and a steak. How bout that?"

Baz snorted. "Theres no way you could do both. Besides, if someone wouldn't be picky -- "

"Try me Picth i dare you."

"uh, language."

Both Baz and Penny stare at the boy cradling himself on the chair. Penny glared. "Excuse me?"

“Well, you kept swearing, its bad for the baby."

"well don't you think its a little too late to—“ Penny stopped in her train of thought.

Now its Baz's turn to glare. He raised an eyebrow and politely, sarcastically asks, "What baby, Snow?"

Simon smirked. "Im the baby, idiot. Hell if either of us could conceive don't you think we'd be having a family of sixteen right --"

Baz threw a spoon at his husbands face to shut him up, rolling his eyes in the process. "Your a disgust, Snow. And also I saw that post about the whole baby shenanigan joke in tumblr, so don't think your so special."

He was surprised when he saw the look of hurt across Simon's face. He was even more surprised when that hurt looked genuine. "Jesus stop pouting -"

Penny cuts Baz off: "You have a tumblr?" Simon's eyes immediately perked up at that concept. Baz could tell tonight was going be a very long, very agonising night.

“Im sorry, my mind just can’t wrap around the idea of you having a tumblr.” Penny joked, one hand on her hip and the other leaning against the kitchen counter.

Simon looked to Penny. “I bet he has a username like CountBasilton360.” She laughed at that thought. “No, no, no I bet he named himself BazzieTheVampireSlayer and has a profile picture of Drarry Fanart!”

Baz stood up in the middle of all the laughter and the chaos and gladly excused himself to his and Simon’s room. He silently grabs his laptop to change his profile picture.

The veil is getting thinner by the second. I don't know if i could reach you -- but i did it before. I could do it again.

it's funny, last time i reached out towards you Davy stabbed me with a dagger. Theres no dagger this time, Simon. I'm safe here. My only wish is for you to be safe there.

So i tear open the Veil -- i could handle the consequences after.

As luck would have it, you look happy. I see you seated in the dinning table with Natasha's boy. I notice identical rings in both your ring fingers, and i shouldn't be crying, but i cry anyway.

Oh, Simon.

Everything revolved around you. Chances are you wouldn't have made it. But you look so happy … your smiling and your so bright and vibrant.

I’ll love you the most, Simon. I’ll always love you the most.

I wasn’t there to prove it —

but I’m sure they will.

The last image i get from you is you laughing with your eyes closed, arms around your stomach.

And I’m sure your the most alive I have ever seen you.

For once in my entire life, I stop fighting the veil and I let its cool breeze devour me.

#Carry On #Snowbaz #Snowbaz angst #Snowbaz fluff #Rainbow Rowell #Baz #Baz pitch #Simon #Simon Snow #Lucy Salisbury #Snowbaz fanfiction #Snowbaz fanfic #carry on angst #carry on fluff #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #As Luck Would Have It #Fan fiction #snowbaz fan fiction #post watford

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keptin-indy · 7 years ago

Text

Dresden Files: Salem 14

Adler makes a bad decision and everyone deals with the fallout for two sessions. Also I put way too much detail into documenting a bluebooking session because it’s cute.

Previous installments

Sanya asked if they wanted help smiting the demon, but Adler pointed out that they had to find her first and asked for her number from Conan, saying he was going to set up a meeting via anonymous tip. Baz suggested going to the same warehouse where they had killed the witchhunter, since they knew it was out of the way enough for murder. Sanya did not want to know this story, but in fairness, neither did Baz and he’d been the one doing the murdering. Sanya insisted they find another way and Adler said that if he had one, he would love to hear it and was all ears...then proceeded to make that statement literal. Sanya asked what manner of creature he was and Adler said that he didn’t know except that he was someone who wanted to make things better and give Baz a break. With no other viable options, Adler called the woman’s cell from a payphone, telling her he had a tip on her dead partner, then gave her the time and place for a meeting. She very reasonably sounded terrified and asked how he got the number, etc, etc, but he gave no more information. The group plus Sanya headed over to the warehouse early to prepare, all armed for battle, with Conan in a ski mask “just in case” and with his blessed bullets, and Sanya kitted out with his Sword, an assault rifle, and a kevlar vest with a cross painted on it. Baz warned him that proximity to wizards tended to break more complicated guns, but Sanya said he’d chosen a Kalashnikov for precisely its ability to keep going no matter what. Baz asked if Sanya knew any other preparations they could take in a short time, and Sanya said that he had a landmine in his checked baggage, but not much else (making Baz very happy that he would never be on a plane himself). Ath, the living sword, brought a knife and then proceeded to arrange the boxes and crates in the warehouse to his liking. Adler turned into a creature that at first glance would appear to be a dog, but that could unfold into one of his horrible claw monster forms. Baz and Adler took point, standing in the middle of the warehouse, while the others hid amongst the boxes and waited for the woman to arrive. She eventually did, armed with pepper spray and looking exactly as terrified as a lone woman in a warehouse with a large man with an equally large sword and dog would be. Seeing this, Baz tried to backtrack, telling her he would stay back, far away from her, and just wanted to talk. He asked if she knew her partner had been a demon, which she denied, but Evelyn, watching from where Baz could see her, gave him a thumbs down to indicate she was lying and Adler tried to get between the woman and the door, causing her to bolt for it. Ath toppled the precarious tower of boxes he’d set up earlier, blocking the door, and the woman begged to be let out. At her rising distress, the ground started to tremble - evidently she was a practitioner, powerful but untrained, and directing all her raw energy downward into the earth. Evelyn came out and tried to salvage the situation and calm everyone down, but with no easy way to tell if the woman was a demon trying to lower their guard, Baz asked Sanya what would happen if someone tried to look at a Denarian with the Sight. Sanya told him that the last guy who’d tried had run away screaming, so Evelyn - knowing that Baz was the better combatant should this provoke a fight - volunteered and opened her third eye. The first thing she noticed was that there wasn’t a Denarian sigil on the woman, but the lack of something was an extremely unusual and slightly suspicious thing to notice so immediately, especially when the less noticeable characteristics included skin like cracked marble and a definite sense that she was both unstable and influence by the infernal. Evelyn closed the Sight and told the others she wasn’t a demon. Baz apologized for scaring her, but told her that the person she was looking for was very dangerous and they had to be sure. The group asked her some questions, but didn’t find much other than that she was searching for Bennett because she loved him even though he was a demon. Evelyn offered her professional services, Adler turned into a much less terrifying fluffy dog, and Ath snuck out to get coffee and donuts. Baz told her that they had killed her boyfriend and that he’d been sucking away people’s happiness and killing them with despair. She was horrified; to her, he’d been nothing but kind, teaching her how to control her magic (though Evelyn didn’t think this was the whole story). Baz told her she could get training from the Witches in Salem, but she said she might just want to move on, since the town had nothing but bad memories for her now. Ath came back with his comfort food, surprising Baz, who hadn’t even seen him leave. With the tensions now soothed, the ground tremors stopped and they all headed away from the warehouse. Baz and Evelyn gave her their and the Witches Circle’s numbers in case she needed anything, and Ath gave her some money for a hotel room in apology for the panic they’d put her through. Seeing everything so nicely resolved, however, Adler was unable to resist adding a touch of mystery, turning to the still slightly distraught woman while still in dog form and telling her that things were not always as they seemed. Her tenuous calm shattered, the woman ran screaming and the tremors returned as a full-blown localized earthquake. Adler immediately realized he’d made a mistake and turned into a bird, flying around the area to alert people and direct emergency services to anyone hurt in the quake. Thankfully, there were only minor injuries and property damage, but Adler felt responsible for all of it, and went through a lot of effort to arrange for a hippie healer witch to take care of the worst injury - a broken wrist - because he was avoiding Baz out of guilt.

The next day - New Year’s Eve - Adler showed up on Baz’s doorstep as a dog after not having come home at all the night before. A worried Baz asked where he’d been and Adler said there was a spot under a nearby bridge that was excellent for feeling shame because bad dogs didn’t didn’t get to sleep in the bedroom (yes they do, said Baz, with much experience). Adler continued that he was lucky there’d only been one broken bone and that he’d found someone to heal it, leaving Baz mystified as to what was even going on. Adler didn’t think he deserved his position as Baz’s boyfriend and Baz must surely be disappointed in him. Baz was mostly just confused and told him to maybe not creep out people who’ve just been through trauma. Adler finally turned into a human and immediately brightened up. He explained that he’d arranged the healer because he felt responsible for the earthquake and didn’t want his first act as Baz’s "equal partner” to be making Baz fix a mess he had caused. Baz told him he’d hoped his first act would be going somewhere for New Year’s with him and Adler told him that’s why he’d come back when he had. Baz suggested they get werewolf tacos and talk more, [so they relocated to the Howling Wolf Taqueria where Adler explained that when he took on animal forms, he frequently also took on some measure of how they thought, which had led his dog-brain to believe that he had been a Bad Dog and should be much more ashamed than the situation actually warranted. Once he turned into a human, he saw things much more clearly, though he did worry that Baz would think less of him for running away and not knowing how to handle the extra relationship aspect of these kinds of problems. With that cleared up, the conversation wandered around, first to Conan and his willful ignorance of both the supernatural and Baz’s sexual orientation, then to whether or not they wanted to be open about their relationship and if it was polite in the modern era to publicly announce one’s dating status and the difficulties in doing so when you couldn’t use a computer. Baz realized he would have to tell his mother, who had always been a little leery of Adler, and Adler suggested that it was only fair that Baz meet his mother sometime, as well. Baz recounted the story of when Conan had asked out Sylvia Rowland and been soundly shot down, which turned into telling Adler what the Rowlands had been like, understandably still a delicate subject for Baz. Adler felt bad on Baz’s behalf and regretted that he was taking all three of their duties on himself, but Baz pointed out that with so few Wardens left, he was the only one around to do it. Baz apologized for bringing the mood down on their first date, and Adler briefly panicked that he should have put more thought into what he looked like for such a momentous occasion, but Baz pointed out that he’d put a lot of effort into choosing his human face and Baz was pretty fond of that. Adler said that even the Winters had liked his face, hence the stealing of it and Baz asked what the story had been there. It was pretty simple, the Winter Court had cornered Adler in an alley and demanded he join them, then they ganged up on him and beat him when he refused, with the troll carving his face off to make a statement. Carving his own face off later to make the same statement had been much less unpleasant, as he viewed that as suffering for his art rather than torture. Adler was surprised that he didn’t mind being in constant danger for other people’s sake now that he was working with a Warden; he was just an actor, not a real hero. Baz told him that being a “real hero” was just method acting as one until it became the truth. Adler was thrilled by this bit of wisdom and said it validated his entire world view and if it were appropriate to glow in public, he absolutely would. The two made plans to go to a dance party for New Year’s where Adler could glow all he wanted and no one would notice. Baz laughed that he had his own little disco ball and Adler wrote him a napkin coupon for one emergency disco party “just in case”.]

Mid-evening, Sanya called Baz from the airport saying that his flight had been delayed again, which meant that something was still up. Baz called up the others and they all met up with Sanya at the Estate and headed downstairs to the magical map of Boston they had set up to track cultists. Without a sympathetic connection to anything demon-related, there wasn’t much they could do with it. Adler’s sensitive ears picked up a strange keening or singing from outside and he told the others to stop talking. Most of the others also caught snippets of it, so they headed upstairs, but it didn’t seem to be coming from any discernible direction. They made a circle out toward the bay and then back toward downtown to try and find its source, but Ath and Conan realized that it was coming from multiple places, all of them patches of bare earth. Baz drew a magic circle in the dirt and used it to pinpoint the epicenter along the banks of the North River. As they headed in that direction, they could see that the landscape had been changed and more and more of those bare patches of dirt had grown abrupt and jagged rock outcroppings. The quality of the music changed as they got closer to a large plateau of rock and they realized that they could now hear it through the air as well as the stone. It was evidently coming from a dancing figure on top of the plateau, who they recognized as the woman from the warehouse - only now she had a second set of glowing eyes set in her forehead. Sanya called up asking if she would please stop, the city was nice without all the new rocks. She didn’t stop, so Adler flew Sanya up while Conan and Ath used their superhuman speed to climb the cliff face. The woman responded by shooting a fist of stone at Sanya, staggering him before the rest of the part could even get to them. Adler returned to pick Baz up, then Evelyn, and the two swordsmen engaged the demon, though she focused entirely on the Knight of the Cross, the Denarians’ traditional enemy. Ath jumped between her and Sanya, taking a blow meant for the Knight, and so she retaliated by shaking the whole plateau violently. Evelyn tried to push the demon off the cliffside with a gust of wind, but she was too solidly anchored to her creation. The others used all the means at their disposal to take her down, Conan shooting her between all four eyes, Adler raking across her face with sharp claws, and Baz countering her earth magic with his own, but she was largely unconcerned and called up an even more powerful quake, knocking Baz and Evelyn off the plateau. They landed hard on the ground and didn’t get up. The others, enraged, redoubled their efforts until finally Conan brought her down with a well-placed shot which knocked her head against the stone spear she had created, Baz had thrown back at her, and Adler had driven further into her. Sanya and Ath immediately searched for her coin, which turned out to be in a secret pocket against her skin. Sanya wrapped it in the remains of his shirt and thanked Ath for protecting him, telling him that he’d noticed Ath was afraid of him and that he didn’t have to be. Ath told him that was completely untrue but didn’t elaborate. Conan and Adler rushed down to Baz and brought him groggily around. Dazed, Baz asked about Evelyn and attempted to heal her, but was too injured himself to even move over to her. He put himself into a healing trance and Adler called his hippie witch friend to look after them. Around them, the town of Salem was riddled with outcroppings and spires. The random rock spurs had destroyed several buildings, though they’d taken the magical path of least resistance and avoided wards and strong thresholds. Conan asked Sanya what to do with their prisoner and Sanya expressed hope that she could be reasoned with and eventually rehabilitated, but warned him that once she was awake, she could summon the coin at will and start the fight all over again.

#Dresden Files: Salem #dresden files rpg #actual play #livejournal replacement #game

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