#why does swearing in british always seem less sacrilegious?

[wylanvnneck]

Rating: T for Tyrannosaurus

Summary: Simon is a Shadowhunter and Baz is a vampire, the Head of the Watford vampire clan, strange things are taking place in Watford and something needs to be done about it.

Originally a short one shot in this AU written for the Carry On Countdown, but thanks to a surprising demand for more via AO3 and Tumblr is now a multi-chap, hopefully, you’ll join me for the ride.

On AO3 | Masterlist | Previous Chapter

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Chapter 2

Simon is barely conscious of his actions as he slams open the abandoned castle door of the Watford Institute. The old stone walls of the building echo with the force of it and yet Simon is too busy recalling a pair of pitch black eyes to notice.

He trudges through the dimly lit corridors, ascending the wide wooden staircase, with one destination in mind; the training room on the second floor.

But first, he had to report back to the Mage.

That wasn’t the Mage’s real name of course, but it was the one that everyone knew him by. There were rumours that his true title was ‘Davy’ but Simon couldn’t resign that name with the enigmatic and powerful figure that the Mage represented. To him, the Mage was all-knowing, omnipotent and above all, his guardian, the Institute Head who’d provided a home for an abandoned orphan boy.

Said omnipotent, all knowing Institute Head was blinking up at him owlishly from behind his mahogany desk, his attention diverted from the tremendous tome which he’d been perusing before his charge had stormed in like an agitated werewolf.

“Simon. Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing sir. I’m just reporting back after that vampire assignment you gave me.” Although his tone was as polite as usual, there’s an undercurrent to his words that spoke of his displeasure at having been assigned that particular task.

“Ah, yes. I trust everything went well?’

“Absolutely swell,”  He hoped the sarcasm wasn’t too apparent.

“Right…” the Mage was eyeing him curiously, head tilted to the side, probably trying to ascertain his mood before seeming to let it go. “Well then, run along and do what you will, you’re off duty for the rest of the night.”

“Thank you sir.”

The training room was the perfect place to vent his feelings. The burn in his biceps as he swings from bar to bar is a welcoming distraction from the turmoil of his thoughts. Thoughts which seemed to consist mostly of blood red cocktails, a pair of fangs and a tailored suit with a floral pattern. It seemed ridiculous that one infuriating blood sucker could push him so off balance, but there he was, so completely off-kilter.

That arrogant vampire. Baz, his brain reminded him. Well Baz could go to hell. How dare he make such insinuations about Shadowhunters? 

The Nephilim were what glued the supernatural community together. They were the overseers, the protectors. Without them the Magickal society would fall to pieces.

Why was this encounter bothering him so much?

He was used to Downworlder scorn, used to things like angry Warlocks knocking on the Institute’s door demanding that they be allowed to sell their services to mortals, services that would end in disaster if allowed. He’d never once before questioned the rules governing the other supernatural species, never once hesitated to tell an ambitious Downworlder ‘No’ and yet…

He jumps down from the bar he’d been hanging from, landing effortlessly on his feet. The tough leathery punching bag close by proves to be a good victim to take his frustrations out on.

Expensive cologne. A punch from the left.

Stupid not-even-truly-British accents. A punishing right hook.

A condescending smile framed by sculpted lips. A vicious roundhouse kick.

He hated this.

He needed someone to talk to. He needed Penelope.

He pulls away from the quivering bag and heads to the benches to swipe a wet towel over his sweaty face before hanging it around his neck as he squirts water onto his parched tongue. Merlin, for exactly how long had he been training?

The secret mundane phone that he kept back on the table in his room told him that the time was currently 4.00 am in the morning, meaning he’d been training for a cool two hours at a stretch after having gotten back from the revel at around 2.00. Wonderful. 

Even better, he had training with Agatha in four short hours. Well, he’d better get what sleep he could.

He swipes open his lockscreen before typing a quick message to his Parabatai.

Vampires are terrible. Yes, I know, they rarely suck on human blood and when they do it’s not always harmful but Crowley, Penny you haven’t met the Head Vampire of the Watford Clan. He’s a bloody arsehole. 

Having delivered that missive he heads off to get ready for bed.

Agatha is a lot less enthusiastic than usual at training this morning and that’s really saying something as she was never really all that enthusiastic to begin with. In fact, if Simon didn’t know any better he’d think that she resented being a Shadowhunter. Impossible. Being Nephilim was an honour.

“Simon! Stop attacking me with that thing.”

Simon had barely been moving his practice blade and yet Agatha seemed to think the false blade posed enough of a threat.

He just barely suppresses a long-suffering sigh. “Agatha, that’s the whole point of training. We pretend to attack each other so we’ll be prepared for actual attacks.”

“I really don’t see the point of training for an attack. Nothing fun ever happens around here anyways.”

Nothing fun. As if fights and wars and people being injured was fun. Biting back a retort he simply says, “Still, it’s always a good idea to be prepared.”

“Oh very well.” With a long suffering sigh of her own she finally raises her blade in an half-hearted attempt to parry him.

Practice goes worse than usual, but Simon’s day had been off even before then, he’d woken up to no messages from Penny who was usually up at the crack of dawn but he’d chalked it down to possible exhaustion from travelling. Not that she’d really gone all that far either. It felt weird to not have her frizzy haired self nearby. They’d been almost inseparable since even before they were twelve, when it had become time for him to decide who he’d have as a parabatai, Simon didn’t even have to think twice before deciding on Penny.

She was a force of nature and a constant presence; always there, always dependable. She also had a penchant for reading him way too easily.

He doesn’t truly start panicking however, he’s willing to give her silence the benefit of the doubt at least for the moment, after all, his parabatai rune wasn’t giving off any odd signals. 

Then, the phone call happened.

 Professor Bunce sounds hurried and displeased. “Simon, can you please remind Penelope to not forget to bring an extra pillow and bedsheet with her when she gets here and do tell her to answer my calls.” 

“Professor Bunce,” the panic is rising in his voice, he can almost taste it, like bile traveling up his throat. “Penelope left for home yesterday. She should have been there by now.”

There’s a long pause. So long that Simon has to pinch himself to make sure that this is indeed reality. 

“Simon, what are you saying? Surely you know where my daughter is.”

“No, Professor.” His voice is cracked. “I don’t.”

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Stay tuned for chapter 3, I’ll try to get it up soon but I make no promises🌺

Tagging some of the lovely people who are the reason why this exists: @eviegalois​ and @sourcherrysconess​

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off of the taglist.