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forabeatofadrum · 1 year

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A Grimm Christmas (G, ~5K)

Summary: A continuation of Snow for Christmas.

Simon’s gone back to London and Baz has to go back in the closet. Or so he thinks. His sisters have a different plan.

Notes: What if we made Malcolm Grimm’s Christmas even more uncomfortable than before? That’s the question that was on my mind after I finished Snow for Christmas. Poor Malcolm thought he could go back to pretending queerness doesn’t exist, but his kids thought differently. This is a little story about the Grimm children and about how there’s always hope.

Jas @aroace-genderfluid-sheep came up with the title and they were kind enough to let me use it, because it is brilliant. Happy reading.

Read on AO3 or under the cut.

BAZ

I watch Simon get in Fiona’s car. He drives off and my heart already feels heavy. Call me a sap, but I miss him already and he’s not even out of our driveway. (The one to the hunting lodge is longer than the one in Hampshire, which is saying something since our Hampshire house had a huge driveway.)

There’s another reason I insist on watching Simon drive away.

I kissed him in front of my parents.

I don’t regret it, but Merlin, I wonder what will happen now. We’ve been politely un-homosexual during the entire day and now I ruined it at the very end. (Un-homosexual is a word Simon would use. He has that effect on me.)

It’s time to face the music. I compose myself and turn back to the house. As expected, it’s clear that they’re not all to pleased about it. My father has a frown on his face and Daphne has the same anxious look that she had at Fortum’s when she invited Simon over.

Luckily, all three of us are saved from acknowledging my queerness when Sophie appears between my parents.

“Is Simon gone?” she asks.

“Yes, dear,” I walk back to the porch. The moment I’m in reach, Sophie raises her arms. She wants me to pick her up and even though she’s getting too big, I cannot refuse her.

Besides, I am still very much a vampire. I could probably carry Mordelia if she wanted me to.

I hoist Sophie up and the two of us walk back inside. My parents step aside and I feel tense when I pass them. It’s as if my father is exuding his disappointment and that is exactly what I meant when I told Simon I didn’t like that I feel closeted.

My father closes the door and the four of us walk back to the living room and Sophie is talking my ears off, but I can’t concentrate. I hate that I feel bad for kissing the love of my life goodbye. I shouldn’t feel bad for that. I don’t regret it, really, but my father gives off the feeling that I should.

Yes, Simon could come along.

Yes, we had a great time all things considered.

No, we will not acknowledge why Simon is here in the first place.

At least, that’s what I thought, because Sophie keeps talking about Simon and how she’s sad that he left, because she likes his wings and she likes that he gave her gifts, and when I remind Sophie that Simon had to celebrate Christmas with his grandmother, Sophie is confused.

“Why didn’t you go with him?” she asks.

“Because Christmas is family time and I love you,” I answer.

Mordelia hears it through her headphones and she rolls her eyes. She’s such an angsty teen. Petra, on the other hand, beams when she hears it.

Sophie also nods as if I said something extremely profound.

“Yes, but you also love Simon,” she says with a frown.

“… I do,” I say cautiously.

“And since he’s your boyfriend, shouldn’t you go to his family too?”

The entire room goes silent. Mordelia even takes off her headphones. Petra and Swithin seem unbothered by what just happened, but I can hear that my father has stopped in his tracks. If turning back to see his reaction to me kissing Simon was nerve wracking, me turning back to see his reaction to Sophie calling Simon my boyfriend is torture.

I don’t reply and I put Sophie down on the lavish sofa, next to Petra. Then I sit down on her other side. I purposefully don’t look to my father.

“Well, yes, I do love him very much,” I say and I hate how the guilt weighs heavily. I hate that I know this guilt is wrong. I hate that I feel guilty in the first place while knowing that shouldn’t have to feel like this, but I still do. “But the same way I love you as my family, he also has a family he loves, and we decided that it is fine that we are apart for a little while.”

Once again, Sophie nods as if I told her the secret of the universe.

“I get that. Mum was gone for a long time too.”

I hear Daphne cough awkwardly and I glance over her. She’s poured herself a drink and it looks like she’s choked on it. (Well, she’s the one drinking in the morning.) (Is this because of this conversation?) (Although I don’t think it’s alcoholic.). I am still not ready to look at my father.

Well, mum joined a cult and that is a different situation, I think, but sure.

“Yes, true,” I say awkwardly.

Petra also hums in agreement.

“And you and Simon live together, right?” Petra adds fuel to this fire by saying that. Now I hear my father choke on his drink. “So you will see him a lot!”

“I will,” I say, still a bit cautious.

How do the twins know all of this?

I thought that my relationship was a big taboo in the house. Even Mordelia clearly knows this, because she’s watching this entire conversation unfold with a shocked look on her face. She keeps glancing towards our parents out of the corner of her eyes.

So it’s clear that my parents made it very aware to her that she can’t talk about it.

Which… well, which makes me seethe. I am not surprised, but the disappointment is still heavy.

But the twins have clearly missed the memo.

Of course it cannot last.

“That’s enough of that,” my father says sternly and I finally look at him. He’s gripping the base his glass and I’m surprised it hasn’t snapped in half yet. He looks extremely tense and uncomfortable and Daphne looks anxious again.

“But daddy-”

“Sophronia,” Daphne says with a clipped voice, “It’s Christmas.”

So what? I want to yell, but I have learnt to bite my tongue and hide my displeasure all my life, so I know what to do. It’s clear what she means. It’s not a great idea to talk about it, because it will make Malcolm Grimm unhappy and that will spoil Christmas.

Great.

“Makes sense,” Petra says, and all the hope that has been quietly building in my chest gets crushed in an instant.

Sophie hums in agreement.

Well, fuck.

“Yes, this Christmas, Simon needs to go home,” she says, “But maybe next year we can all have Christmas together!”

“… As in?” Mordelia prompts carefully.

“Our family and Simon’s family!” Sophie exclaims happily.

“Oh, yay!” Petra claps her hands happily, “Yes, because Simon and Baz are in love and people who are in love do that!”

“Girls, we agreed that it’s Christmas,” my father butts in.

Petra nods.

“Okay, we cannot talk about Simon being here because he is Baz’s boyfriend for this Christmas,” Petra says, “But daddy, we’re talking about next Christmas!”

She says it with an ‘isn’t it obvious?’ voice. She’s this close to dramatically rolling her eyes. It’s a family trait, one that Mordelia and I have perfected.

I have to hide a smile. Petra is right in a way. Even Mordelia cannot hide her amusement. Up until now she looked torn whether or not she should side with me or with our parents, but I think Petra is winning her over.

“Next Christmas! Yay, big Christmas with family! Oh, Baz,” Sophie’s eyes go wide with a sudden realisation, “If you two live together, and are in love, and celebrate Christmas together, does that mean you are getting married soon? Then we’re all family!”

My father, bless his stupid heart, breaks the glass.

“I can fix it for you, father,” I say with a pointed tone in my voice. I take out my wand and cast a quick I can fix it for you, Sonny. The spell is extra strong since it matches what I said before I cast it.

“Thanks Basilton,” he says shortly.

“You’re welcome.”

The two of us stare at each other and in that moment, I come to an epiphany.

My father has no power over the situation.

He might’ve been able to make Mordelia cautious about any mention of queerness, but the twins don’t see anything wrong with it. Kids are often more open-minded than adults, because they haven’t been taught hatred yet. I was too late with Mordelia, but I realise I can change it for my youngest siblings. I can show them - and I suppose also myself - that my love for Simon has a place in the world. (Simon would say the twins are like free real estate.)

I owe it to them to show them the way.

I owe it to my past self.

Fuck, I even owe it to my current self. I belong here.

And I realise this can go both ways. My father is clearly silently communicating to me to stop this, since he realises that he and Daphne aren’t able to do so, and yes I can do that and I can shove myself back to this closet.

Or I can no longer give a fuck.

And make my father super uncomfortable.

At Christmas.

Now, I’d like to believe I am a good man. I’ve reflected a lot on my past behaviour and there are things that I definitely regret, but I think I’ve grown. I am a reasonable and nice person.

But if there’s one flaw that I cannot let go of, it’s spitefulness.

Is it terrible of me to give my father the worst Christmas of his life? Yes, certainly. Am I excited to give him a taste of his own medicine, because I had to be the one to cower in discomfort all these past Christmases? Yes, totally.

So I give him a big smile and turn back to my adoring sisters.

“I am not getting married to him,” I say, “… yet.”

The twins gasp.

“Will you, Bazzy?” Petra sits up and her face is in awe. Petra loves weddings. She always makes her dolls get (heterosexually) married. “Will you?”

I laugh.

“That is also up to him, my dear,” I say.

“Does that make Simon a brother?” Sophie pouts, “I have enough brothers! You can’t marry him anymore. Swithin is enough!”

At that moment, Swithin giggles. He isn’t listening at all, he’s just playing with his toys underneath the opulent Christmas tree, but it is still fitting.

“It makes him our brother-in-law, Sophie!”

The three of us turn to Mordelia. She gives me a small smile. I see her glance towards our parents but I use one shoulder to shrug.

An understanding passes us. If I no longer have to care, then why should she?

��Brothers-in-law aren’t the same as brothers,” Mordelia continues her explanation with a bored tone, as if that silent conversation between us didn’t happen, “We’d be Simon’s sisters-in-law. Does that mean I get to bully Simon?”

“Nooooo!” the twins cry out.

“Girls-” poor Daphne makes another attempt, but it is futile.

My sisters talk about Simon and I sit back and I enjoy the show. I quickly look at my father again. He’s staring at his repaired glass and the discomfort is obvious, but at least he’s shutting up. Even Daphne looks exasperated and defeated.

I don’t think it’s bad of me to enjoy it. The schadenfreude is big.

The rest of the day, I talk about Simon. He’s arrived at his grandma and I am bombarded with photos of the many cakes that Lady Salisbury has baked. I show them to my siblings and they all oooh and aaaah at the sight of it.

“Tell Simon…”

“What is Simon doing now?”

“Send Simon a photo of…”

My siblings not only know that he is my boyfriend, but they also actively want to know more of him, since they understand it’s important to me.

It’s all so… normal. So nice. I am not used to being able to talk about Simon as my partner in my parents’ house. Heck, even Swithin has taken interest in Simon. I showed my siblings a photo with Simon with his wings on full display and now Swithin keeps reminding everyone that he wants the bird to come back.

Of course I told Simon, because I can do that. He finds it adorable.

“if ur parents are fine with it I can take the kids out for a flight” he texted me, which doesn’t sound like a great idea, but it’s still sweet of him to suggest it.

I feel great.

This is how it’s always supposed to be.

Sophie is even trying to convince Daphne to take her on a visit to the Hackney Wick flat. (Poor Daphne will have a heart attack when she sees the pink couch.) (Not necessarily because of the gay thing, but the pink is so bright that it doesn’t fit with the rest of the interior at all.) (And okay, also because of the gay thing.)

We have Christmas dinner and my fangs don’t pop out, but that’s partly because I am not focusing on my fangs in the first place. Instead I am answering Mordelia’s questions about living in London.

I haven’t felt this at ease in front of my family in ages.

Which, okay, it does make me a bit sad. It’s weird to think I could’ve had this all my life. My siblings are showing me that it is possible and I do not know what to do with the quiet anger that builds up every time I think of that.

Shit, maybe I need therapy after all.

After dinner, I help Daphne with washing up and the moment the two of us are alone, I brace myself for a lecture, but it doesn’t come. I suppose Daphne is still not talking about it. She doesn’t talk at all, even. She looks deep in thought, as if she’s contemplating something and I really hope she isn’t considering joining another cult.

Are we really not going to acknowledge what happened?

I was wrong, because after the washing up I pass my father in our lavish hallway and he stops me.

“Basilton,” he says.

“Father,” I reply calmly.

“We need to talk.”

“I think we do,” I say, “Talk, then.”

My father’s face is rigid and again and I revel in his discomfort. Yes, father. Talk. Say out loud what has been happening under your roof. Confirm why you look like you’re considering offing yourself.

“You’re setting a bad example for your siblings,” he says instead.

“Why?” I challenge him.

He really, really doesn’t want to say it, does he?

“You know why,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I genuinely don’t,” I say, and I’m not even playing dumb. I genuinely don’t see anything wrong with my siblings and I talking about my partner. The twins were right. When Simon and I get married, we will all be family. “I am having a lovely time, father. Now, if you excuse me-”

He puts his hand on my shoulder, stopping me again.

“Basilton,” he repeats.

“Father,” I match his serious tone in mock.

“You’re being immature, Basilton,” he says and I straighten my posture, “I invite Simon to this Christmas for you, and this is how you repay me?”

My head jerks towards him.

Did he really just say that?

“You invite Simon to this house under false pretences,” I say, trying not to show how angry I am, “You refuse to acknowledge that we are together. You try to ban my siblings from talking about it. You made me sleep on the sofa, instead of in the arms of the love of my life. You act as if me kissing him is a crime, and I am supposed to be grateful for all of that?”

“Bas-”

“You lost, father,” I cut him off, “Face it, you lost.”

My father turns red.

“You may have succeeded shutting up Daphne-” Although I unfortunately believe that Daphne harbours some of the same opinions “-and Mordelia. You created a sense of fear around the topic, but you lost. It’s too late. Unlike you, the twins don’t see anything wrong with what is happening and Swithin likes Simon too.”

“I am just trying to protect-”

“From what?” I press harder, “Who benefits from this? You can pretend that queerness doesn’t exist. You can talk around it in front of my siblings, but again, it is too late. Even if you make it certain that queerness will never be discussed under your roof, because it upsets you, my siblings will find an entire world out here. They will meet queer people, even of their own age. They will see queer people on the telly. They will read books with characters that have two dads or two mums, or parents of any gender identity. The twins can clearly clock that Simon and I are together, and I know it's not because you or mum told them so.”

My father looks around us, but no one is listening. Daphne and Mordelia are in the kitchen. The twins and Swithin are loudly playing with their new toys in the living room. It’s messed up that no one can hear this. It’s messed up that the moment he stepped inside the room yesterday, it went silent and everyone got uncomfortable and potentially scared.

If he has a problem, he should at least have the balls to say it out loud.

Still, my father lowers his voice.

“I am just trying my best here.”

I snort.

“Try harder,” I say coldly.

He looks pinched.

“Basilton, I am trying to protect you, not the twins,” he says and I know I said that dramatic eye rolls are the family trait, but I try not do to it, “Yes, the twins as well, but you too. You know I care about you. I want you to be happy and this gay thing will only come back to hurt you. I love you too much to let that happen, or to let a similar thing happen to the other kids.”

I know.

That makes everything worse.

If he didn’t love me, and if I didn’t love him back, then we wouldn’t be having this agonising conversation. Then we’d be no one to each other. But as I said to Petra, I come back for Christmas every damn year, despite knowing that I will be uncomfortable, because I love my family.

It would’ve been so much more easier if I could just cut him out of my life and be at peace with that, but that is not the truth.

I take a deep breath and I compose myself. I can’t afford to lose myself now. After years of pretending that it doesn’t exist, we’re finally talking about it. I am finally saying what’s been on my mind for years.

“I love you too, but you’re not helping anyone here,” I say calmly, “Wanting me to be happy is not an excuse to treat me and Simon the way you do, or to make everyone afraid of mentioning it.”

“If only you could just stop this,” my father sounds genuinely desperate, “I heard that Phillipa Stainton has rejoined the World of Mages. Now, she is not the most powerful, but her family-”

“There are a lot of reasons that this is a bad idea,” I cut him off. I can’t believe that he is still trying to set me up with a woman. Pippa Stainton of all women. “The main one being that I am gay.”

My father has a pained look on his face. I did it. I dropped the g-word.

“Basilton-”

“No matter how justified you feel with your intentions, it is still wrong,” I say back, “Do you think that I am not aware of the possible obstacles that being gay can create? I am very aware. Simon and I cannot hold hands without eliciting some kind of response. I know that, father, and yet I still choose to hold his hand because I love him.”

“But you can choose not to.”

“I can. But I won’t. Because I can choose how to act, but I cannot choose who I am,” I exclaim, “And no matter how much you try to deny it in this house, it doesn’t change the fact that I cannot control that I love men. One man in particular. You, on the other hand, can change your attitude and you refuse to, so don’t talk to me about not changing my ways of life, since you don’t even want to try to change.”

I just loaded all of that on him. All the pain and anger that I have pushed down for years just exploded out of me. I am surprised that I haven’t blown up in his face. (I suppose suppressing your emotions is good for this, at least. I can’t lose by being too emotional.)

“I am not a bad person. You still have a place in this house!” my father says, but he sounds different. Unsure. “Other people would’ve kicked you out.”

I let out a shallow laugh.

“I still have a place in this house, as long as I pretend to be someone I’m not, so this place in my house has been conditional all this time. And I love this family, but the twins were right. I also have Simon’s family now. They’ve only known me for half a year and they’ve showed me more acceptance in those six months than that you have in a decade. And since I am not leaving Simon, and you are presenting me with a choice, I might willingly loose my place in this house.”

The moment I said it, I realise a part of me still wants to take it back.

I want a place in this house.

I want to be with my family.

But another part of me realises there’s also some truth in those words. If he can’t change, it will be me who has to do the work, and I don’t think I can do that, especially now that the Salisbury’s have showed me that I don’t have to.

I hate this feeling of being semi-closeted.

I hate the conflicted feelings that it brings.

“Basilton-”

I hold up my hand.

“The Salisbury family is accepting. So are Mordelia and the twins. Again, you lost, father.”

I wait for him to say something back, but he doesn’t.

I look over his shoulder and I see Mordelia and Daphne standing there and I wonder how much they’ve heard. Based on Mordelia’s face, they certainly heard the end of my dramatic spiel.

“Bazzy!” we all hear.

Petra is running towards me with a sheet of paper.

“Look what I made!”

It’s a drawing of Simon’s wings.

I shoot my father a knowing look before turning my back to him. Petra leads me back to the living room and she talks about how she wishes she could fly.

My father drives me to the train station.

This is another chance for him.

After yesterday’s actions, we’ve been avoiding each other as much as possible, but Daphne isn’t comfortable driving and there are no busses that reach the hunting lodge, so now we’re stuck together in this awkward silence. I am on my phone, texting Simon my train information.

When we arrive, I wait for him.

“Have a nice trip,” he says.

“Alright.”

Alright.

I open the door to the car to get out, but he stops me again.

“Come back soon, will you?” he says, “With Simon, if you want to.”

“We’ll see.”

“Simon, your friend.”

“My friend, yes,” I resist the urge to roll your eyes. It’s an olive branch, I know that, but it is a rotten one. It is so fragile that it might snap the moment I take it.

“And maybe Petra was right,” he continues, “Maybe we can visit you and Simon in London. Where you live together. And have Christmas with the Salisbury’s, if they want that.”

I look over my shoulder. Now this is something. My father is still looking like he’d rather die than say those words, but it’s more than before.

“As a family,” I say.

“As a family,” he confirms, “Have a safe trip.”

Simon greets me at the train station. He’s come all the way to King’s Cross, although that wasn’t that hard since he stayed the night in Mayfair.

But now we’re taking the tube back to Hackney Wick. Home. Our home. We hold hands on the train and I don’t care if it bothers others.

Once we’ve arrived and we put away our stuff, I send a message to my family to tell them I’m home.

Simon comes in with tea and he talks my ears off about his Christmas with his grandmother and uncle. We sit on our pink sofa and I have a smile on my face. It makes me happy how Simon is bonding with his family. It’s still new, and Simon still calls them Lady Salisbury and Jamie out of habit, but it’s nice and he clearly likes them.

“They asked if you wanted to come over, but I kind of want a day with the two of us,” he says.

“Great minds think alike,” I say with a grin, “Besides, we can visit her soon.”

“Hm, yeah,” he says. He puts his cup on the table and he leans against me. “How was your Christmas? I loved the photo’s of your siblings’ drawings.”

“I told them you appreciate it.”

“Glad they like me.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “Yeah, they do.”

Simon looks up when he hears the woeful tone.

“What is it, babe?”

“My parents don’t like you. I think.”

Simon frowns.

“I thought they warmed up to me after dinner? Your father certainly was less annoyed by my existence.”

“Yes, but that was before I kissed you goodbye in front of them and reminded them that we are as queer as a three dollar bill.”

“Oh.”

I let out another sigh before I tell Simon everything that has happened the past day. He listens attentively and he rubs my arm when I become more agitated when recounting what my father said to me.

But I also tell him that my father brought up the idea of visiting.

I drag my hand across my face.

“I don’t know what this means,” I say, “He still can’t accept it. He can’t even say it. But he does acknowledge that we live together. It’s as if we’re back to square one. What do I do with this?”

“Nothing,” Simon says after a beat of silence.

I look at him through my fingers.

“Nothing,” Simon repeats, “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

That’s rich coming from him, but maybe that’s why it hits me like a ton of bricks. If Simon, the person who’s blindly followed someone for the most formative years of his life, who was constantly under the belief that he had to act a certain way or do certain things, can say that I don’t have to do anything, then maybe I really don’t have to do anything.

“Again, maybe this is a beginning. Like in all those movies and TV shows. Things might get better, but I suppose it is up to your parents,” he says, “You did what you could do. I’m proud of you.”

And honestly, yeah, I am proud of myself as well.

I shouldn’t have to defend myself in the first place, but I did something great. It took my twin sisters’ open adoration for Simon to show me I could do it, and I did it.

“So, what now?”

Simon smiles.

“Now, we have a very nice Extra Christmas, just the two of us, where we can be as gay as we want!” he says and he kisses me.

A year later

“This is a mistake.”

I’m tying my tie, but I can see Simon looking at me in the reflection of our mirror. I raise an eyebrow. He pouts.

“Why is this a mistake, love?” I ask him as I finish up.

“There are so many reasons for this to be a mistake!” Simon says frantically and I agree, but it is happening. He almost puts a hand in his hair out of frustration, but then he remembers that he’s styled it. “We should never have agreed to this! Our place is the smallest!”

It is.

It’s going to be hard fitting both our families in our small Hackney Wick flat. Penny came over to help with the preparations, so we magicked most of our furniture to the side and Penny then spelled our dining table bigger. (She’s still such a fierce magician.)

Penny and Shepard won’t be there, which is maybe a good thing, because Simon is right. Even with the different interior, it’s hard to fit everyone in our flat. There’s eleven of us. Good thing Jamie didn’t invite his new girlfriend.

Fuck, I can’t believe I am willingly letting Nicodemus Petty in my home, but the whole point of this extended family Christmas is the extended family part.

“Lady Gran could fit so many people, so could your parents!” Simon says, sounding like a nervous wreck. He doesn’t even realise he said Lady Gran, which always amuses me. “Only Fiona’s flat is as shit as ours.”

“The twins want to see our place, love,” I say. I put on my suit jacket and I style my hair one more time and I think I’m done. I look stunning, if I may so, and I may. “And… my father didn’t fight the invitation. That is huge.”

It still took them a year to actually come down to London to visit me and Simon, but better late than never. Okay, we tried to do a summer meet-up, but then Lady Salisbury asked us to come along on a vacation to Italy and we couldn’t say no to that.

Simon’s shoulders slump when he remembers that.

“That’s right. Are you excited?” he asks.

The truth is that I am probably as nervous as Simon, but for different reasons. But I nod. I am okay. Things aren’t perfect. I’ve barely seen my family in the past year, mainly because my father and I didn’t know what to say.

But I did continue to talk to my sisters. Maybe the fact that this younger generation has phones has some perks. Simon and I send a lot of photo’s of our life together and in return they send silly messages about school and what not.

Merlin, Mordelia spends more time messaging Simon than messaging me. They’re bonding over shit cartoons.

It’s still my parents that are the issue here. Daphne still calls Simon my friend and I don’t talk about Simon with my father unless I have to. At least he congratulated me when Simon obtained his forklift certificate. (The twins told him.)

It’s not glamorous, but it’s a start.

“And if your father’s an ass, I’ll slice him with my sword!” Simon says excitedly and I snort.

“Sure.”

Simon wants to say something else, but he’s interrupted by our doorbell ringing. They’re early, whoever they are. Simon gives me a quick kiss before he goes to open the door.

A few seconds later I can hear Swithin yell “Bird!” and a small smile appears on my face. Swithin knows what dragons are by now, but he still insists on the bird thing.

It’s time to face the music. I check myself one last time in the mirror and I tell myself it will be fine. This is happening. My family is here at my home to celebrate Christmas with my boyfriend and his family. If only someone had told young Baz that one day this would happen.

Things aren’t perfect. The olive branch is still a bit rotten and fragile, but it’s there and I take it. And you know, if my father hasn’t fully changed his ways then that means that he’ll have a second uncomfortable Christmas in a row.

Merry Christmas to me.

#oneshot #snowbaz #scattered showers #simon snow series #holy fuck I wrote #2022

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ollyandglitter · 1 year

Text

Bubble Bath

Words: 7.5k

Summary: In the Time of Covid-19, Simon and Baz return to Hampshire, reminisce about the past and look to the future. Plus some bubble bath scenes :)

Notes: thanks so much @twinkle-twinkle-up-above for the very profound beta and editing. You have a huge part in it.

Also, thank you so much for this stunning art 😍 go check it out!

The story on AO3

---

March 2020

Baz

Daphne wouldn't let us in. It's a little odd even considering Snow is standing next to me all messy and dirty, and admittedly we also have landed a Canadian mountain dragon right into her lovely rose garden. She wouldn't even open the door, and through the glass I can see her waving her arms frantically and pointing in the opposite direction. I frown, look suspiciously around, and knock again, before my phone buzzes.

"Baz!" Daphne cries out.

"Daphne," I try not to sound irritated, but honestly, my patience is quite short today. Six hours of flight on a dragon over the North Atlantic is cold, shaky and very uncomfortable. For everyone's sake, she better let me in soon to a proper human house, throw a chunk of meat to the very hungry Asriel in her garden, and let me have a nice bubble bath. (Snow can join if he wants to.) (Frankly, he should wash more, and someone ought to take care of his health.)

I open my mouth, but before I manage to speak, Daphne squeals in my ear, "you can't come in!"

I move my phone away from my ear and glance uneasily at Snow again. He is immersed in a conversation with Asriel, brushing his wings and pointing to the sky enthusiastically.

"Look," I try to sound reasonable. And determined. "We'll get the mud off our shoes before we go in, all right? But we've had a long flight, and before that we were on a three-month quest all over the Canadian wilderness, nearly died several times if you don't mind me saying, so I would sincerely appreciate it if you please—"

"You can't come in!" she wails. "We're under quarantine!"

I frown. "What?"

"Didn't you go through the airport?" Daphne asks. "Didn't they explain the restrictions? Actually, I'm surprised they let you into the country..."

"What on earth are you talking about?" I'm starting to feel like something is terribly wrong here. Snow is spreading his wings, clearly getting ready to join Asriel for an afternoon flight.

"It's Swithin, I just took him to the park, he wanted to meet Louie, you know—Lady Millicent's grandson, you remember him, he was invited for the twins' birthday—"

"Daphne," I try to stop her. She's unstoppable.

"—So he got sick, and she was just about to get that knee surgery, but then they cancelled all the elective surgeries, so—"

I wonder if Daphne is having a stroke. A moment later I almost burst through the closed door when I realise she said Swithin was sick??

"Basilton," my father takes over the phone. "A pandemic broke out in the country. Louie got sick, and Swithin is under quarantine, to make sure he isn't sick himself so he won't infect others. Daphne thought it would be best if the whole family were under quarantine right now, so you can't come in." He pauses for a moment and continues, "You should also be under quarantine, according to the law."

"What? Which law?" Did we fall into a parallel universe accidentally? We should have listened to Shepard, who insisted that dragon flights may contain unexpected risks.

"How far did you wander out there in the wilderness?" he asks impatiently. "Check the news, for Crowley's sake!" he hangs up. I stare at my phone, puzzled, and then check the news.

Simon

Flying with Asriel is awesome. I fly underneath him, and he shields me from the wind. I really hope he'll stay for a while, though it's obvious that the woods surrounding the Grimms' hunting lodge are no match for his home in the Canadian Rockies. But it's just so nice to have someone to fly with.

My mood remains bright even when we land. Asriel is nibbling on a deer, and I lean on a wide tree trunk and listen to the birds until I fall asleep.

Baz

"Right, there are quarantine rules for all arrivals to the UK," Bunce announces nonchalantly over the phone. "Mum sneaked me in. Quarantine, Pfft. Honestly. As if she hadn't cast a protective spell on the whole family."

"Does it work?" I frown. Daphne's magic is a little weak, but my father's is all right, and I don't believe he would neglect his children that much.

"I'm not sure," Bunce admits. "Dad's still looking into it. It's a new disease and all that. Anyway, school is closed, and mum and dad are working from home, so they decided it would be all right if I just don't go outside."

Hmm. I'm not sure this would work with Daphne. She sounded utterly hysterical, as usual when her children are involved in something unpleasant. And this experimental spell the Bunces tried on themselves so recklessly wouldn't be acceptable to my father at all.

"Why don't you just go home?" Bunce suggests.

"To London? It won't be easy to land a dragon in our back alley." I think gloomily about my long-awaited lovely bubble bath. A global pandemic, seriously? Just when we got back from a long, dangerous, and filthy quest in the sheer Canadian wilderness? "Fuck," my heart sinks, "We'll have to sleep in the woods again."

Simon

I'm woken up by shouting. I hear a snatch of panicked voice before I even open my eyes, and immediately jump on my feet and draw out my sword.

"Simon!" It's Baz. Something's wrong. I start to run towards the sound of his voice, then instinctively rise up into the air. (My flying instincts got much better in the Canadian wilderness. We met a lot of weird things there.)

I find him easily from above. He's running into the forest, trying hastily to clear himself a path with magic. Baz still uses magic for everything. Sometimes it's useful, like when he decides we should clean the house. (And also sometimes on Saturday mornings, when I think I should get up already, and Baz spells a duvet so soft and warm over us that it drowns me like a puffy cloud, and with his cool arms around me, and his nose buried in the back of my neck, I can't even try to start moving. But I decide that's all right, eventually.)

"Simon," Baz gasps. "We need to set up camp."

"Huh?" I'm confused. Baz kept talking on and on about his precious bubble bath all the way back to England. He spent most of our flight in an endless monologue about all the different foams Daphne has.

He says something about a pandemic. I can only understand that his parents refuse to let us in. The idea itself doesn't surprise me that much—I've lived in more than one place that refused to let me in every now and then. Once I even slept in the backyard of the children's home the whole night. (I stayed in the kennel, the guard dog was always friendly to me.) (I would secretly give him some dried sausage sometimes. He just always seemed hungry.) But I thought Baz's parents were usually more hospitable than that.

I try to ask something, but Baz starts talking about quarantine rules. It annoys me a bit, reminds me of all the times the Mage tried to isolate me for my own protection.

"We can't go home," Baz says. "We can't leave Asriel alone here. So we'll have to sleep in the woods. Again." He looks so devastated. I have no choice but to think for both of us.

"We need an isolated place, right?" I try. "But comfortable. And with a forest big enough for Asriel. And a proper bath." Maybe Watford? Is it considered isolated? Maybe Agatha will spare us a room in the barn with the goats?

Baz looks at me. Looks around. Looks at me again "Maybe..." he says slowly. "My old home."

Baz

It's not like I haven't set foot in Hampshire since Snow turned the whole area into a giant dead spot. I got there once or twice to take some stuff. It just... feels suffocating. Like scuba diving under the sea—you know you have all the proper equipment, yet it's hard to shake off the feeling that there's just no air around. I've felt like that sometimes in the higher parts of the Canadian mountains, too. There was almost no magic there either. That's why we tried to stay close to moderately populated areas, even if they were miles away, and the magic was weak and unstable—because I just couldn't keep going without any magic at all for more than a day or two. My whole body starts to tingle, and I get restless, and also, I'm practically unable to do anything.

Snow looks at me. The emotions that show on his face chase one another: Fear. Guilt. Hesitation. Concern. Something soft, that almost makes me reach out for his hand. Guilt again.

"Baz," he mumbles, his head down. "There's no magic there."

"I know," I admit, a little uneasily.

"You hate things without magic."

"I don't hate you."

Simon's gaze jumps up. A sharp pain passes through him, and immediately melts into agonising self-doubt. He bites his lower lip. He still can't quite believe that it's possible to love him just the way he is, that magic doesn't mean that much to me, and nothing I say convinces him. And when I try to show him—well... it was difficult, up there in the Canadian mountains. A few hours without magic does indeed make my skin tingle restlessly, even if I try to hide it. And Simon feels it, and feels uncomfortable, and immediately rises up to try and find the nearest town on the horizon and head in its direction. Sometimes he would lift me up in the air, or force me to join a flight on Asriel, so we would get there sooner. And then, when I would immerse in the blissful reunion with my magic, he would become all quiet and distant, go fetch something and only return hours later. Or he would suddenly get tired and go to sleep. Usually, it passed away after a while (my magic duvet does wonders.) But it didn't exactly help convince him.

"Simon," I begin. He shakes his head violently.

"No, no. Let's just... rent an empty house or something. Some sort of an Airbnb. I'll pay."

"No, that's ridiculous." I don't want him to pay. I also don't want to sleep in a stranger's house. I've missed my bed so much that my heart aches.

"Then we'll get you back to London, Asriel and I. You stay there, and I'll take him to Epping Forest."

Pfft. He must be joking. As if I'll let him sleep in the woods cuddled with Asriel, while I'm stuck at home alone. Between this and spending a few quiet days with Snow without magic, I know my first choice.

"No," I say firmly. "I want to go to Hampshire. I... miss home." I manage to sound like I mean it at least a bit. I feel a kind of tremble deep down, that suggests I might actually mean it. I've never felt quite at home in Hampshire, not like in our room at Watford, but it's still the house I grew up in. Where all my siblings were born. The forest where I first learned how to hunt. I haven't thought about all this in years, but suddenly I can't shake off the thought of going back to Hampshire, and I feel a kind of anxious excitement. How would it feel, to be in my home without any magic in it?

Simon

I don't want to go back to Hampshire. I don't want to go back to Hampshire. I try to come up with a logical explanation that will convince Baz, but my mind is racing too fast and I can't quite speak.

Hampshire: The Humdrum throws a familiar red ball at me; a fire; fancy pyjamas covered in mud; wings. The memories strangle me like a thick fog. Baz's parents run outside screaming, and I fly away in a wild panic, navigating instinctively with the magic I stole from the world. I haven't been able to look Malcolm Grimm in the eye since, not that I had many opportunities. I'm not invited to visit often. Daphne is nicer, but sometimes she casually mentions something about her home, and I know how much she misses it. Baz also talks mindlessly about his home sometimes: the room he used to play in, the magnificent library, the ghost of some ancient uncle who lived in the woods and would occasionally help him find a wounded deer—Baz always felt better when he could put an animal out of its misery.

I stole all of that.

And yet the house remained in its place, as still and gloomy as a tombstone. Several other magickal families sold their houses to Normals and left their past behind, but not the Grimms. They would never give up their ancient family estate. But it's also very clear that it's no longer livable.

The burden of guilt settles on my chest and makes it hard to breathe. Faintly I mutter, "I don't want to go back to Hampshire." Because how will I be able to set a foot in this place and still look Baz in the eye, and believe that he is still capable of loving me, when he remembers everything I've done to the world? Everything I've done to him? Everything that I really am?

______________________________________________________________

Baz

I step carefully into the front hall of the place that used to be my childhood home, and is now a dark space full of covered furniture. We have a Normal housemaid who is supposed to come and clean up every couple of weeks, but I'm not certain she's doing a proper job. The windows are sealed, the floor creaks under my feet, and everything smells like dust. The house feels abandoned. I raise my wand to cast a few basic cleansing spells, and stop abruptly as realisation hits me. It's a dead spot. Huh.

Simon comes cautiously behind me. He's uncharacteristically quiet, his head is bowed and his shoulders are slumped as if he's trying to disappear inside himself. His wings are flattened against his back tightly, and even his golden curls look faded in the faint, dusty light.

He looks at the wand I'm still holding in my hand, and begins to say nervously, "Baz, I'm not sure that was a good idea—", and I just have to stop him before we find ourselves teetering in the wind again.

"Come on, Snow, we have a lot of work to do," I say with all the vigorous high spirit I can muster, throwing my wand aside. "Come and help to clean up."

Simon

Cleaning up takes forever, and I throw myself fully into it: I open the windows and sweep the floors and remove heavy, dark covers from rigid Victorian furniture. It's the least I can do. At first it's distressing, and I try not to look at Baz, who is trying to look enthusiastic and motivated rather than restless and grumpy. He walks through the rooms, grumbling to himself when he thinks I can't hear. But gradually, the monotonous physical work relaxes me. Then a vague feeling of familiarity starts nagging me, and I realise I've actually done all of this before.

I did a lot of housework in a lot of old Victorian houses that had been converted into public charity buildings, homes for the poor, neglected children. And even though It's been years since I last held a duster (our flat in London is regularly cleaned by magic, obviously), the well-practised movements from my childhood are woven naturally into my muscles, and I don't even have to think about it. The automatic movements feel right somehow, like a forgotten note of my true self, like meeting the Humdrum again and not fearing him anymore.

As time goes by, Baz tries less and less hard to fake enthusiasm, and dissolve into the familiar sour mood I’ve come to know all too well on our quest. Instead of drowning myself in guilt again, I decide to try to be productive, and turn to the bathroom. Baz isn't very skillful at Normal-style cleanings, but Merlin, I surely have more than enough adequate experience.

Baz

The bathroom is so warm and bright and clean and feels like home, that I almost forget to feel suffocated. I've spent so many hours here—soaking in the sudsy water, listening to violin and piano concerto records, and almost managing to push aside everything that was happening in my life: my father's disappointed looks, my aunt's mess, the blood I just drank in the forest. I've spent so many lovely summer evenings trying not to think about how Snow spends his time in his orphanage, and how at the beginning of each school year he returns too thin and too sad, and it takes Bunce at least a few days to cheer him up. So many hours I've spent in this luxurious bath, listening to Schubert's Ständchen, D 889 and dreaming up Snow wrapped in my arms, relaxed, satisfied, safe and happy.

I start the bath. Daphne gave us so much stuff before we left, that we barely managed to carry it all. ("We've got way too much anyway," she said. She also insisted that all the toilet paper in the supermarket had run out, but that surely was a joke.) With a happy sigh of delight, I open the bag and take out an ultra-soft exfoliating sponge, lavender bubble elixir, vanilla and patchouli body wash, white rose bath bombs, coconut bath oil, and milk and honey creamy foam. I hang the towels on the vintage copper hangers, choose some of my favourite soaps, and start filling the bath with hot, fragrant water.

Simon

I leave Baz in the bathroom and go handle the groceries in the kitchen. I haven't seen a kitchen this big in years, and I ease up into the routine work. I air out the cupboards and take the covers off the chairs, wipe the counters and put vegetables in the fridge, and suddenly I find myself singing.

In one of the children's homes, when I was maybe six or seven, Betsy the cook would sneak me biscuits when I helped her clean the oven, and let me watch her make lunch on Sundays. I pick up some potatoes and start peeling them absently, humming a nursery rhyme she used to sing. The notes dance around me as I once knew them: not as plain matter-of-factly magic spells, evidence of my constant failure, but as small drops of kindness that I've treasured in my childhood with yearning devotion. Precious moments of peace and warmth and attention that were gifted to me alone. I fry onions and ground beef and hum How Many Miles to Babylon, sinking into a foreign and unexpected feeling of almost-home. My old therapist asked me repeatedly about my childhood memories, and I always answered I don't remember anything; I really didn't. I didn't even know that I still had such memories hidden somewhere inside me.

I'm about to put the pie in the oven, singing loudly "If your heels are nimble and your toes are light, you may get there by candle-light", when Baz pops up behind me. He clears his throat, and I jerk and turn around. He stares at me.

"Are you trying to leave?"

"Huh?" I'm confused.

"It's a navigation spell," he sounds hurt.

I lean back on the counter. "Baz, it's a nursery rhyme," I say. And also, I don't have magic, and there is no magic here, and magic isn't everything there is to life, and where on earth could I possibly go—but that's all getting too much to say.

Baz nods. He's still scowling. I sigh and add, "I made a pie."

"You did?" Baz is surprised. I don't blame him. I don't cook much. There are so many pubs and bakeries and sandwich shops around us, Baz eats lunch at university or at work, and on Saturdays we're invited to Lady Ruth's, so I just don't see the point. But sometimes I think that maybe none of these is the actual issue—maybe there's just something too warm and domestic about home-cooked meals, that I don't feel entirely comfortable making it something I do. Something that's happening naturally in our house.

We don't talk about it much—about our place in London, which neither of us feels at home in, and there's still hardly any furniture in there even after three years. About our plans for the future, after Baz finishes his master's degree. About marriage and children. I know Baz wants a family, of course he does; He is the most domestic person I know. He won't admit it, but secretly he wants his father's life precisely: a beautiful home, a beautiful wedding and beautiful children, and a warm home-cooked family dinner at the end of each day.

We've never talked about it. Even after three years, I'm still uncomfortable with the idea of a family of my own, one that I fully belong to. I'm afraid to ruin everything for everyone again. Maybe if Baz would have asked... maybe I would try to deal with it somehow. But he never brings it up. He doesn't suggest that we buy a place that will feel truly ours. He doesn't even offer to cook. And he has no idea that I'm actually able to cook a bit, and may even enjoy it sometimes.

"Yes," I manage to say. "I made shepherd's pie."

Baz stares at me for a few more moments, then takes a step forward and reaches hesitantly at my hand. "Come to the bathtub."

Baz

Snow isn't used to baths. (Big surprise.) As I soak into the warm water and lean back blissfully, he curls up on the other side of the tub, his knees pulled up to his stomach, one hand swirling small cycles in the water and stirring the foam in a restless motion. I nudge his shin lightly with my foot, and he slides backwards instinctively until he's pressed against the wall of the tub, cowering like a trapped animal. I sigh and close my eyes, trying to dissolve into the peaceful inner space where I almost manage to forget about everything.

"How do you feel?" Snow's voice cuts through the steamy fog, small, almost inaudible. I open my eyes.

"Fine. What do you mean?"

"I just thought..." he hesitates. "About the... you know. Magic." He barely whispers the word, as if he's afraid to remind me.

I think about it. When I first stepped into the house, I felt the usual suffocation, but now—inside my homely-familiar soothing bubble bath—it doesn't feel quite as awful. I've missed home, I suddenly realise. I did not expect this. I never felt entirely comfortable in this house, but I guess I somewhat liked it nonetheless. "I feel all right," I say, and add carefully: "I think I missed home a little, maybe." One beat of silence passes, then two, and three, and then Simon's hushed voice cuts through: "I think I did, too."

Simon

I soften into the steamy mist. Everything smells sweet, clean, and soothing, and the water is a little too hot, but Baz's leg pressed against mine is cool enough to send a pleasant shiver through me. I see him watching me; his foot rubs against the bottom of my calf, pressing and loosening and pressing again. I look down at the small ripples my hand is swirling in the water, and dare to say, "Some memories came to me. From... before."

Baz says nothing. I can feel him tensing up. His foot lingers on my calf.

"They're… I don't know." I can't quite put it into words, and these memories are slippery and shaky. It's like trying to remember a smell, a touch. "There's just something about them."

"Something," Baz repeats.

"Something... not just bad."

Baz is quiet. He's waiting for me to continue, but I'm out of words. The air between us is strained like a string, and I can see him frown intently. A few achingly still moments pass, and I'm starting to think frantically about a change of subject, when he rises up suddenly. The water waves around him and splashes on the floor, and he doesn't even notice. "Wait a minute," he says hastily and hurries away.

Baz

I run back to the front hall, water dripping around me and my footsteps wetting the wooden floor, but I don't even think about a wiping spell. Lunging towards our bags still piled by the door, I pull out my violin, carefully wrapped in its case. I wipe my hands, pick it up carefully and run back to Snow, because I think I might be onto something. I might have found a new spell that no one has ever known before, that seemed utterly impossible up till now.

Simon

I manage to settle back into the fragrant bubbly water when Baz returns and pauses by the doorway, holding his violin. The door is half open, the air has cooled a little, and the water is now just the right temperature. He tucks the violin under his chin, lifts the bow and slides it gently over the strings. The opening notes rise up, then go down, and rise up again, in a melodic rhythm of a quiet stream:

"How many miles to Babylon? / Three score miles and ten / Can I get there by candle-light? / Yes, and back again."

The tender wave of music flows on, and on, and on. Baz's movements gradually relax and open up, dissolving into the melody, his eyes closed, his body sways absently from side to side. He is as beautiful as a black-and-white movie character, his pale skin shining like porcelain in the soft light of the bathroom, a dim glow surrounding him like a halo. The musical harmony echoes in the room and swirls around me. I relax into the water, immersed in warmth, comfort, and small drops of kindness that grow bigger and bigger until they become a trickle of rain, then a flood, then a river, then an ocean. The bath is a warm ocean on a golden summer day, and Baz's music is an endless flowing wave that rises and falls and rocks me tenderly, until I'm drifting away in a repetitive rhyme that feels like magic:

"Can I get there by candlelight? / Yes, and back again."

When Baz eventually stops, it feels like hours have passed by, and I realise that my eyes are wet and my breathing is deep. The air I exhale reaches my very bottom. When Baz slides back into the water, I shift towards him like he's gravity itself. I melt against his chest, my head's tilting back to rest on his shoulder, and my words begin to flow on their own.

Baz

Simon scatters incoherent fragments of stories that I don't even try to fully comprehend, and it's impossible anyway, no more than it's possible to line up the waves of the sea. Instead, I just hug him and rub his back over his wings. Tears run down from his eyes, and he doesn't wipe them away. I kiss his wet cheeks. When the flow of stories finally fades away, he curls up against my chest, his body limp, his eyes half closed, his head dropped back.

I'm starting to think he fell asleep when his gaze drifts towards me with an almost imperceptible shift, his breath fluttering against my cheek as he whispers, "Baz?"

"Hmm?" I murmur and kiss his shoulder.

"Do you want to buy a house together?" he asks in a low voice.

I close my eyes and pretend I didn't hear him. We had a long day, and Simon is tired, and his eyes are still swollen with tears. It would be hasty of me to dive into a conversation that he doesn't mean, that he'll do anything to forget about tomorrow morning. I kiss the side of his head, inhale the lavender scent of his hair and pretend to be immersed in a peaceful silence, until Simon squirms out of my embrace. I look up and my eyes meet his—very blue, very wide, and something like a hurt expectation spreads through them as he blinks rapidly a couple of times, but doesn't look away. "What do you think?" He whispers.

I pull him back into my arms and give myself a moment to calm down before the corners of my mouth curve up in a tentative smile. Simon is still looking at me. I'm not sure he's breathing. I'm not sure I'm breathing. I think of my home in Hampshire, of my home in Oxford, of my home at Watford, of Simon who has always been my home.

I let my full smile, wide and dazzled, slip out as I tighten my arms around him and my head tilts towards his. "When you're ready," I murmur into his ear, "you don't have to ask."

Simon laughs and kisses my neck, and even though the water is starting to cool down, my blood is boiling. Simon's wings spread over and wrap both of us in soft, warm leather. His tail slides and twists in the water around my thighs, teasing me. I let out a strangled breath and lean forward to kiss him. Simon smiles at me, puts a hand on the back of my neck and pulls me closer to him, and I can no longer separate teenage fantasies from reality -- and suddenly an unmistakable, loud ding cuts through the house.

Simon leans back with a frustrated groan. I grin at him as I get up and pull him outside, wrapping him in a big, fluffy towel so he doesn’t get cold. "Come on, Snow. Your pie is ready."

I allow myself to take a small, happy leap in the air when he goes in front of me and can't see. Then I grab his hand and walk with my back straight and a wide smile spread over my face—because today I'm the greatest mage who ever lived, and I discovered the hardest spell that ever was: the spell that will make Simon Snow feel at home.

______________________________________________________________

December 2022

Simon

I run into the house and throw the bags by the door. I don't have much time, and I need to get everything ready before Baz finishes his phone call. (He's immersed in a conversation with Penny about their final project. She called just in time, right before I parked, and the conversation can keep him busy for a while, but I better hurry still.) I grab one bag and run upstairs to the bathroom.

Somehow, even though Baz adores baths as much as Cleopatra herself, we haven't taken many of them together over the years. Our flat in London doesn't have a bath, and at first, I tried to suggest that we look at other places, but the prices just keep rising, and it didn't make sense to give it up. It's a lovely place just on the edge of the city, surrounded by lively green meadows, and nearby is a small forest where Baz can hunt. (It's not quite as remarkable as the woods in Hampshire, but at least he doesn't have to drink only rats anymore.) I like joining him there and spread my wings high above the trees when no one can see. (The neighbours got used to the wings—Penny told them I'm a particularly eccentric circus artist, and considering all the creepy guests she and Shepard bring over all the time, it doesn't seem to surprise them in the slightest. But they still don't know I can actually fly.)

We visit his parents on holidays, and Baz sometimes uses Daphne's well-equipped bath, but I don't feel comfortable joining him—because honestly, this is his parents' house. And I'm still not sure I actually like baths, all steamy and oily and so very still.

But I do love Baz, and despite what he believes, I am in fact capable of being romantic. I think.

And the oracle that Shepard met in the pub insisted that 2023 would be the most fortunate year ever known to mankind, so it's quite clear that now is the right time.

The bubbling water fills the tub. I know nothing about all those soaps and foams Agatha brought me, but Baz loves everything, so I reckon it doesn't matter. White thick bath cream mixes with rosy bath salts and pine-green foam, and I start handling the fairy lights and the roses (I'm not sure what to do with them, so I just put the bouquet in the sink.) The room starts to fog up in a sweet-fragranced cloud, just as Baz yells in irritation from the foot of the stairs: "You haven't even started unpacking?!"

Baz

I disconnect the phone call, and finally consume fully the sense of home. We returned from our quest to Edinburgh just the day before Christmas, and Simon would have stayed longer if I hadn't insisted that we can't miss Christmas eve with my family. We don't visit my parents much, but Christmas was settled years ago. My siblings love Simon—he flies the little ones over the lawns, tells adventure stories and plays football with them. Daphne makes an enormous amount of food, and fusses over us. (Simon never turns down an extra serving, and that wins her over every time.) Even my father got used to it eventually: he's still too formal with all of us, especially with him, but when he's settled in his armchair with a book while Simon plays with the children and Daphne chats cheerfully, he seems almost relaxed. Once or twice he even asked me about my "future plans" and glanced at Simon, which is as close to a pressure to settle down as he's probably capable of.

Still, when we returned from Edinburgh Simon insisted that we spend a night in Hampshire before going to Oxford. He said he wanted to "spend some alone time" with me. So we parted ways with Penny and Shepard at Southampton Airport, and rented a car for ourselves.

I'm still not sure how I feel about this house. We haven't been here much since the two weeks of the COVID quarantine, but occasionally when we pass through the area, we find ourselves staying for a few days. Simon feels strangely comfortable here, now that the entire area is a dead spot. He doesn't even have to think about magic. And I feel comfortable because Simon feels comfortable, and because I grew up here, and it will always feel like home to me at least a little. And also, because the silence between us here is both intimate and light. The house is large and spacious, and I can peacefully listen to music and play my violin for hours, without disturbing the neighbours like in our small city apartment. Simon wanders around in the woods (he's already befriended all the creatures in it), and flies miles away in every direction, until his cheeks are flushed and he can't stop smiling. When he comes back, we make dinner, and then he's soft and cuddly as we watch telly together. Honestly, what more could I ask.

I still have a hard time staying for too long in a completely non-magickal environment, but even I came to admit there's something to it. This Normal stillness brings out some sort of a new perspective. As Simon says, songs are just songs here, phrases are just phrases. We rediscover mundanity, and it's unexpectedly soothing at times. And when I look at Simon like that, I can see him as he probably sees himself most of the time: a Normal boy who grew up in a Normal environment and just wanted to belong somewhere. Not the greatest mage who ever lived, not a pool of overflowing and uncontrollable energy, not a weapon in a war that isn't his. Looking at him as he cooks and sings to himself mindlessly, I understand a little better his journey from being that Normal boy to The Mage's soldier and back, and how difficult it is for him to explain—even to himself—what he is now. In these moments I give up completely on explanations, solutions and interpretations, and just hug him or sing along with him for a while, and something about this homely warmth soothes us both. If only I had known before that this very place, which for years has made us both feel so anxious and detached, would give us a home.

Simon

I finish undressing when I hear Baz going up the stairs, carrying the bags. I look around one last time, take a deep breath and come out to the hallway.

"Do you mind helping...?" He starts, and I ignore it because I don’t have time for this right now. My heart is beating too fast. Baz frowns when I step closer and reach out for his hand. "What—" he starts, and I cut him off, "come on."

Baz drops the bags without taking his eyes off me. I pull him by the arm. "Come on, I prepared a bath."

Baz doesn't argue. (He never argues with a bath.) I open the door and the steam surrounds us immediately. Baz inhales sharply and stops in place, looking around at the fairy lights and the flowers and the rosy bubbly water. I pull him more urgently. "Come on, the water is getting cold." He's still staring around, so I start unbuttoning his shirt myself. He comes to his senses when I pull his shirt off completely, and finishes undressing on his own. Then he dips a cautious hand in the bath, lets out a blissful sigh, and slides inside. Step one—check, I think, and my heart is drumming in my chest like at the beginning of a quest.

"So, you finally felt like taking a bath?" Baz asks. He smiles, but I can hear the hesitation in his voice. He knows something is wrong. (I always argue with a bath.)

I clear my throat. I'm naked and shivering a little, though the room isn't cold. "Baz," I start. The steam is fogging up around me, so it's hard to see him, and it helps me to keep going. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Friday?" He furrows his eyebrows.

I let out a frustrated breath. "No! I mean, yes. It's Friday. But what else?"

"Um… the day before Christmas?"

"Right," I start fidgeting restlessly. "And also...?"

Baz leans back and settles lower in the water. He hums quietly for a moment before saying in a softened voice, "Why don't you tell me, Snow?"

"It's… um. Well. It's our anniversary."

Baz is silent for a couple of seconds. "We don't celebrate an anniversary."

"Right," I admit. "But that doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"It doesn't?" Baz asks.

"No. I mean, it exists. It's today. It's this night, actually. Which isn't exactly today, but waiting for the night would have ruined the surprise, so..."

"Snow, what on earth are you talking about?" He's starting to get up, and I think he's about to do something very Baz—to take my hand, to hug me, to pull me into the bath—and I just can't let that happen. I inhale dizzily, like at the moment before I spread my wings and fly.

"Baz, wait," I say shakily. "Sit down for a moment. I need to say something."

He soaks back into the water. Through the steam, I can see him frowning and worrying at his lip. I don't have much time left. I grope for the sink, get stung by a rose thorn (who was the bloody idiot who decided roses were romantic), turn around, take a few steps forward and lean on the edge of the bath. It feels ridiculous, it feels insane, it feels like the first moment when I'm rising up in the air and the wind hits my wings.

"So," I start again. "It's our anniversary. Our seventh anniversary," I add.

Baz nods, "Okay."

"And seven is a magickal number," I say. Baz frowns again, so I quickly continue, "And we've been living together for a long time. And I love you."

"I love you too," Baz says softly.

"And someone has to say it already." It's not going the way I planned. Not at all. I feel like I'm wobbling in the air and drifting up and down and rolling over, and then suddenly my wings spread wide and I just fly. "here."

I push the box into his wet palm. It almost slips out of his grip and sinks into the water, and I almost leap into the bath to rescue it, and it's just about the most ridiculous romantic moment ever.

Baz tightens his fingers around the box. He doesn't open it. With one delicate finger, he strokes the black velvet. He looks at me. I rub the back of my neck nervously. "Come on, open it."

Baz opens the box. A white gold ring with a thin dark-violet centre stripe sparkles in the soft, misty light. Baz loves violet. And the contrast will match the colour of his skin. And this is an ancient ring I got from that elf whose village Shepard and I helped save. Baz loves ancient and magickal things.

He still doesn't say anything. He looks at me. Looks at the ring. Looks at me again.

"Well?" I choke out.

Baz puts the ring on his finger. It fits him perfectly, because Baz is perfect. (And also, Penny helped me to spell it to his size.) He reaches a hand out to me and says, "come to the bathtub, Snow."

Baz

I pull Simon to me, tighten my arms around his chest and kiss his neck. I kiss him, and kiss some more, until I'm so hot that my vision blurs. I bite his soft skin carefully and suck one drop of blood. It's an intimately familiar dance that we've perfected over our years together, and still my heart leaps anxiously and then excitedly every single time. Simon presses against me and drops his head back on my shoulder, exposing more of his neck. He rubs my cheek with his warm skin, which always smells like brown sugar and butter and summer. My head spins, and for a moment I lose myself in it, in how good it all is, in how good he is, in how good he is to me. I suck another drop of blood and inhale his sweetness. Simon lets out a strangled whimper and his tail curls and tightens around my thigh. Small, quick breaths emerge from his parted lips. His skin burns against me and he grips my palms tight. I almost start to drown in all of this goodness, but then a flash of light on our clasped hands catches my eye, and I suddenly remember that we still have a conversation to finish.

I let go of his neck and turn his face towards me until his beautiful blue eyes meet mine. Simon blinks as if waking from a dream.

I clear my throat. "So," I say and look at my hand, then back at him. "You were saying something?"

Simon smiles. He pokes my thigh with the pointed end of his tail. "Do I really have to say it?"

My lips curve up in an effort to imitate my old sneer. I'm failing shamefully, of course; A vague, affectionate shadow of a smirk hangs at the corners of my mouth as I raise up an eyebrow and say, "Use your words, Snow."

Simon lets out a wet laugh and buries his face in my shoulder. His muffled voice vibrates against my skin as he asks hoarsely, "Do you wanna marry me?"

Simon

It's the worst proposal in history. I know that. Baz absolutely knows that. I should have done everything differently, and now it's hopeless. Maybe we could just forget about it all, and he'll go back to drinking me.

Baz

It's the best proposal in history. And I mean in all five dimensions Bunce's parents are married in, and in all the other dimensions there are.

"Yes," I say. I lift our joint hands and kiss his knuckles. I run my fingers through his wet hair, stroke his cheek fondly with my thumb, and pull him for another kiss. Simon melts into me and a sigh of relief escapes him. He laughs and says, "Okay." I think he's wiping his eyes. His wings spread over my shoulders and wrap us both. I kiss him again, and again, and again, then slip back down the familiar path to his neck. "On one condition," I murmur against his skin, and kiss a mole there. "After the wedding, we're getting a new house, with a bath."

#simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #snowbaz fic #carry on #wayward son #simon snow trilogy #any way the wind blows #bubble bath #bite!#a little angst and lots of fluff #mentions of COVID-19 #my first one here #hello everyone

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