Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

art by the incredible @subpar-selkie

“3… 2… 1… and, live.”

“Hi everyone, it’s your favorite reporter again, Shep, and boy has it been a week! Am I right, or am I right? Okay, so I’m sure by now you have all heard that there’s been some action in the city. Let’s roll the clip.

“That’s right, folks. There he is, soaring over the cloudy skies of Watford City like an evil, overgrown bat - Vampire is on the rise again. Although it seems the only crimes he’s committed so far this week are stealing house pets, who knows what he’ll do next?

“But not to fear, citizens of Watford. You all know we’ve got our very own hero in our midst, too… that’s right, everyone’s favourite guy, The Golden Blade! I’m reporting now from the scene of last night’s fight. Well, below it, actually. Let’s replay that clip - you can see The Blade streaking across the rooftop of Mummers & Co. to save the day.”

“And now a word from our mayor, David Mage. Over to you, Mr. Mayor.”

“Thank you, Shepard. At this time we urge citizens not to worry. No civilians have been seriously injured by Vampire as of now. I am working with The Golden Blade personally, and the situation will be under control in no time.”

“Thanks, Davy.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Alright everyone, that’s all we have for now. Don’t forget to tune in at 7 for my weekly podcast, ‘Zero or Hero? Separating Fact from Fiction.’ This was Watford City news at 5. See you tomorrow!”

Chapter Text

Simon

I’m eating dinner in my flat when I decide to flick on the TV. It’s tuned into a local news channel, and at first my eyes just latch onto Agatha’s face.

“The situation seems to be escalating,” she’s saying. “And what people want to know is, where is our hero?” Her eyes seem to be boring into my very soul, as if she’s asking me personally.  “Where is the Golden Blade?” 

Fuck. Fuck.

I snap to attention at the mention of my name and look behind her. It’s live coverage of Vampire swooping gracefully between the buildings of the city.

And I’m not there. I’m here, in my trackies, eating a curry. 

I jump to my feet. 

“Baz?” I call, just to make sure he’s not home. I toss my food in the fridge—if he sees it sitting there half-eaten, he’ll be suspicious—and barrel down the hall. I peek into Baz’s room on the way. Empty. Good. 

I can hear the news still playing from the other room, Agatha’s lovely reporter-voice drifting out of the speakers. She can make atrocious crimes sound pretty.

My room is an absolute mess, a sea of clothes and dirty mugs. I tear through my closet and unlatch the secret panel in the back, where my suit is… 

Not. 

Shit, where has it gone? I dart wildly around my room, upsetting piles of clothes, until I find it heaped sadly on the floor, its usual lustre nowhere to be seen. (Listen, even The Golden Blade gets behind on his laundry sometimes.)

I shove the suit on and pull everything snug. (The clasps are velcro. Don’t tell anyone.) I run to the bathroom mirror and go through my mental checklist: suit, sword, mask… 

No mask. I’m still wearing my glasses. My hands shake as I clumsily twist open my contact case and shove the contacts into my eyes. I toss the specs onto my bed, slam the bedroom door shut, grab my coat, and dash out of the flat. 

It’s time to take down Vampire. 

The thing about being a part-time superhero is that you have to live a normal life, and you can’t have a lair or a lab or whatever. It’s not like I’m a bloody Avenger, doing my hero business out in the open. I have a day job. A confusing ex-girlfriend. An annoying flatmate. Taxes. Typical problems. 

Today, those include forgetting where I parked my car.

I sneak out the side door of my building, wrapping my coat around me to hide the suit, and run along the back alley, smashing the lock button on my keys, until I hear my car chirping at me. From underneath my feet. 

Right. Of course. I’ve had this underground mini-garage for months now, and I still forget about it. I count the manhole covers I pass as I run down the street and pull up short when I find the fourth one, with the mayor’s seal covertly pressed into the design. I spare a quick glance around to make sure no one’s watching, then drag aside the cover, replace it above me carefully, and scramble down the ladder. I pull my mask on as I walk.

There it is. All golden and tricked out, a personal gift from Mayor Mage. Penny and I call it the Snowmobile in private. I think everyone else just calls it the Golden Car, which is kind of lame.

At least it has Bluetooth capabilities, and as I dive into the driver’s seat and start the car, I bark, “Call Penny.” I reverse down the tunnel until I see the turnoff that will take me through the large parking garage below the White Chapel and into the city. 

She picks up before the first ring. “Simon, where are you? Vampire is literally terrorising children or something right now- where the hell are you?”

“I’m on my way, I’m driving over,” I respond. Screw this traffic. I lay on the horn, and it plays a distinct tune that people know is mine. The cars part instantly, clearing a path. I speed towards downtown. “What is he up to this time?”

“Well, all of the pets that went missing last week have been mysteriously returned,” she says. 

“That’s weird. What’s his endgame?”

“I have no idea,” she says. “We should really have a meeting this week. Anyway, tonight three children have been reported missing already. 'Pulled from their beds by a shadow,' apparently.”

“What could he possibly want with children? He's not a real vampire, is he?”

She huffs. “I told you, I don’t know. Just stop him, and quickly, before more kids go missing. He’s flying over Garden Street. There aren’t many houses there. But… there’s a care home.”

Blood rushes into my ears. "No."

“Just go. And turn on your radio!”

I do. And then I stomp the pedal to the floor. I slam my hand down on the horn and leave it there. I speed through every red light on the way. 

I’ll be damned if he goes anywhere near a care home. Vampire is going down. 

***

I run up eighteen flights of stairs, but I’m so propelled by adrenaline and rage that I only need a few seconds to catch my breath when I reach the top floor of the building. I find the roof entrance— NO ACCESS, ALARM WILL SOUND, it states—and nearly yank the door off its hinges in my desperation to get outside.

He’s waiting for me. He always is.

Always beats me to the chase, gets somewhere first. Does something bad before anyone can take preventative measures. Usually, I somehow bumble over at the last minute like a shiny, spandex-covered wrecking ball and save the day in the nick of time.

“You’re late,” he says.

Vampire’s back is to me, and his cape flutters in the wind.

“Have to keep you on your toes somehow.” 

I let my voice slip down a few tones, deepening into something stronger and more confident. It helps me keep my identity disguised—and makes me feel more superhero-like, besides.

“You’re not witty enough for that, Blade.”

“What do you want?” I growl. “Why are you kidnapping children?”

He whirls around in a rush of black cloth, and I draw my sword in an instant. I level the sword at him, trying my best to glower.

He appears to be empty-handed, but I know better by now. He has flamethrowers hidden on his forearms.

I shove the blade closer to his throat. “Where are they?”

Vampire is the picture of cool and collected. He wears a mask, too—it looks like the one from Phantom of the Opera, but there’s another piece fitted on in black, so it covers his whole face. Through the holes, I can barely make out his eyes staring levelly back at me. He looks like he’s lounging on some plush sofa, completely at ease, instead of standing there with his hands in the air and my sword at his neck.

“I didn’t take the children, Blade,” he says wickedly. “Your dear Mayor Mage did.”

“Stop lying.”

“I’m not.”

“What do you want?"

His cape flutters, and he rises a few inches off the ground. Hovering like the smug flying bastard he is. (I asked Mayor Mage why I couldn’t get a jetpack or something. He said it was an unnecessary expense, but I don’t agree. The way I see it, if he can fly, I should be able to as well.) 

“To toss you off this building,” he says. “But I’ll settle for a good fight.”

And then he launches himself at me. 

I’m on the floor in an instant, wheezing as the hard landing on my back knocks the air from my lungs. I struggle underneath him—he’s willowy, but strong—and yank my left hand free. I smash an elbow into his shoulder, forcing him to recoil, then scramble to my feet. 

I swing my blade, but it cuts through empty air with a swoosh.

“It’s cute,” he drawls, taking a lazy step backwards, “how you think you have a chance.”

I rush him, but he’s in the air in a snap, just out of my reach. He flips over so his head is towards me. I run back, then launch myself in the air and grasp hold of his arm. He twists around to start kicking at me, but I hold on with all I’ve got. I swing with my other arm, trying to hit where I know his suit is weak—the joints, the neck.

A rush of heat sears across my shoulder, and I curse as I’m forced to let go and drop to the floor. Vamp shoots another jet of fire at me, and I roll across the rooftop to dodge. Jesus. A flying, fire-shooting villain, and what do I get? A suit that sometimes decides to not do its job of being fireproof, and a useless sword. 

We do a strange sort of dance across the rooftop—me jumping, crawling, dodging, and Vampire swooping and swirling about in midair. (He always looks twice as good as I do, without even trying. I think it’s the cape.) I get in a couple strikes with my sword, but nothing that seems to hurt him, and I manage to not be set on fire. 

I finally reach the edge, breathing raggedly, and he hovers in the air, just out of my reach. It’s like that scene where Aladdin is standing on the magic carpet outside Jasmine’s balcony. “Do you trust me?” (Except I’m not a princess, and he’s my nemesis, not a prince.) (Minor details.)

“What do you want?" I shout.

“Must we talk so much, Goldilocks?” Vamp does a dramatic little flip in midair, just for show.

He’s not attacking, and I can’t hit him without falling eighteen stories to my death. So I take a few steps back, keeping my sword up and aimed right at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m evil. Isn’t that enough?”

“Everyone has a story,” I pant. “A reason.”

“I don’t,” he says, folding his arms. I can almost imagine him raising an eyebrow (if I knew what his face looked like)—you’d really think he wasn’t floating 300 feet in the air. “I like stirring up trouble in this city. Kidnapping pets. Setting fire to buildings. It’s fun.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You just have to stop me.”

And then he disappears. Drops straight down with a whoosh, his cape billowing up as he falls.

I rush to the edge of the roof, but he’s gone. 

Chapter Text

Baz

I still hate Simon Snow, but now it’s painfully clear to me that if I get rid of him, I’ll be far more miserable than if I don’t.

Even though I could do it in one second, and even though I constantly complain about him to Fiona, who tells me to just evict him or shag him already, I don’t care which one, I know I can’t.

Maybe it’s because he’s just so good. He's a good person. I know this as an objective fact, the way I know that he loves sour cherry scones, or that things fall when dropped, or that Watford City is rainy.

I can’t stand it.

Maybe it’s because in the two short months he’s lived here, he’s turned this flat into a home.

When I moved in, it was all clinical, sharp angles, gleaming countertops. Every inch of it was shiny and sparkling clean. I’m tidy, sure, but the place reminded me of a dentist’s office.

There were a few traces of me—the pile of books on the coffee table, a jumper draped across the back of a chair at the kitchen island, tea bags I’d forgotten to throw out in saucers I’d forgotten to wash. 

There were traces of Adrian—his polaroid camera left on the sofa, typed grocery lists, a new coffeemaker, the smell of chlorine. 

Traces of us—a shared Netflix account. A book for recipes with mostly blank pages. He liked to leave me post-it notes with reminders on them, but sometimes they’d just say have a good day, sweetheart :) and I collected them like love letters.

The kitchen always smelled like lemon counter spray, which I suppose I didn’t mind, but I like it better now. It smells like Earl Grey now, because Snow has decided to ignore the dishes piling up in the sink and put on a kettle.

I don’t mind. 

I hang up my coat and walk down the hall. Snow’s in his gym clothes, his arse looks fantastic in those trackies (I mean, it always does), and he’s humming as he flicks through the old recipe book. I don’t think he knows it belongs to my ex-boyfriend who used to live here. I don’t even think he even knows I’m gay, because we almost never talk, except to nag each other about the state of the flat. (Okay, that's mostly me.) 

He turns around when he hears me come in and gives me a wave. He’s dancing a little, swaying his hips back and forth, and it makes my thoughts go all funny, so I hurry to my room and shut the door.

When Adrian broke up with me six months ago—occupational hazard, and I’m not talking about being a Master's student—I left the flat exactly how it was. For two months, I kept everything in its place, trying to preserve some semblance of normality.

The third month, I threw all traces of him into a box and drove it to his new place. (I kept the post-its.) 

Then I bought a new bottle of counter spray, lavender-scented, and posted his room as Available for Sublease.  

(I could afford this place on my own. I’ll never admit it to anyone, but I was just lonely. And if the other bedroom stayed empty, my father was going to start pushing me to go live with Fiona, and although it would be convenient, I’d rather room with a banshee.)

Simon Snow. I panicked when I saw the name on the email. I didn’t expect it, and I hated the visceral reaction it incited, toying with my nerves. We had our first-year English seminar together in uni, and he was so stupid sometimes it made my teeth ache. I'd seen him on Bunce's Instagram a handful of times, and on the news last year. (That was impressive, but I’ll never let on that I think so.) 

I didn't know much else about him… only that he was the most attractive person I'd ever seen.

I held my breath when I clicked into his message; it said Penny sent me your posting and Better me than a stranger, at least? and Can I come by on Wednesday?

I sat there, staring at the message for what felt like an hour.

If I was going to have a roommate, it might as well be him. He wasn't the most... perceptive. My secret would be safe.

He moved in on the 1st of August. He had one suitcase full of clothes and one entirely dedicated to cooking supplies.

Now, there are still traces of me—the pile of books on the coffee table, a jumper draped across the back of a chair at the kitchen island, tea bags I’ve forgotten to throw out in saucers I’ve forgotten to wash. 

And there are traces of Simon—well, more than just traces—an entire cookbook on scones, orphan socks left bundled in between the sofa cushions, flowers in a vase on the counter, blankets and new throw pillows and patterned tea-towels. I’ve never not seen baked goods perched invitingly on the table. It’s like someone taught a seminar on how to be cosy and he took every tip and trick to heart. He’s not home a lot, and sometimes it’s just a waystop for him, between work and the gym and Bunce’s place. But when he is home, he makes sure it’s home. 

And… there are traces of us, as much as I hate to admit it. Football posters, new board games, a slew of shared kitchen items. A doormat I don’t remember agreeing to (but that I can’t bring myself to throw out) that says something inane and cheesy. A fancy little bamboo holder for our toothbrushes. 

I change into my most comfortable of trousers and a jumper and head to the sofa. It’s significantly more squashy now, because when Simon is home, he parks his shapely arse right here. I pull a blanket over my legs and settle in with my book.

He’s still humming, and I kind of want to throttle him, because it’s annoying and sounds like lift music, but I won’t. Not this time. Because I’m content, and he’s familiar, and this is his quilt keeping me warm after all, and the flat smells like Earl Grey. 

Chapter Text

Simon

Mayor Mage is pacing his office in tight circles. His boots click on the polished marble floors and he suddenly turns on his heel to fix me with an intent stare. 

“Are you sure he didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I asked. Twice.”

“He must be working with someone,” Mage mutters, more to himself than to me. “He has to have an agenda.”

“He’s plotting, for sure,” I say. “His moves are… they’re calculated, but also random. It makes no sense.”

Mage rubs his sharp, dimpled chin and continues his pacing.

It wasn’t always like this. When I first became the Golden Blade just over a year ago, the biggest threats in Watford City were gangs, occasional stabbings or fights in back alleys, and the team running against Mage for office, who were somewhat corrupt and would send people to snoop through his drawers. 

I made the news when I fought off a group of guys who were harassing uni students with nothing but my fists and the threat of a kitchen cleaver. I got a call from the Mayor’s office within the hour.

I guess they needed a hero, and I was there at the right time.

Penny thinks it’s just a PR stunt. 

The suit and sword were Mage’s idea. (My fault for telling him I used to rank in fencing competitions.) He wanted to make me a symbol, official and endorsed by the city. Nobody stops what they’re doing when a guy in a t-shirt and jeans rounds on them. But when they see a guy in a golden suit brandishing an actual sword, well, they think twice. The outfit makes me feel like a numpty, but it’s made the job much easier.

“Six months ago, he appeared on the map,” Mage says, jabbing a finger into the air. “Stirring up mayhem, just a few times a month. Trivial things. And seeking out…” His eyes narrow. “You in particular, Simon. Why?”

I shrug. “Easy target? I’m a public figure in a flashy costume.”

“I suppose,” he says. A long pause. He decides to come back to his desk; he perches on the edge of the chair across from me, as if prepared to spring into action any moment. “In any case, well done. All the kidnapped children were returned to their homes last night after your fight. Not a scratch on them.”

Huh. I didn’t think I had won that fight. 

I didn’t take the children, Blade. Your dear Mayor Mage did.

“Try to see what he’s up to,” Mage continues. “I’ll have my team continue researching, but we have larger concerns right now."

“With all due respect, sir, what could be larger than Vampire?” I say. “He’s attacking the city, and we know he’s plotting something…”

Mage presses the tips of his fingers together. It’s an unnatural gesture on him, but he manages to pull it off and look somewhat wise. “The upcoming election,” he says. “I have someone taking care of campaign security, but the Grimm Party plays dirty.”

I have to wonder about his priorities. “Of course the campaign is important,” I press, “but kids are being kidnapped. Surely-”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Oh, it’s all these old politics, Simon, you wouldn’t understand. If they win…” His expression darkens. “Our city will return to the old, bigoted ways. Anyway. I’ll do my job, and you do yours, hm?”

I have to physically tamp down my frustration, clenching my fists and jaw. “Fine.”

“Simon,” he says, and his face softens. “Only you can protect this city. From everything. I care, and if I’m voted out, there won’t be a Golden Blade. Do you understand?”

I used to think he was fatherly in a nice way, but now it’s just fucking patronising. I force myself to nod. I feel like a baby. (A baby who can pack a serious punch.)

“Good. Focus on Vampire. I’ll keep you updated on our findings.”

I barely keep up with Vampire, because he’s fast, and nearly invisible, and it drives me mad. I never seek him out first—I just wait until he causes some trouble, or shows up somewhere. Then he’s on the news, and I use that to find him, or I get a text from Mage or Penny or Shepard or Agatha (grudgingly) with his location. They’re like my crew of Vampire spotters.

“Okay.” 

“Good man.” He shakes my hand firmly. “And do let me know if you need anything.”

“A jetpack?” I ask hopefully, and he grins.

“Maybe next month.”

I leave, taking the hidden side door to avoid raising suspicion, and start walking to the station. I pass the new statue of Mayor Mage in the courtyard of Town Hall. It was put up when he was elected, which seems kind of self-absorbed. Teenagers are always sneaking by at night and dressing it up in funny clothes. 

Today it’s wearing a green tunic and leggings—I don’t even know how they managed to get leggings onto the statue (Velcro? Velcro solves everything)—and an absurd green hat with a feather stuck in it. They’ve completed the Robin Hood look with a plastic bow looped around the statue’s arm and a quiver of arrows slung around his back. 

I can’t contain my laugh. This look suits him. I even take a picture to show Penny later.

My phone dings —it’s Shepard. He is somehow my favourite and least favourite reporter all at once. (Well, I suppose my favourite reporter would have to be Agatha. But she’s everyone’s favourite.) He’s American, I don’t even know how he got the job as a news reporter, but he’s funny and I like him. Sometimes.

Anyway, he likes to pretend he’s my brand manager. He was actually getting me some nice gigs, so I gave him my personal phone number, but now he thinks we’re mates and keeps inviting me to drinks. I’m ignoring that part and hoping it goes away. (As if I’m going to show up in full costume to the bar, anyway.) 

His text says: Good PR opportunity - hospital wants you to come take pictures with kids in the cancer wing. Free tomorrow afternoon?

I like the message and send back, You know I love kids. Have work tomorrow, though

Work?!?!?! Wtf? You work??? he responds.

Most superheroes in the comics have jobs as well, but in real life no one ever stops and thinks about what I do all day. I guess according to everyone, I just appear when needed, save the city, and cease to exist the rest of the time.

This hero stuff is my side hustle, I type. I’m free after 4.

I wait for the question to come, and sure enough. Wow. Where on earth does the golden blade work?

Good try, I send. I won’t blow my cover that easily

Shep writes, Fine, we’ll talk about this “day job” business later and then So 4:30, Children’s? I’ll meet you outside.

I send a thumbs up emoji. 

And then I try to come up with a plan to find out what Vampire is plotting. 

I get off at Penny’s stop after thinking way too many thoughts in a row while on the tube. I kept trying to make a list, but I spiraled instead, and now my head hurts and I’m hungry.

Could Vampire be someone with something against me personally? Maybe he knows my identity. There are only four other people who know: Mage, Penny, Agatha, and Ebb. 

And maybe anyone who put two and two together from the initial news report I was on. It was a one-minute spot on a local channel, and I didn’t appear as Blade until weeks after—and that made headlines across the country. But I guess it could be done. Maybe one of the gang members, or someone particularly observant.

Who is he? What could he want?

I force myself to focus on the cracks in the pavement and not think about Vamp as I walk to Penny’s. I texted her that I was coming over, and she always has biscuits for me. I think about biscuits.

But not thinking about Vamp is like trying to not think about an elephant sitting on my chest. 

I bound up the stairs to her flat loudly, and she has the door open before I even get to the landing. “You stomp like a dinosaur,” she says to me, before ushering me in and closing the door behind us. “Simonsaurus.”

“Velo-snow-raptor.”

She laughs and slides me the biscuit tin across the counter. “So. How did the meeting with Mage go?”

I groan and prop my head onto one hand. “He… ugh, he just- was so dismissive about the whole thing! He’s putting his campaign and politics above these actual things happening here, and it’s just.” 

I want to tear my hair out. Instead, I roughly pry the lid off the biscuit tin to reveal stacks and stacks of Walkers shortbread. I don’t like these that much (mine are better) but I shove one in my mouth and try not to spit out crumbs as I continue, “I need to know what he’s up to.”

“Mage?”

“No, no, Vampire! Vampire. ” I bury my face in my hands. “He drives me insane, I just wish I knew what was going on.”

“He doesn’t seem particularly complicated,” Penny says. “He just attacks, then waits for you to show up.”

“Right, but isn’t that strange? Something is- he just-” I clutch at my curls and resist the urge to bang my head against the countertop. “He’s plotting. He’s plotting and I need to know. I’m sick of just running after him.”

Penny looks at me for a long moment and then says, “You think about this too much, do you realise that?”

I force myself to settle into a high barstool at the counter. She has three, and they’re in mismatched colours. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she huffs, “that you have a life, besides this. You’re the Golden Blade for, what, three nights a month? Four?”

“The Mayor asked me to-”

“The Mayor has an entire team dedicated to this,” she snaps. “But let’s just do this, so we can figure it out before they do. I’d love to see the look on his face.”

I love her competitive streak.

I take a few calming breaths. “I need your help making a list.”

Penny’s already moving. “I’ll never say no to a list,” she calls as she leaves. She reenters the kitchen a moment later pushing a massive whiteboard on wheels.

She uncaps a marker and draws a line down the center, writing on one side What we know and on the other What we don’t know. 

“Okay. He’s been around for 6 months,” I start. “He doesn’t seem to be superhuman, but he can fly and shoot fire.”

Penny scrawls out 6 months. On the other side of the board, she writes: Flying --> Jetpack / Wingsuit / Superpowers. Fire --> Flamethrowers?

“Maybe you should start wearing a parachute,” she says.

“Regard for personal safety? Where’s the fun in that?” 

She taps the board with her marker, thinking. “Let’s go over the attacks he’s done.”

As I tick off the acts that Vampire has committed in the last couple months, Penny writes them on the board. Arson at Wavering Gardens. Arson at abandoned hospital. Car hijacking. Dismantling statue of Mayor (accident?). Stealing motorcycles? Stealing pets? Stealing children?

Question marks, because there’s no evidence it was him. And everything was returned.

He knocked over the Mayor’s statue while flying. It seemed like an accident, but I suppose he could have done it out of spite. People hate that statue. I wouldn’t blame him.

We both stare at the list, trying to find common themes. Penny speaks first. “He doesn’t seem to be interested in actually hurting or killing people,” she says. “He attacks empty places. And the pets and children were returned.”

A thought is working its way through my head, and I’m trying to voice it, but it’s more in a series of images than anything—fire and flames, and the carefree loops Vamp carves through the air when he flies, and what he said last night. I didn’t take the children, Blade.

And then the thought hits me, breathlessly. “They’re almost like distractions.” The words start tumbling out of my mouth. “He targets me, and gets press attention, and doesn’t actually… hurt anyone. He puts everything back. He doesn’t seem to care—maybe he doesn’t have a passion for what he’s doing, and it’s like… like there’s something else going on. In the background. He’s… he’s a diversion. ”

I finally catch Penny’s eye, and I’ve managed to surprise her. I can tell by the way she’s not saying anything. (She’s always saying something.) I feel giddy with this realisation. 

She leans over, placing her elbows on the counter. Her eyes are gleaming. “Yes. Yes, Simon, this could be it! What could he be a diversion for, though?”

I shake my head, and I shake my hands, out, too—I feel nervous, and frustrated, and we’re so close. So close. My thoughts come crashing back down to earth. “I don’t know.”

“Could he be working with anyone? Making the distraction while his partner does something else?”

“He’s always alone,” I say. “Never mentioned anything about partners.”

Works alone? she writes. 

“I wish I knew who he was,” I grumble. “He probably lives nearby. We’ve probably seen him.”

Penny wisely ignores this. “Has he said anything about motives?”

“I’ve asked,” I say. “Last night he just said it’s fun. But… he did say something interesting.”

Penny writes possibly a psychopath/sadist then turns around. “What?”

“He said… well I’m pretty sure it was a lie but he said…” 

Why would he say that? If it was true, he wouldn’t just tell me, would he? I suppose he’d expect me not to believe it. But it can’t be true, it doesn’t make sense. 

“What?”

“He said that he didn’t kidnap the kids. He said that Mayor Mage did.”

Penny glares at me from over her glasses, looking every bit like an angry, slightly puzzled schoolteacher. She pokes her tongue into her cheek like she does when she’s thinking. Then she turns around and writes Blames Mage on the board.

“The Mayor may be corrupt, but he’s not evil,” she finally says, staring at the board. “That’s what my mother would say, at least.”

“He’s not corrupt-” I start to defend, but Penny holds up a hand.

“We’ve been over this, Simon. We have differing political opinions. It’s fine."

I sigh. “I can’t have a political opinion about him. He gave me everything. He made me into… what I am. Into Blade.”

Penny fixes me with another look and says, “He may have given you the suit, but you made yourself into a hero. You brought yourself up to where you are now. Don’t you forget that.”

Chapter Text

Baz

Snow jingles his keys as he walks by the living room. “Going to the kebab place. Want anything?”

“No,” I call out without taking my eyes off the TV. “And stop asking.” I wait until I hear the door close to relax and let myself wonder why I’m so fucking abrasive to him when he tries so hard to be friendly.

Okay, I know why. Because he’s positively dreamy, and if I let myself actually be friends with him I’ll fall in love with him and that… well. That can’t happen. That won’t turn out well for anyone, least of all me. 

So I try to keep my distance.

I’m watching the news, attempting to keep abreast of politics, but I’m so fed up of hearing the same things over and over that I’ve gone to the kitchen for tea and crisps four times. Finally, I switch over to local news station 4, just as Snow comes back in.

The blonde reporter, Agatha Wellbelove, is on again—I don’t know why she’s a reporter, she could be a model—and I nearly spill my tea when Snow decides to sit next to me on the sofa with a completely unnecessary jumbling, flumping movement that upsets all the cushions. I scowl, bristling.

“Aggie’s on,” he points out, speaking through a mouth full of chicken tikka masala. Aggie? He shovels food in like he’s been starved—it’s disgusting.

I kind of grunt in response.

“We used to date, you know.”

I nearly spit out my tea. “You what?”

“So that gets a response,” he says, half to himself.

“Shut up.”

He actually does. I regret saying it, because I’m morbidly curious about Snow and his (apparently) ex-girlfriend. 

I elbow him. “You dated her?"

A self-satisfied smirk plays across his lips. “Now you’re suddenly interested in my life, hm?”

“No, just surprised that someone like her dated a brainless muppet like you.”

“I’m not a—” he blusters, coloring, blinking, swallowing. It’s an entire fucking production. “Fuck, do you have to insult me all the time?” he finally bursts out.

“I’m just spelling out the objective facts.”

He huffs and turns back to the telly. 

Of course he dated her. Because he’s straight and he’s beautiful and he’s every shade of bronze and he’s fit as hell, and, well, they’d match. 

Wellbelove always gets jobs covering our most interesting local drama—the Golden Blade and Vampire. I suppose it’s because she looks the part, like a blonde Lois Lane or something, about to be swept off her feet by the stoic hero. And she’s got a great reporter voice, she’s really lovely to listen to. She could do audiobooks.

“I can swear I saw him on our street once,” Snow is saying, apparently having forgiven me for the muppet comment. He points at Vampire on the screen. 

“I knew you had a problem with your eyesight.”

“Shut up. Maybe he lives round here.”

“Yes, Vampire lives on Mummers Street,” I deadpan. “Of course, that makes complete sense.”

“I mean, why not? The Golden Blade has a job in Watford.”

“Really? Thought he just walked around in that ridiculous suit all day, looking for something to fight.” 

I’m being sarcastic, but Snow seems to take this seriously. “It’s common knowledge, Baz, honestly.” And then, quieter, “And the suit isn’t ridiculous.”

“Snow. You’re telling me that you don’t think a grown man walking around in shimmery gold lycra is…” Absurd? Illegal? Weirdly hot?

“It’s spandex, and he’s a superhero,” Snow says, rolling his eyes. I don’t think too hard about why he knows that Blade’s suit is spandex. Knowing him, he’s part of some weird fan cult for the guy. I can’t help but imagine what Snow would look like in the suit. (Positively sinful. Sinful. If I could un-think it I would—the image is distracting as hell.)

“That’s how they all dress,” he continues. “Anyway, Vamp has a strange getup too. The cape is cool, I guess, but no one should own that much black.”

I gesture pointedly at my all-black outfit, and Snow snorts. “Except you. Other colours exist, you know.”

“It’s called having a fashion sense, Snow, you could try it out sometime.” 

Or you could try the golden suit. I wouldn’t mind.

“No thanks.” He turns back to his food for a moment before saying, “But Vamp, he must do something during the day? Besides go shopping for new black clothes, that is.”

I watch the dark figure swooping about in the footage. “Nah, he probably lives in a lair or something.” I grin. “Sleeps upside down in a cave, like a bat.”

I’m rewarded with an open-mouthed smile, a small laugh from Snow. “That must be it.”

This banter is almost pleasant. It makes me feel warm and kind of itchy.

Agatha’s talking about the recent kidnappings, and how all the children have been returned. We both watch her for a minute, and then I have to ask. “Do you think he did kidnap those kids?”

He pauses for a moment, and seems to answer carefully. (Shocker, I know.) “Yeah… I suppose. Who else would it be?”

He holds out a kebab for me, and I take it. He’s always trying to feed me—mostly baked goods. I usually decline, but I want this conversation to continue, and accepting his food is a sure way to make that happen. He’s strange like that.

“According to the children’s parents, they were not contacted regarding the kidnappings,” Agatha is saying. “No ransoms were demanded. The children were returned to their homes just hours later, completely unscathed.”

“Maybe he is a real vampire,” Snow says. “And he wanted to, I don’t know, drink their blood or something.”

I snort. “Then they’d be dead. Or they’d have bite marks. Anyway, he’s not a real vampire.”

“How do you know?” 

“Because vampires aren’t real, Snow, are you joking? Sorry if you’re a Twilight fan, but Edward Cullen isn’t going to come sensually stalk you.”

I have no idea why I said that. Hell, I want Edward Cullen to come sensually stalk me. He flushes, though, and I bite back a smile.

“That is all the information we have for now,” Agatha says on screen. “Coming up next is an interview with The Golden Blade himself, after the break.”

“His name sounds like a sex toy,” I mutter.

Snow flushes at that. He mumbles something that sounds like “Never thought about it that way,” as he leaves to wash his dishes. 

I turn the volume down during the advertisements. “Shall I change the channel?” I call. 

His response from the kitchen sounds muffled. “Nah, I want to see the interview.” This pretty much confirms the weird fan cult idea. He walks back into the living room, his mouth full. What could he possibly be eating now? “Want a biscuit?” He sprays a couple pieces on me, and I make sure to shoot him my best disgusted look as I wipe them off.

He has crumbs all around his mouth. I imagine licking them off, and then kissing him. 

He’d probably taste like chocolate. 

“No.”

“Are you sure? They’re warm.”

“I said no.” 

He passes me a napkin with a biscuit on it anyway. He’s insufferable.

It’s delicious.

The interview begins to play, and The Golden Blade stands in front of some building in the city, talking to another reporter—the American. He looks perfect stupid, as always, basically sparkling in gold and white, his mask stretched over his head. He’s spouting some nonsense about being the protector of the city, blah blah. As if missing pets are a threat.

“He sounds ridiculous,” I scoff.

“What, his voice?” Snow asks, sounding hurt.

“You sound personally offended, Snow.”

“I’m not.” He frowns. “I mean. What’s so ridiculous about Blade?”

“Besides the garish costume and his name’s similarity to a… personal adult pleasure device?”

Snow laughs. “Oh, fuck off.”

He stretches his arms over his head, revealing a toned stomach, paler than the rest of him, and I nearly have a conniption. I tear my eyes away, even as he relaxes in that position, oblivious.

What does a fucking bakery manager need all those muscles for? Why does he have a mole on his lower abdomen, and why do I desperately want to touch it? Why does his shirt stretch over his chest like that, and why does it make my heart do a fucking jig?

I look back to the TV, but the image of him in the golden suit pops back into my mind, and I want to slam my head against the coffee table. (He’d look a thousand times better than the Golden Blade in shimmery spandex.)

I stand up suddenly, tell him I’m going to bed, and retreat to my room. I get ready for bed and definitely don’t think about what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair or nestle into his broad chest, his arms around me.

Fuck.

Does Snow just work out all day? Doesn’t he have a job? Did he always look like this?

Maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow. Maybe that will help me settle my electrocuted nerves and the unwelcome thoughts of all the things I want running through my head. I feel like a sexually frustrated teenager. What the fuck is happening?

Chapter Text

Simon

My days start early.

I make breakfast the night before, which just involves throwing leftovers from the bakery into a box. I bring home more than I need, and Baz grumbles at the ridiculous overflow of muffins and pastries in the kitchen, but I know he has a sweet tooth and secretly eats them. 

I used to heat up whatever I’d brought in the toaster oven, but the ding would wake Baz up, and he’d appear in his doorway looking like the Big Bad Wolf and tell me to shut the fuck up, or god help me. So now I just grab my container and go.

It’s October, my favourite month, and it’s starting to get chilly—in the mornings, I can see my breath in the air. I walk the few streets to work, munching on a vanilla chai scone on the way. Sometimes I have to resist taking a picture of this area on my daily commute. It’s the nicest place I’ve ever lived, all quaint brick buildings and cast iron balconies. It looks pretty with the colourful leaves, like a postcard. Best wishes from Watford City.

I round the corner, unlock the door, and step into the bakery.

I breathe in the smell of yeast and baking bread, and as I step back into the kitchen I can see the powdered sugar dust in the air. I’m blasted by a wave of heat as our morning baker, Trixie, slides a tray of lemon poppyseed scones into the oven. 

“Morning, Simon,” she says. She bustles around the kitchen, trying to get everything baked before the morning rush. Her bubblegum-pink hair is covered in flour under her hairnet. She takes me by the shoulders and drags me over to a bowl on the counter. “Stir,” she orders. 

I’m technically her boss, but at this hour of the morning, she calls the shots. I stir. A moment later, a crumpled ball of purple fabric hits me in the back. My apron; I pick it up and tie the strings around my waist.

As the chocolate chip cookie dough comes together, I grab a tasting spoon to try a bite. Needs salt. I add a palmful and mix it well, then pull out a huge baking sheet from the cabinet. I line it with parchment paper, find a clean cookie scoop, and start lining it with uniform balls of dough.

Some people like to run, but this is how I settle my mind—placing neat lines of cookie dough onto a silver sheet, over and over again. It keeps me from thinking too much.

I used to have Trixie’s job, before Ebb promoted me to manager. I used to wake up at three in the morning to make the bread dough, so it would have time to rise for a few hours and bake before the shop opened. (It was before I lived with Baz, of course—I think he’d kill me if I so much as flushed the toilet at that hour.)

I scoop out all of the dough (well, most of it, I leave some in the bowl so Trixie and I can eat it), cover the cookie sheet with plastic wrap, and slide it into the fridge. 

“Anything else, Trix?” I ask as I wash my hands. 

“No, I’m all set.” She shoves a hot scone at my face as I head out to the front.

I think I could write a sonnet about scones. They’re the one thing I feel sure about, all the time. 

This lemon poppy seed scone, for instance. The glaze hasn’t hardened yet, and the huge bite I take literally melts in my mouth. “Hey,” I call.

Trixie pokes her head out of the kitchen doors. “Yeah?”

I hold up the scone, pretending to examine it, and she laughs—she already knows what I’m up to. Whenever we really like something, we do this thing where we act like we’re judges on Bake-Off.

“Trixie,” I say in my best Paul Hollywood impression. “This scone is incredible. The tangy flavour of the lemon wonderfully offsets the heaviness carried by the butter and cream.”

She covers her mouth as she tries to contain a giggle. “Oh, thank you!”

“While the centre of the scone is dense,” I continue, holding up a finger, “the golden-brown edges crumble and flake, landing like… snowflakes on my tongue.” Trixie’s dying with silent laughter, and I barely keep it together as I finish. “The poppy seeds complete the scone, adding the perfect amount of texture.”

She takes an exaggerated bow. “Thank you, Mr. Snow.”

“Please,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. “It’s Simon.”

“Can’t believe I got a Simon Snow handshake.”

I stuff the rest of the scone into my mouth. Maybe I’ll have another.

I take all the chairs down, give the tables a wipe, and make sure the glass case that houses the baked goods is spotless. I unlock the till and make sure our new credit card tap-thingy is working. “Did you unload the dishwasher?” I call to the kitchen, keeping my expectations low.

“Hell no,” comes the answer. I sigh and trudge back inside.

“This is technically in your job description,” I point out.

Trixie whacks me lightly with a wooden spoon. “I am a baker, not your busboy.”

We have this argument every morning. I don’t even bother, just resign myself to unloading the dishwasher. At least we only have a few kinds of dishes—mugs and saucers, small plates, and glasses for iced drinks. I stack them onto the dish cart (this was our best investment, I used to have to carry them by hand) and wheel it over to its spot behind the door. 

I run through my mental list to finish off the tasks for the morning. I fill up the hot water tank for tea and start the coffee machine. It sputters and hisses as it begins to brew. I refresh all the stacks of napkins and paper cups and lids and jars of stir sticks and make sure the sugar is topped up at every table. I put aside a muffin for Penny and another scone for myself. 

A few minutes later, it’s 7:00, and I flip over the sign in the window. Watford Bakery is open for business.

Our first customer is Niall. We went to uni together, actually, but I rarely saw him. He works in finance or something—he once told me that he works over 65 hours a week, which is absurd—but he’s nice enough, for a business guy. He’s a regular; he comes in every day right when we open, then sits in a booth and answers all his emails until he leaves at eight for work. 

“Alright, Simon?” he says as he steps up to the counter.

“Morning,” I reply. I ring him up for his usual without even asking. (Sourdough toast with spreads on the side, and large coffee. He could literally make that at home, but I do have to admit our sourdough is excellent. Our starter has been around since Watford Bakery opened.) 

He taps his credit card on the new machine. “There you go. Great idea with the new contactless payment. The industry’s really seen some upward momentum lately, you know.”

This. This is why I don’t talk to finance guys. He could have just said “how are you?” but now I kind of want to throw the white tappy square out the window. 

I nod and put on a pleasant mask to hide my tappy-square-homicide thoughts. “Yeah, for sure. Hey, why don’t you go sit down, I’ll bring your order round.”

It’s slow for the next few minutes, and I retreat to the kitchen to help Trixie slice bread and bring the last few muffins and scones out to the front. I busy myself with random tasks, like straightening the labels for each baked good and eating more scones, enjoying my last few minutes of peace and freedom. 

***

The attack comes at 8:00 sharp.

You’d think the last few months of fighting Vampire would make me better prepared for this onslaught, but the morning rush is here. This is ten times scarier than any flying, fire-shooting villain. This is a line out the door and it’s made solely of hungry, possibly hangry, coffee-deprived people, and each and every one of them needs to get to uni or work right now.  

I take a deep breath, paste on a smile, and dive in.

I spend the next two hours passing out breakfast as fast as I can and yelling at Trixie to help bus tables so I don’t have to leave the counter. (Maybe we need a third employee. Ebb never shows up before ten.) We run out of our signature sour cherry scones, the most popular item, by eight-thirty; I flip over the label to read SOLD OUT. The muffins are dwindling, the coffee machine is making worrisome noises, and we are out of oat milk, apparently. (I don’t care.)

The first wave quiets down around nine, which is when Trixie leaves, and she gives me a little knock on the shoulder as she goes, hanging up her apron behind the counter. “See you,” she says, shaking her hair free. She has a spiky, wispy pixie cut, and it stands out from her head like a pink dandelion puff.

I start cleaning up from the morning rush when I hear the bell above the door tinkle. I look up to see Penny, reusable mug in hand, and my shoulders relax. She crosses the shop and gives me a hug. “You look exhausted,” she says.

“Well, Monday mornings, you know. It’s always like this.”

She looks around. “I like the new decorations, though. They’re cute.”

“Yeah? Thanks.” I helped Ebb put up autumn-themed decorations this weekend. Garlands of leaves, an autumnal wreath on the door, patterned wall decor that should belong on a scarf. We draped a few of the chairs with cosy knit blankets and put string lights in mason jars at every table. 

The decor complements our mural perfectly. It’s just a couple years old, and it was Trixie’s idea, actually; her girlfriend Keris is an artist and volunteered to do it for free as long as we tagged her on Instagram and gave her complimentary baked goods for life. It covers one entire wall of the bakery.

It’s a beautiful scene; sloping hills giving way to a dense forest that looks like something out of a fairytale. Complete with red and white spotted mushrooms and little shapes, twinkling lights, like there are magical creatures hiding amongst the leaves. A path slopes up to a magnificent castle perched atop one of the hills. She painted swirls of multicoloured leaves and a grey-blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. She even drew little people sitting around the grass, eating scones—they’re so detailed that you can see the cherries on them—and drinking coffee out of cups emblazoned with the purple Watford Bakery logo.

The shop looks warm and homey and like something out of a cheesy romcom, but in a good way. 

I grin and take Penny’s hand, leading her up to the counter. “Let me just get your muffin.”

With my back to the entryway, I bend over the counter to reach the muffin’s hiding place, leaning on my stomach and rising onto my tiptoes. Penny says, “You know, on my way here I saw—”

The bell above the door rings. I crane my neck, stretching out my arm to grab the napkin-wrapped muffin. I hope this position doesn’t look too compromising. “Can you just see who it is, Penny?”

Someone clears his throat.

I stand up, nearly bumping my head on the bread rack, and turn around to make direct eye contact with Baz Pitch.

Oh god.

I flush from my chest all the way to my hairline.

Baz is flushed too, but it’s probably from the cold. It must be.

“Don’t stop your show on my account, Snow,” he says. “We were enjoying the view.”

Penny hides a giggle behind her hand. Traitor.

“I, uh, sorry,” I mutter, hurrying to get behind the counter. “Um. Sorry. What, uh, what are you doing here?”

We’ve lived together for two months. He goes to grad school down the street, and uni there before that, and he’s never come in the bakery before. Not once.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that how you normally greet customers?” The eyebrow inches toward his hairline. “Or is it with the wonderful display we were just subject to?”

Penny snorts, and I shoot her a dark look. I think I’m in hell. I think I slipped on the way here and died and I’m in actual, physical hell right now.

“Ha ha, very funny,” I say, and try to move on from the offending conversation. “What can I get you? Or did you just come in here to mock me?”

Penny takes a seat in front of the counter and casually unwraps her muffin, as if she wasn’t just complicit in this cold-blooded murder of my dignity. 

Baz pretends to consider the display of baked goods. He’s wearing a soft-looking jumper under his coat with a stylish scarf hanging on either side of his neck, and his hair is tousled from the wind. It hangs down around his face, and he reaches a hand up to casually tuck a strand behind his ear. My stomach twists itself into a tight knot, for some reason. I don’t usually get embarrassed easily. I stare at the display of baked goods and take a deep breath.

“A pain au chocolat, for here,” he finally says, pronouncing the French perfectly. It’s infuriating. “And a mocha breve.”

I slide the croissant over the counter. What the fuck is a mocha breve? 

“If you want fancy drinks, go to Starbucks,” I tell him.

“It’s just a mocha but with half-and-half instead of milk,” he says, a challenge in his voice. I can almost hear the unspoken jab—unless you’re too thick to figure that out, Snow.

We don’t keep espresso drinks on the menu because they take too long to make, but I have all the ingredients, and that sounds delicious, honestly. He’s still looking at me, and I feel like I could shrink away beneath his accusatory gaze. “Fine,” I finally say. I’ll never back down from a challenge. I make up a price for the drink and ring him up. 

We have a pot of melted chocolate in the kitchen for drizzling over desserts. I pull a shot of espresso from our unused machine in the back, then add a scoop of chocolate and a spoon of sugar. I use our ancient milk frother for the half-and-half, cranking by hand. I can’t explain why I’m putting so much effort into this drink—I probably could have told him to fuck off—but for some reason I want to prove my competency. I pour the foamy half-and-half into the mug, making a little leaf design on top. That’ll show him.

I find a saucer and bring it out to the front. Baz is sitting at the table with Penny now, and they seem to be having a… pleasant conversation? (With Baz? Impossible.) Penny waves me over.

Setting the drink in front of Baz, I grudgingly pull over a chair. Penny and Baz had a bunch of stuffy History courses together in uni that Penny liked to call “fun electives.” She was the one who convinced me to live with Baz this year, just until my new lease starts in January, claiming that “he’s really not that bad, Simon. You’ll see.”

He was a prick to me in uni, when we did interact, but he’s actually not that bad of a roommate. I won’t ever admit it to her, though.

I finally make eye contact with him as he takes a sip of the drink. He sets it down, leaving a foam moustache on his upper lip. Penny and I make eye contact; she’s nearly shaking in her effort not to say anything.

“What?” he says.

Penny and I dissolve into laughter. 

“What is it?” he snaps.

“You’ve, ah, you’ve got something there,” I say.

He snatches up his napkin and primly pats at his mouth. We’re not even by any means, but at least he’s a little embarrassed. He takes another sip, carefully, keeping his eyes trained on me. I find my eyes drawn down to his lips, stark pink against the white edge of the mug. “It’s… not terrible, Snow.”

What is? I almost say, until I remember he’s talking about the drink.

Penny looks back and forth between us.

Before I can respond, the bell dings and I stand up too quickly, nearly knocking over my chair. I hurry to the counter, definitely not thinking about how Baz’s eyes look like reflections of the grey sky outside, and definitely not bothering to wonder why watching Baz drink a coffee I made makes me feel… sweaty.

Chapter Text

Baz

This was not how I expected my morning to go. 

That is to say, I did not expect to walk into a bakery and be greeted by the sight of Simon Snow, bent over a counter at the waist, with his trousers straining ridiculously over the backs of his thighs. 

I think Bunce caught me staring.

And then he turned back toward me, his curls a mess atop his head, his face flushed, his mouth hanging open, and I knew I was so in over my head.

Also, the mocha breve was fucking delicious. He even made a leaf design on the top. Adorable.

I ring Fiona’s doorbell, and she hollers, “You have a key, little shit!”

I let myself in and find her perched on her windowsill, smoking. She waves me over. “I saw you on TV last night.”

“Wasn’t much of a fight,” I tell her. I reach for her cigarette, but she dangles it out the window. (Apparently villains need to have good lungs.) “Not a scratch on me.”

“Stealing pets though, really, Baz? I thought you were better than that.”

I take a seat on the sofa, my back to her. I agree, it wasn’t my finest moment, but Pitches don’t apologise. “You said to cause a distraction, so I did. And the cats had fun, I took them to the meadow. They had a field day with the mice.”

“You’re literally joking.” I hear the window creak as she gets up, and then one pointy elbow digs into my shoulder. “Are you going fucking soft? Fun? A meadow?”

I squirm away from her bony appendage and twist around to give her a glare. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Taking children was better.” She grins. “Everyone was so worried about them. It was great.”

“The kids were annoying as fuck,” I say. “They just… cry, and scream, and ask for food. One of them literally bit me.”

Fiona snorts. “And they said you were terrorising them. Guess it was the other way around.” She walks into her bedroom and comes out with a file. “Anyway, yes, it worked.”

I hold out a hand, and she hands it over, then lays back on the sofa next to me with one leg up. 

Shoes. On the sofa. I resist a shudder. At least her sofa is leather. (Pleather?)

It’s a simple manila folder labeled: Campaign 2019 - Golden Blade. My eyes widen. “Is this from Mage’s office?”

“His assistant’s.” Fiona rolls her eyes. “They started doubling down on security on nights when you’re spotted. Maybe we should change tactics…” 

I flip it open and begin leafing through the papers—interview transcriptions, news clippings, a map of Watford City with little gold stars marking where our fights have taken place.

Fiona was hoping this file would reveal how Mayor Mage is going to use The Blade to his advantage in his upcoming campaign. Maybe as a figurehead, some kind of “we’re the good guys!” symbol. Maybe a plan sketched out about his future appearances and TV spots.

But this doesn’t seem to be it. It’s more like an extensive logbook of his shining achievements than anything. “Fiona, I don’t think…” I start.

Fiona sighs. “Yeah, it’s not exactly what I was hoping for. Doesn’t even reveal his identity.”

“It doesn’t?”

She leans across my lap and flips to the end of the file, where there’s a full profile of the Golden Blade: a headshot of him—in the mask, goddamn it—and some full-body shots. Age, height, weight. He’s right handed, has brown hair and blue eyes, and…

Name: [redacted]

“You’re joking,” I say out loud. I turn to Fiona. “Seriously, this is a personal file, why the fuck would they censor it?”

She laughs. “So people like us can’t go kill the Golden Blade in his sleep. That would make our job too easy, and that would be no fun.” 

I feel sick at the mention of killing Blade. “We don’t have to murder him…”

Fiona stands up, taking the file back and tucking all the papers in. “Sure, whatever you want. Just put him… out of commission. I don’t care what you do to him,” she says, “as long as he doesn’t come near the Mayor’s office.”

I follow her back to her room and lean against the doorframe. It’s a mess inside, and she sweeps a bra and a pair of men’s boxers out of the way before unlocking her safe and slipping the file inside.

“Won’t they notice it’s gone?” I say.

She kicks the safe shut with one boot and throws a pile of clothes in front of it. “Nah. Nobody looks at files anymore. It’s all online these days.”

“Maybe we should get a hacker, then.”

“Where the fuck are we getting a hacker?”

She means it rhetorically, but I answer anyway. “Maybe a computer science student.”

“Right,” she says flatly. “We’re just going to call someone up and say, ‘Hello, it’s Vampire. Yeah, the supervillain? Him. And his aunt. Would you kindly download the Mayor’s campaign files for us?’”

“Someone will do it,” I say. “For the right amount of money, that is.”

“So now we’re doing hush money, is it?”

“No, it’s bribery. We can do bribery, right?”

She snorts. “I stole from the Mayor’s office last night, boyo. I think we’re past the point of no return, morally that is. Want crisps?”

She brushes past me and enters the kitchen, opening cupboards. She hunts for a minute before finding a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar crisps, rolled up and sealed with one of my hair ties.

“I’m on that new diet,” I tell her.

She pulls the hair tie off and slingshots it at me. I catch it on my little finger. “What diet? Diets are for numpties.”

“The diet you put me on, Fiona.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“‘You have to build muscle,’” I quote in a horrible imitation of her voice. 

“Well,” she says wryly, “how is that going for you?”

“Terribly! Snow is trying to fatten me up.” 

 The Pitch eyebrows are out to play again. “That sounds… kinky?”

“Fiona, no," I groan.

“Just eat the crisps.” She throws the bag at me, and it hits me square in the face. “And work on your reflexes.”

I pour them into a bowl and take one, swallowing before I say, “You don’t understand. His cinnamon buns are so good.”

He made them last Sunday, and I woke up to the scent of warm cinnamon wafting down the hall. I ended up in the kitchen, still in my pyjamas, just as he was pulling them out of the oven. He was in plaid bottoms and glasses— glasses! —and it was magnificent. We ate straight out of the pan, and he probably ate twice as many as me due to sheer speed. He’s like a vacuum.

By the end of it I had a stomachache from eating so many, and I was trying not to seem excited but they were seriously the most incredible cinnamon buns I’d ever had, and I finally said, “What’s your secret?”

He looked at me for a long moment, said, “My… secret?”

“For the rolls,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, and a self-satisfied smirk settled on his face. “Old baker’s trick from Ebb. They’re sourdough. Straight from Nicodemus.”

“... What the fuck is a Nicodemus?”

Nicodemus, I learned, is the name of Watford Bakery’s sourdough starter. 

The more you know.

Fiona feigns casualness, pulling another cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it. “His buns, did you say?” 

“Fiona, I swear to god.”

She just looks at me.

“Those buns too,” I finally mutter, and she laughs. “So,” I say, hoping to change the subject, “do we have a plan?”

Fiona taps her fingernails against the counter. They’re painted black and filed to points—she thinks it’s edgy. “One false alarm,” she says. “A big televised fight, so they think you’re done for the month.”

“And you’ll be…?”

“Doing nothing. They’ll hopefully realise their added security is meaningless.”

“Then what?”

She hums, thinking. “We’ll wait until next week for the real thing. You lure Goldilocks somewhere without raising the alarm. No arson.”

“But Fiona,” I say in my best whiny Mordelia imitation. “I love arson.”

“And I’ll sneak into Mage’s office.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know. A file more useful than the one I got last time.”

“That clears it up.”

“Why don’t you sneak into his office?” she suggests. “You can knock out the security guards in one go.”

“Right, and you handle The Golden Blade. Good plan.”

She grins cheekily. “I’d handle his blade, all right.”

“Ew.” I pause. “Really. Ew. God. No.”

“It’s too easy,” she says. “He brought this upon himself with that name.”

“So,” I say. “This weekend for the false alarm, and next Friday for the real thing?” I have three papers and a case study due, so I could use a villain-free week to work on them. “I think they close the office early on Fridays.”

“Friday it is, boyo.” I get up to leave, hauling my bag over one shoulder. “And don’t forget wine night this week.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell her. “The promise of seeing Hugh Grant every Thursday is the only thing getting me through grad school.”

“That, and avenging your mother, taking down Mage, and winning the campaign. Right?”

“Nope,” I say. “Just Hugh Grant.”

When I get home, Snow is sitting on the sofa, folding his clothes while watching The Great British Bake Off.

He looks adorable. His glasses are thick-rimmed and square, too big for his face, and they look kind of atrocious, but it’s a strange show of vulnerability. I want to pluck them off and kiss his nose. His cheeks look rounder, somehow. I feel like I’m seeing an alternate universe version of Simon, one where he’s scholarly and nerdy and precious.

I have to wonder why he watches Bake-Off. Doesn’t he bake all day? Doesn’t he get sick of it? No one loves baking that much.

He ignores me (I don’t blame him), but then he says, “Wait, Baz!” and I freeze.

I turn around. “What?”

He points to a neat pile of my clothes on the table. “You left those on the kitchen chair, so I threw them in with my washing.”

I meant to take those to Fiona’s so I’d have a few spare Vampire outfits there. 

Fuck.

“You really do wear a lot of black.”

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I’m just praying he didn’t look too closely at some of the clothing. I can’t imagine what he’d think if he found out I owned a pair of tight leather trousers, but it’s nothing good.

“We’ve been over this, Snow. Fashion sense.”

“Yeah, but… a cape? Why do you have a cape?”

I feel the panic rising in my chest, and spit out the first lie I can think of. “I, uh…I… cosplay.”

“Oh,” he says, clearly not believing me. Then, deliberately, “As what?”

I dug this hole myself. 

“As…” I glance around the room for inspiration. There’s a pop art Marvel poster near the TV. Capes, capes… “Um. As… Doctor Strange.”

This is my worst lie yet, but it was the first thing that came to mind. I’ve never wanted to die so much. I seriously consider picking up the cape and strangling myself with it.

Simon raises both eyebrows. “Really? Doctor Strange?”

“Yep. Him. The very one.”

“Not, um, Vampire?”

“No one cosplays as Vampire,” I say, trying to sound dismissive. 

I need the ground to open up and swallow me right now.

“You could,” Snow says. “You’ve got the look for it.”

“What look?” I ask sharply.

“You know, the… the vampire look.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to,” I say, except I do. I have dark hair, a widow’s peak, high cheekbones. It’s why I chose the fucking pseudonym in the first place.

“Like Edward Cullen,” he says cheekily.

“Do not compare me to that disgrace of a vampire.”

“You could cosplay as Edward Cullen. You’ve got the outfit already.”

“He doesn't wear a cape. And stop saying Edward Cullen.”

“Edward Cullen.”

“Stop.”

“Edward…”

“Snow, I swear to-”

“Cullen.”

I gather up my clothes. “I’m going now.”

“At least you’ve got the sexy brooding down,” he calls after me as I walk to my room. 

Did he just say sexy?

I throw the clothes onto my bed. And then, because I’m a literal trash can of a person, I step back out of my room. “What was that, Snow?”

He looks up at me innocently. “I said you’ve got the brooding down.”

This cannot be happening. 

“I do not, you berk.”

“You do. Just the right amount of dark and mysterious.”

“I’m not mysterious-”

“But not so much that it’s off-putting.”

“That makes me feel so much bett—”

“Let’s watch Twilight,” he says loudly, interrupting me again. 

“Under no circumstances will I ever watch that film,” I say.

“So you haven’t seen it?”

“I couldn’t subject myself to that torture. The books were bad enough.”

His eyes widen and he grins. “You’ve read the books, then.”

“I…” 

Shit.

He bounces on the sofa. “You have! I bet you secretly liked them.”

“I did not.”

He pats the spot next to him. “Come on, you must be curious. We can make fun of it the whole time.”

I roll my eyes. “Snow, what is this, a teenage girls’ slumber party? We’re two grown men, we are not watching Twilight.”

He exits out of Bake-Off and starts typing in Twilight. “Look, it’s even on Netflix. We can make popcorn. I have leftover cupcakes.”

I know I shouldn’t read into it, but I have to wonder why he’s trying so hard to be friends. I mean, we’ve been somewhat companionable before, but not on the level of watching films together and sharing snacks. He was mortified after the bakery incident today; it shouldn’t have made him want to spend any extra time with me.

But against the odds, here he is, setting up a nice little Netflix & Chill scene. (In my dreams.) (There’s only one blanket. It’s all very rom-com.)

“Is that a yes?” He’s looking up at me from the sofa with his hair flopping in his face and his moles dotting his skin, and I can’t say no. Even if I know I’m going to hate this film, I don’t hate him. (Not anymore. He used to be messy, back in August, and I actually did hate him, no matter what he looked like.) 

I make a show of my exaggerated sigh. “Fine.”

His smile in return makes any amount of suffering through bad films worth it. It takes over his whole face.

I go to the kitchen and make popcorn while Snow gets up and digs the cupcakes out of the fridge. While it’s popping, I go put on a sweatshirt. Hopefully to squash any quilt-sharing tendencies before they arise so I don’t do anything stupid.

I join Simon on the sofa and settle in for two hours of torture. (Both on-screen and off). 

Being this close to him is intoxicating. 

And knowing I have to stay three feet away, on the other side of this sofa, is torture.

“I can’t believe this film starts with a voice-over. I know it was 2008, but…”

“Shhhh.”

“I hate her.”

“Is there a difference between Washington and Washington D.C.?”

“I’m not even going to answer that, Snow.”

“I’m Googling it.”

“Does that look like the nation’s capital to you?”

“Shush, I can’t hear.”

“I can’t believe the voice-over is still going.”

“Shh.”

“Charlie Swan is the real hero of this series.”

“Ooh, it’s Jacob!”

“I’m going to ask again, Snow, are you a 13 year-old girl?”

“Taylor Lautner’s fit, isn’t he?”

“I… I guess. He’s not my type.”

“What is your type, Baz?”

“Kristen Stewart is a gay icon, but she’s terrible in this film.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Shut up Snow, she’s getting to school.”

“Oh, so now you’re suddenly invested.”

“Is this what school is actually like in the U.S.?”

“ANNA KENDRICK! Baby Anna Kendrick!”

“Nobody gets Bella’s sense of humour. I hate Americans. I’m cringing, Snow, why are we still doing this?”

“The vampires, she spotted the vampires!”

“Spoiler much?”

“They look like film stars.”

“Jasper looks familiar.”

“He looks like me.”

“In your dreams, Snow.”

“He does, he’s got the curly hair.”

“It’s less curly than yours. And he doesn’t have moles.”

“It’s Edward, cue dramatic music. See the resemblance?”

“I look nothing like him. Those eyebrows are obscene.”

“No, it’s like, the vibe.”

“Why did Bella just make an orgasm face when she saw him.”

“Baz. No. Why.”

“She murmurs all of her lines, it’s so ann-”

“There it is, the stare, the smoulder, look, Baz, do you see it, do you-”

“I don’t do that.”

“Believe what you want, mate.”

***

“This film makes me want to off myself.”

“Shh.”

“I don’t like hearing Robert Pattinson with an American accent. It’s just wrong.”

“I s’pose.”

“Are they really trying to make a biology class have sexual tension?”

“What’s wrong with biology class?”

“Everything. Christ, this is a punishment to watch.”

“Look at him. They’re doing close-ups for us.”

“You think he’s fit, don’t you.”

“Of course I think he’s fit, the whole world agrees with me.”

“I didn’t know you liked blokes, Snow.”

“Oh, um… just a few. I’m picky.”

“Ah. Only vampires, then.”

“Exactly. Only vampires. What’s your type, Baz?”

“You already asked me that.”

***

“VAMPIRE STRENGTH.”

“He should have let her die, then we’d be spared of this four-film experience.”

“So you want to watch the other three as well?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you just said-”

“No.”

***

“Is he watching her sleep? That’s so fucking creepy.”

“It’s the brooding.”

“That’s not brooding, Snow, that’s stalking. How would you like it if someone did that to you?”

“I sleep like a log, I’d never find out.”

“Ugh, he’s so possessive. That’s a great foundation for trust.”

“We’re not here to see a healthy relationship, we’re here to see vampires.”

“Still, he’s 108 years old. He should be the paragon of good communication, not ruled by blood pheromones like a teenager.”

***

“‘Your mood swings are giving me whiplash,’ hey that’s like you, Baz.”

“Shut up.”

***

“Bella has the personality of a piece of cardboard, why does she have friends?”

“You really hate her, don’t you?”

“She doesn’t deserve the hot vampire.”

“So you do think he’s hot!”

“No. I mean. Like you said. Everyone does.”

“And you?”

“We’re not doing this again.”

***

“Special diet? Really? That’s the best he could come up with?”

“This is making me hungry. Here, take a cupcake.”

“Watching other people sit at a restaurant makes you hungry?”

“Everything makes me hungry.”

“He can’t read her mind because there’s nothing to read. She has one single brain cell.”

“That’s offensive.”

“Sorry, how could I forget, Snow. She’s one of your kin.”

“What does that-- oh.”

***

“He’s brooding again.”

“He’s always brooding. That’s all he does in this inane piece of garbage that calls itself a film.”

“YOUR HAND IS SO COLD. Iconic.”

“Snow, why are you so invested in this?”

“Are your hands cold?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“Just let m-- Oh. They are cold.”

“Good for you. Now let go.”

“Do you want the blanket? Here, take the blanket.”

“I don’t want the blanket.”

“We can share it. Take half the blanket.”

“I’m fine, Snow.”

“C’mere.”

“No.”

“Fine, I’ll move closer then. There, isn’t that better?”

“... Yes.”

***

“He’s sparkling.”

“This is so unrealistic.”

“It’s for the drama. The sexual tension.”

“But--”

“Shh, I like this part.”

“You like the part where they’re lying in a meadow doing nothing?”

“Yeah, it looks pleasant, doesn’t it?”

***

“Jacob’s dad is the hero we all need. He just completely exposed Jacob’s crush on Bella.”

“Do you have a thing for heroic dads?”

“NO.”

***

“‘I like watching you sleep.’ Snow, I can’t watch this anymore. She needs to file a restraining order.”

“Shh, they’re about to kiss.”

“Why is this taking forever.”

“Kiss, kiss, kiss-”

“Shut up-”

“Oh. That’s, um, heated-”

“Just because he’s strong doesn’t mean he defies gravity-”

“Vampires do.”

“They don’t.”

“Vampire does. Watford’s Vampire.”

“He’s not a real Vampire, Snow.”

“I’m not so sure, maybe he only comes out at night because he sparkles in the sun…”

“Or he just has a life.”

“I’m sticking with the sparkle theory.”

***

“Why is there a semi-erotic baseball montage?”

***

“Okay, what about that one?”

“Who?”

“The blond one on the left. James.”

“What about him?”

“Is he your type?”

“Isn’t he the evil one?”

“Spoilers! Also, purely on looks. I won’t judge.”

“God no. He looks like my ex.”

“I. Knew it. I knew it!”

“What?”

“You have a thing for blonds. Dirty blonds. Whatever colour that is.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“You’re turning red-- hey! Give back the blanket.”

“It’s what you deserve, you nightmare.”

***

“Thank god it’s over.”

“Did you like it?”

“I actively wished for the sweet release of death the entire time. Zero out of ten.”

“Great, let’s watch the second one tomorrow.”

“I will murder you. And I won’t feel bad about it.”

“Hey Baz?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your type?”

Baz

Morons who make me watch Twilight with them.

Chapter Text

Simon

I’m making chicken noodle soup—well, I’m attempting to without burning down the kitchen. I’m an excellent baker, but I can’t cook for shit. Baz has been holed up in his room, studying.

I slide a loaf of focaccia bread into the oven, and I’m definitely not thinking about him.

I’m not thinking about how much Baz smiled last night at my bad Twilight jokes, and how much I actually enjoy his dry sense of humour. 

I’m not known for my subtlety. I was flirting a bit, testing the waters, and it wasn’t by accident.

But he flirted back. It wasn’t obvious, but I’m positive he did.

The way he leaned toward me under the blanket, as if trying to absorb some of my body heat. His hand in mine. (Cold, like a vampire’s.) He called me a nightmare, but with a smirk on his face. He must have insulted me ten times, but with none of his usual venom. 

His eyebrows knitting together, his cheeks just barely colouring: I didn’t know you liked blokes, Snow.

It’s hot in here.

It’s really, very warm. 

Is the oven on too high?

I open it to check on the bread, and a blast of hot air hits me in the face. (Perfect. Just what I needed.) 

I’m not thinking about the cape I found in his laundry… 

An idea is beginning to take shape in my mind, and I don’t like it. It can’t be true, and I don’t want to think about it. But the way he talks about Vampire, as if he knows him, and the way he’s never home when I’m out on my, erm, night shift. 

No. It makes no sense. I try to push the thought away.

It’s a bad idea to flirt with your flatmate. Even worse idea if he’s secretly your nemesis.

I’ll talk to Penny about it. I'm free tomorrow afternoon; Mayor Mage cancelled our weekly meeting since he has some “business out of town.” I’m not sure what it could be. 

There’s this big rally planned for tomorrow in front of Town Hall for all the people who oppose Mage. Which is ironic, since he won’t even be there. The problem is, his competitor for the upcoming election next month, Richard Grimm, isn’t much better; he’s basically the other extreme.

More people than not fall somewhere in the middle, and there’s no candidate promising that. Penny says that unless either Mage or Grimm shifts their party toward the centre, people will keep protesting.

My soup won’t stop smoking for some reason even though nothing’s burning, and as I reach up to turn on the extractor fan, the lights go out. I reach around for the button to turn on the stove light. I press it again and again. Nothing. 

I glance out the window and see that the streetlights have been completely extinguished; the cars have all come to a standstill. I can see the buildings downtown, and all the high-rises have their lights off.

Power’s out, then.

I don’t know if we have a torch, but the stove fire is still on, casting a tiny glow over the kitchen. I move my pot of soup off the gas before I can cause any more damage.

Baz comes out of his room a second later, flicking a lighter on. He holds it under his chin, and it casts haunting shadows on the planes of his face. “Another power outage?” he half-whispers.

“Yeah. Second one this month,” I whisper back. I don’t know why we’re whispering. “Wonder what’s going on…”

“It’s no secret,” he says. He bends over to look under the coffee table and comes back up with a large candle in his hand. 

“It’s not?”

Baz sets the candle on the kitchen counter between us and lights it. He has the lighter grasped so close to the top, it looks like the fire’s sparking from the tip of his finger. “Mage pushed that ridiculous new policy through. Probably his last hurrah before he’s booted out of office.”

“What policy?”

“Don’t you keep up with these things, Snow?” I shake my head, and he continues. “It was this bill that basically forced companies with over 500 employees to fully convert to renewable energy immediately, or pay hefty fines.”

“But… renewable energy is good, right?”

“Of course. But the timeline really fucked up some of the businesses on the smaller end that couldn’t afford to do that right away.”

“Oh.”

“And as we can see,” he says, gesturing around, “the company that provides electricity to our building, and most of Watford City, couldn’t keep up with the demand using just renewables, at least for the time being.”

“Right.”

“Grimm has a less extreme policy with a decreasing cap-and-trade system, which I like. It’ll get the same job done, but ease companies into it.”

“You support Grimm?” I didn’t expect this. Penny dislikes Mage, too, and isn’t quiet about it, but she hates Grimm. She says he’s bigoted and sexist, not to mention homophobic, which Baz might care about, considering.

He swallows. “Well, he’s my uncle, so I kind of have to-- excuse me.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and answers it. “Yeah? No, now is not a good time. I don’t care, Fi, and wouldn’t this defeat the point of… what we talked about yesterday.” He glances at me and starts walking down the hallway to his room. “Yes, I understand that surveillance--” 

Surveillance? He shuts the door, and I seriously consider running there and pressing my ear against it. But not thirty seconds pass before he comes out again. “You do it, then! I have…” He looks at me again. “Dinner with Snow. Yep. Shut up. Bye.”

He hangs up and stares at me, as if daring me to ask. I open my mouth and say, “Who--”

And then my phone starts ringing. 

This is a joke. It must be the Mayor, though. Last time there was a power outage, Vampire set fire to an old warehouse downtown and I got a call from the fire department and the Mayor’s office. I’m sure there’s trouble this time…

Except the call isn’t from the Mayor. It’s Penny. I pick up immediately. “Yeah?”

Baz smirks at me.

“Simon! Thank god!” she says, sounding panicked. “You need to come here right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a… wait, are you with anyone?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, go somewhere else! It’s official business!” That’s code for superhero things.

I walk into my room and close the door. “What is it?”

“I just got word of a major crime syndicate back in town,” she hisses. “And based on the physical description, I think it’s Egghead.”

Egghead. Slippery, slimy bastard. 

“What the fuck,” I say. “Didn’t I kick them out like six months ago?”

“Yes. Do you think it’s connected to the outage?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe. Jesus.” I crush my phone against my shoulder to free my hands and stuff my Golden Blade outfit into a duffel bag. “Where are they?”

“My source said they’re transferring goods at the warehouse down the street from my place!”

“Power outage. No security cameras… ” I say.

“Exactly.”

“What source?” I ask.

“Shepard. The news reporter?”

“What the fuck?”

“I didn’t ask, he just sent me an IP address and I traced it.”

“Okay, okay, um— fuck. Did you call the police?”

She huffs. “Yes, and I think they’ve been fucking bribed, because they pretended they didn’t even know who Egghead was! Can you believe that?”

“Yes, I mean no, but fuck, Baz is home. He’s never home when I leave.”

“Just— tell him I have dinner ready or something. Don’t say anything unless he asks, you’re a terrible liar.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in five.”

“Hurry,” she says. “Meet me at my place. Bring your earbuds.”

I stuff them into my pocket and walk as fast as I dare back out to the kitchen. Baz is texting, and he looks up as I approach the door. “Where are you going?”

“Um, Penny’s. She has food for me.” I shrug in what I hope is a casual way.

“There go my plans for a romantic candlelit dinner,” he says, fake-wistfully. Sarcastically, I think, but I’m honestly not sure.

That would be nice, I could say. Except I’m secretly a superhero, surprise! Duty calls.

Instead I say, “The chicken in my soup's still raw and Penny has Indian food. Also she’s scared of the dark,” which are all lies. I should stop piling them on. I turn away. “But, uh, romantic dinner tomorrow, yeah?” 

And then I practically run out the door before he can ask any more questions.

I sprint to Penny’s place—it’s only a mile or so, and with the traffic jam right now, it’s faster than driving—and let myself in with my spare key.

“Simon!” she says. “What took you so long?”

“Baz,” I pant, and dump my bag out on her table. 

“Hurry and get changed.” 

She grabs my mask and pulls it right-side out. I strip to my underwear and drop my clothes on her floor—neither of us care at this point—and start shoving my limbs into my suit. She holds my gloves out, and I slip my hands in one by one.

I turn around. “Zip me up? Don’t forget the velcro.”

She does, then throws my boots at me. “Whose socks are these?”

“I don’t know.” I unravel the black socks. “Baz’s, I guess. Must have gotten mixed up in the wash.”

“They’re a weird material—”

“I thought we’re in a rush, this is not the time for fashion judgements!”

“Right, we’ll analyse the socks later. Are you all set?”

“How do I look?”

“Fantastic, heroic, but… where’s your sword?”

I pat myself down, even though I know it’s not there. "Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck— it’s, it’s in my car.”

She scrambles around her kitchen and hands me a huge chef’s knife. “Here, good enough, it’s the biggest one I have, now go! I’ll get into the building next to the warehouse, then call you.” 

She grabs her laptop and the binoculars sitting on the counter and drags me out the door, locking it behind us, then nearly pushes me down the stairs. "Go!”

***

I tumble down the stairs and out the door of Penny’s building, dashing a few blocks to the warehouse. I feel ridiculous with this kitchen knife, but it’ll work. 

Penny’s car pulls up to the building next to the warehouse a minute after I arrive, and I watch her start climbing the fire escape. I take a deep breath and enter the warehouse, gluing myself to the wall. A few moments later, I pick up Penny’s call and slip my phone into a zippered side pocket. “I’ve got eyes on you,” she says in my ear. “Get their attention.”

Men dressed in black suits with bright yellow pocket squares. And larger men around the perimeter, wearing grey and holding torches. It looks more like a business transaction than anything; there are briefcases and money being passed back and forth, hands being shaken.

“Hey!” I call. 

They all turn to stare at me, and then make a run for it. The torch beams dart wildly and I hear a few of them clatter to the floor. Everyone starts yelling at once and looking for an escape.

“Don’t move. There’s only one exit,” Penny says in my ear. “And you’re standing in front of it.”

I stand my ground, but no one comes near me. The suited guys stay slightly behind the muscular ones. Finally, one of them steps forward. “Mage’s Head Boy. Come to tell us off?”

There are times when I’m grateful for my ability to just have muscles and growl at people and make them disappear, and there are times when I wish I was witty like Vampire. This is definitely the second. I can’t think of a response to that. 

Luckily, I have a best friend with a head full of wit.

“Tell them to fuck off,” Penny says.

Then again, maybe not.

What would Vampire say? I get hot and frustrated in the face of danger. He seems to get cooler the higher the stakes get.

I fall into a fighting stance and clear my throat, putting on my hero voice. “You wish.” The guy takes a step backwards. “But since I can’t bring you to the police, I suppose I’ll just have to teach you a lesson.”

“That was good,” Penny says in my ear. 

The shadows are shifting. I glance to my side, but the corners are dark. I can barely see the guys right in front of me.

“Wait, Simon—” Penny says. 

I’m surrounded.

There must be fifteen or twenty of them. Eight huge muscular guys, and the rest in suits. They form a loose circle around me. Almost all of them wield knives, but I don’t see any guns so far.

A man steps out from the shadows. He’s bald, with a straight, dark mustache, and he’s wearing a pristine white suit and a shirt the colour of an egg yolk. 

“Egghead,” I say in what I hope is a threatening tone. The name sounds absurd. I’m glad the mask covers my mouth, because I don’t think I can keep a straight face.

Penny coughs.

Benedict Eggerton, better known as Egghead, is a drug lord who wears yellow and deals… crack. (I know.) (He got into crime early; his parents were poachers.) (Okay, I made that one up. I can’t help it.) I put him in prison earlier this year, but he escaped and fled north.

From the looks of this scene, his gang is taking advantage of the power outage to make a major transaction. I can’t tell who are the sellers and who are the buyers.

“Golden Blade,” he says, inclining his shiny, bald head. “We meet again.”

“I’ve come to stop you,” I say. “Again.”

“Yet you’ve shown up empty-handed.”

I draw my weapon, trying to look as menacing as possible.

“I remember your blade being bigger,” he says, eyeing my kitchen knife. “Is it too cold for you in here?”

Penny bursts out laughing. “Oh my god. I’m sorry, Si, you’ve just been roasted to a crisp--”

I twirl the knife between my fingers. “I can crack you anyway.”

“Good effort,” Penny whispers. “But a bit rough on the delivery. 'Take a crack at you' might have been better...”

“Sword or no sword,” I continue, “you’ll be an egg wash by the end of this.”

“What?” Penny says. “Is that a baking reference?”

Egghead cracks his knuckles, and his men rush me.

Penny

The warehouse has one window, and I can see everything inside. It’s not very well-lit, but Egghead cuts a striking figure in white; he doesn’t care about hiding. 

I Google a list of ways to make eggs. Simon needs to win this fight, but more importantly, he needs to get some egg-themed one-liners in there to show them who’s boss. Chances like this don’t come around very often. 

Simon is being attacked from all angles, but he fights like a whirlwind. The bulky guys attack first, mostly with their fists. Simon kicks their legs out from under them. He throws them across the floor like they weigh nothing.

“Behind you!” I say. Simon spins around and disarms the man behind him, twisting his arm, and I hear a shout through my earbuds. He grabs the guy’s knife and kicks him in the stomach, sending him sprawling. 

Simon Snow faces fifteen men with nothing but two knives, looking like he’s ready to explode.

He’s doing okay for the moment, so I grab my phone and film a bit of it to put on YouTube. I’m nothing if not a good PR person.

I Google Egghead. I still have to wonder how Shepard knew… well, everything. He doesn’t know The Golden Blade’s identity, but he knew to contact me. And he knew about this drug deal going down. Did he get a tip? Is he a criminal himself, pretending to be a newscaster/podcast host?

I scroll through the news stories, but there’s nothing recent. “He’s Scottish,” I tell Simon. “Scotch Egg.”

He just grunts in response. He’s knocked out four guys and disarmed several; their knives litter the floor, glinting up in the glow of the torches. I watch for a moment. He punches the guy coming at him from the front in the jaw, takes a hard punch to the stomach—I flinch, even from up here—and spins around half a second later to roundhouse kick the guy behind him in the head.

The man stumbles backwards but picks up a knife and attacks again. Simon twirls his blades, one in each hand now, and I hear the screech of metal against metal as he fights. The guy goes down with a knife to the shoulder.

He’s a blur of gold and white in motion. He throws his knife—I have no idea where he learned to do that—and it embeds itself in one of the men’s legs. He rolls across the floor, picking up two more discarded knives.

One muscular guy is left. Simon pants, facing him. His leg is bleeding, but he seems relatively fine otherwise.

“Last bodyguard,” I tell him. The burly man rushes forward, tackling Simon, and he hits the ground with a grunt. He struggles under the guy, pinned to the floor. The guy raises his knife. “Right side!” I shout. Simon frees his right arm and tries to roll away.

“Fucking, ow--” 

“Shit!”

He shouts as the man gets in a jab with the knife—a stab in his upper arm—and finally manages to push him off. “Fuck you,” he says, and kicks him in the groin. The man buckles over, and Simon tosses him like a sack of flour.

“Yes!” I say. “Your arm?”

He presses a hand to it, and his glove comes away stained with red. “It’s… not that bad.”

“Egghead, three o’clock,” I warn.

The man in white steps out. He looks ridiculous. At least he owns the egg thing. I snap a few photos for the news.

“Hard or soft boiled,” I whisper.

“Which way is it gonna be, Egghead? Hard or soft boiled?” Simon shouts. He whispers to me, “That was stupid.”

Egghead raises an eyebrow. “Last chance to leave us alone, Blade.”

I consult my list of egg dishes. “Give up before you get scrambled.”

Simon twirls his blades. I love it when he does that; he looks like Deadpool. “It’s your last chance to surrender before you get scrambled.”

Egghead curls his lip. Then he reaches for his pocket. 

“He’s got a—” I gasp.

He levels the gun at Simon. “I prefer my eggs… poached,” he says. 

Simon Snow is not bulletproof. 

He immediately dives to the left and I scream, and the sound of the gunshot echoes through the warehouse and down the street. It’s deafening. 

“SIMON.” 

“I’m fine, he missed--” He lunges at Egghead, knocking him to the floor. 

I hear police sirens immediately, probably in response to the gunshot. I breathe in shakily. “Police are on their way.”

“Good,” he says, struggling to pin Egghead. 

I’ve lost track of the gun. Then I hear the safety click. No, fuck—I focus the binoculars. “Left hand!”

Simon crushes Egghead’s arm to the floor just as another gunshot rings out. He punches him in the throat, but Egghead scrambles (ha) to his feet again, grasping the gun in both hands. I hear the scrape of Simon’s blades and a howl of pain from Egghead. 

Simon spins and shoves the handle of his other blade into Egghead’s solar plexus, then disarms him. There’s a struggle and a sickening crack—Egghead’s arm, I think—and then Simon has the gun. 

Egghead pushes himself to his feet. There’s a blade embedded in his leg, and he’s clutching his arm. I don’t think Simon even knows how to use a gun, but he holds it steadily out in front of him. 

“Over-easy,” I whisper.

“That was over-easy,” he says. 

Egghead raises his non-broken arm in surrender, and the men in suits behind him do the same. 

“Talk to him while we wait,” I say. “See if you can get any information.”

“You’ve gone soft-boiled, Egghead,” Simon says. 

“Yes, good one,” I say.

“Why are you back?”

“Why should I tell you?” Egghead spits. He’s got a nasty scrape on his head, and the left side of his suit is soaked with blood.

Simon tightens his finger on the trigger, almost imperceptibly. 

Egghead swallows and works his jaw. “Your Mage loosened security and background checks for buying drugs and weapons,” he says.

That’s not the whole truth. He made some drugs legal for medical use. Not crack cocaine. And he made it easier to buy things like personal tasers and pepper spray; not exactly fighting weapons.

“Glasgow doesn’t have power outages,” Egghead continues. “Not like this. No lights, no police… and we heard some villain was keeping you out of the drug rings, for the time being. Vampire, yeah?”

Could that be Vampire’s plot? Distract Simon by fighting him so he wouldn’t focus on the other crimes in the city?

“So you saw an opportunity,” Simon says.

“Because of your Mage,” Egghead says.

“He’s not my anything,” Simon growls.

“Who do you serve, then?”

I wish he’d asked what we serve, because I have so many egg puns at the ready. Eggs-ecution. Hash-ing out justice. Karma served hard.  

“I serve the people.”

Egghead barks out a laugh. “The people? The people? You wanna talk to me about the people, kid? You know what we used to do before this? Take a wild guess.”

“Something with eggs,” I say. “Fried eggs. Fried… reputation?”

“You probably fried your reputation some other way,” Simon says.

“I was an egg farmer,” Egghead snaps. “My father was, and my grandfather. But Mayor Mage came along and his reforms put small farms out of business. I had to feed my family somehow. And we were fresh out of eggs.”

“I…” 

“Just let him keep talking,” I whisper.

“And these guys?” Egghead gestures behind him with his good arm, pointing to each man in turn. “Actor. Martial arts instructor. Bloody tuba player."

I don’t think the Mayor’s actually evil. But his reforms were harsh, and they lacked foresight. 

He cut funding for arts and culture programmes in the city to pay for the new healthcare plan. Which is great, because there’s better healthcare now, but it put loads of people out of jobs. And while some environmentalists are happy because of his new green energy plan, plenty of them are angry because the green spaces around the city are dying—he basically repurposed the public park budget to help companies convert to renewables. 

“What do we all have in common, Blade?”

I can hear Simon breathing roughly.

The sirens draw closer.

“We’re not here because we want to be. We’re here because your Mayor put us here. You should think about that.”

The police show up a moment later, along with a few ambulances. Now that Simon’s knocked out half the gang and is holding the rest at gunpoint, they seem to remember who Egghead is. Corrupt bastards.

They cuff everyone and take them away, shake Simon’s hand (and confiscate the gun—he hands it over gladly), and then it’s over, and Simon is standing alone in the middle of the empty, dark warehouse.

***

I hurry down to the warehouse, stopping by my car to grab a coat for Simon. The power must be back by now. I find the light switch, and the overheads flicker on. The Golden Blade turns around to face me, and I can only imagine what his face looks like; like his entire world has been turned sunny-side… down.

I swallow. “Let’s go home.” He puts on my coat and follows me mutely to the car.

He ducks down and pulls off his mask, then looks straight ahead with that set in his jaw. Like he’s upset, but also like he might kill someone. He’s trembling.

I lead him upstairs and to the bathroom.

He sits down in the tub, fully clothed. He still hasn’t said a word. “Show me your arm.” Simon turns around and lets me unzip his suit, and I gingerly peel off the top half. He has a deep gash in his left arm that’s caked with blood; it makes my stomach turn. He doesn’t even flinch when I rinse it out with cold water.

I fold up the bottom of his suit and take a look at his legs. The black socks that are apparently Baz’s reach halfway up his calves, and above that he has bruises and scrapes. But the cuts stop abruptly at the cuff of the socks. Underneath, his skin is completely unbroken. Not even sweaty. I pinch the curious sock material in my fingers. 

“Take off your socks.” He does, and I set them to the side. I’ll take a closer look later.

I rinse out his hair, and he closes his eyes.

“Simon,” I start gently, “you couldn’t have known.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

“Mayor Mage is not a bad person.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Chapter Text

Baz

I’ll burn myself alive before I admit this to anyone, but I was terrified the first time I met The Golden Blade.

I stood in Fiona’s flat, trying on my suit for the first time. I designed it myself; it was stylish, but not too flashy. Leather trimmings on the outside, with a billowy cape, and a layer of ultra-protective long thermals underneath. Fiona had some “connections”—I didn’t ask—and had sourced the fabric. It was incredibly strong, bulletproof, fireproof, and most of all, moisture-wicking. (Villains don’t sweat.)

She tugged on my cape. “You look good, kid.”

I adjusted my mask; it used to slip back then. We redesigned it after my first fight.

“Maybe I should do a half-face mask. Like Batman.”

“You look good,” she repeated.

I didn’t feel good. I felt nauseous. I felt like a child playing dress-up.

“Is this really necessary, Fi?”

Six months ago, The Golden Blade had made his debut. Saving kittens from trees or some shit. I’d never seen Fiona narrow her generalised rage so singularly towards one human. Or rather, two: The Blade, and the master he served—Mayor David Mage. 

She called me the day after he appeared on the news (“Basilton! We have to do something.” “Absolutely not”) and started hatching a plan.

A week later, I found myself standing in her living room with my arms outstretched as she took my measurements, a pencil in her mouth.

“I’m not in-shape enough for this.”

“Don’t you play football?”

“It’s… been a few months.” I hadn’t been on the pitch in two years.

She’d punched me on the shoulder in a pal sort of way. “Start training, then.”

My shoulder hurt. I started training.

I wasn’t curious about who The Golden Blade was. I didn’t hate him and I didn’t want to hurt him, because I just didn’t care. I didn’t have the fire under my ass Fiona had, the needless desire to do something, anything, to get back at Mayor Mage. I just wanted to study.

But Fiona had a plan, and against my better judgement, I’d agreed to help her.

“This is going to work,” she promised.

“I’m not interested in your petty revenge plots.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “This isn’t petty revenge, Baz. This is symbolism. This is showing the people that Mage isn’t all great and godly just because he has a damn superhero.”

“And sending a nobody in a suit to beat up said superhero is going to work?”

Fiona pushed her white lock of hair from her face and fixed me with a glare. “You’re not a nobody. You are a Pitch.”

“Still anonymous. Still in a suit.”

She smirked. “Because if your father finds out, he’ll have my hide. Don’t worry, boyo, you’ll be infamous soon enough.”

I swallowed. “So we’re really doing this.”

“Think of it as a test run,” Fiona said, grinning wickedly. “Time to introduce Vampire into the world.”

“Vampire,” I repeated.

“You like it, right?”

“It’s… got flair.”

“You bet your ass it does. Now get out of here, I have a date in ten minutes.”

***

He hated me before he met me.

Not because I posed a real threat. I bet he could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. At first I thought it was because I could fly, and he was jealous. Or because he was intimidated, maybe.

I was standing in front of a burning building. (Old, abandoned office, overgrown with vines). I’m sure I cut a striking figure against the flames. I made sure I was seen flying—Fiona said they’d just call the fire department otherwise. Only a true emergency could warrant a call for The Blade.

His car looked like the fucking Golden Snitch. 

He leapt out, a blur of gold and white, drawing his sword. I stared, for a moment, at the man who I was going to make my nemesis.

He was built like a Greek god.

And he was practically shaking with anger; I could feel it rolling off of him, in waves. 

He stalked towards me, and I forced myself to stand my ground. I toyed with the trigger of my flamethrower with the fingers of my left hand. 

“Who are you?” he shouted.

I let him come close enough that I could see the whites of his eyes. His sword was an inch from my chest. I stayed perfectly still. I remember noticing that I was taller than him.

“Your new worst nightmare,” I said in a voice that wasn’t my own. A bored, high drawl.

He didn’t even question it. Didn’t even ask my name. He just growled, his anger bubbling to the surface, and threw himself at me. He was like a fucking boulder. I shouted as we crashed to the ground hard; he nearly crushed my limbs. If not for Fiona’s strange fabric, his blade would have pierced my skin several times over. 

As it was, I felt fucking invincible. 

He pressed against my windpipe with his forearm, pinning me to the ground with his knees. I grunted and let fire loose from my wrists, kicked at him with pointed boots.

“Is that the best you can do, Blade?”

He yanked himself away, putting out the flame on his suit. The burn left a hole in the fabric covering his stomach, revealing smooth, tawny skin. The hint of a corner of his abdominals. He rolled to his feet easily.

“Why are you here.”

“This is what I normally do on a Thursday night,” I say. “I’m sure you understand. You must have hobbies too.”

I don’t remember deciding to act the part of the indifferent, yet teasing, villain. It was a reaction to my nerves, maybe, and it was just what came most naturally to me. More than being plain evil or sinister, since I wasn’t. I had no particular passion, so I might as well have fun with it.

The more he slashed with his blade, and the more nothing happened, the angrier he got. I had metal gauntlets wrapped around my forearms to hold the flamethrowers; I used them to block his blows. And I had to wonder; why was he so furious? I hadn’t done anything to him personally. He seemed rushed, frantic.

And then I realised why Fiona chose this day, in particular. Not because it was a Thursday (she had no regard for my homework schedule).

It was Valentine’s Day.

I heard the approaching sirens of fire engines, and launched myself into the air. “Hm. Maybe I’ll set fire to another one.”

Blade gaped for a moment, and then ran after me away from the burning building. There was a park nearby, and I hovered over a fountain. “I’m Vampire, ” I said. The word felt strange in my mouth. “Thank you for asking, by the way.”

“I don’t care.”

I cocked my head. “What, did I ruin your date, Blade?”

It was an educated guess, but by his answering growl, I knew I was right. Of course the man inside the golden suit had a date. 

He was fast—one second he was standing in front of the fountain, the next second I heard the scraping of his feet against the stone and I was yanked down forcefully by my foot. I struggled to shoot upwards, but he nearly pulled my leg out of its socket. I came crashing down to earth, and he slammed my back into the fountain.

Blade grabbed my neck and shoved me against the fountain again, getting right up in my face. (His eyes were blue, so blue, and livid.)

I could barely breathe, but I made myself fall limp. I gasped out, “This is properly romantic, isn’t it, Goldy?”

He tossed me to the ground roughly, and I coughed, trying to force air back into my lungs. His sword was at my throat before I had time to blink. “Tell me what you want.”

I stared up the shiny blade. Stay calm, he can’t hurt you. “Just a Valentine’s Day date with Watford’s most eligible bachelor.”

“I’m taken.”

“That’s too bad, I had a reservation for us.”

“Stop it,” he growled. He dug the point of his blade into my shoulder, and I winced at the sharp pressure. I rolled to the side, snapping my arm up to bat his sword away, then hauled myself to my feet.

I didn’t see the punch coming. I stumbled back, clutching my jaw, before I even realised his fist had connected. His kick sent me nearly sprawling to the side, and I immediately shot into the air, out of his reach.

“Coward,” he said. 

What he lacked in grace he made up for with speed and bulk and quick reflexes. “I did have plans tonight,” he said, barely dodging a jet of my fire. “And now they include getting rid of you.”

“How inconvenient for you. I’m afraid I’m a horrible nuisance.”

“You’re no match for me.”

“Not in a fair fight, Goldy. Too bad I can fly.”

He surged up suddenly, catching my belt on the tip of his blade, and swung a fist into my stomach. I buckled. “Do not—” He fisted my collar, ignoring the fact that his suit was on fire in four different places. “Call me—” Blade released me, then kicked me square in the chest. I went flying halfway across the park, skidding on the grass. I laid there, wheezing, and he stormed over. “—Goldy.”

I couldn’t get up; I thought he had broken one of my ribs. He stood over me for another moment. Then he said, “Get out of my city,” and walked away.

As time went on, it was pretty clear that The Blade didn’t realise he was Mage’s pawn. 

He did his fair amount of normal crime busting, but he also accompanied Mage to events and meetings at his request, just to stand there looking impressive. Or to intimidate people into agreeing with Mage. But when we talked, he wasn’t politically motivated. He actually seemed to have some intrinsic desire to do the right thing and protect people. (Revolting.)

Fiona couldn’t understand it. (“No one’s that altruistic. He must be after something.”)

I hadn’t even been sure he was real, but now that I’d met him, I hated him. Not in a specific way, but in an anyone-with-that-much-of-a-saviour-complex-should-be-taken-down-a-notch kind of way. And in a he’s-ridiculously-attractive-but-what-did-I-expect-from-a-superhero way. That way as well. 

On the night of the power outage, I watch Snow walk out the door, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He’s shades of red and orange in the candlelight, and I catch a hint of his dimple as he grins at me and leaves. 

Now there’s ridiculously attractive.

I get another candle from my room—Daphne gifted me a stash of them as a housewarming—and bring it to the kitchen. I move Snow’s soup back onto the burner and boil it for another few minutes. Then I help myself to some and put the rest in the fridge. (It’s not great. He should stick to baking.) 

His bread is still sitting in the oven; I suppose I’ll finish baking it as well. A month ago I would have thrown it out, just to remind him that he shouldn’t leave a mess in the kitchen. But I’ve tried his rosemary focaccia, and it’s fucking amazing. No matter how annoying his kitchen habits are, that focaccia doesn’t deserve to go to waste.

I wish he hadn’t left. Not that I was actually planning a romantic candlelit dinner, but… we could watch another film (not Twilight: New Moon). It’s freezing in here now that the heat’s off, and we’d have to watch it on my laptop, which would give me an excuse to sit close to him and steal some of his body heat.

He’s starting to grow on me. And not just because he feeds me and sometimes throws the blanket over me when I’m studying on the sofa and feeling too lazy to get up. 

I hesitate, then call Fiona back. “Shithead,” she says as a way of greeting.

“Snow’s gone,” I tell her.

“Thought you had a dinner date?” she teases.

“I wish.”

“So,” she says. Her proposal from earlier dangles in the silent air.

“What happened to next week?”

“I didn’t know there would be a power outage! Think about it. If we pull this off tonight, you’ll have so much time to work on your thesis paper or whatever.”

I sigh. “Alright. You have a plan, right?”

“Of course,” she says. “This will be a walk in the park.”

“Somehow, I don't believe you.”

“No power, no cameras, and no Blade,” she says. “We sneak into the office, steal some stuff, and go. Child’s play.”

“Where’s Blade?”

“He was spotted a few miles away from your place. Someone Tweeted a photo of him.”

“Should I go?”

I’ve come to enjoy our interactions, in a perverse sort of way. We have a rhythm to our banter—I mockingly flirt with him, and he gets pissed off because of his fragile masculinity. We fight, and he insults me, clumsily, and I cross all the right wires until he goes off like a bomb. But I usually win… sometimes I think he lets me win.

I think we have a mutual fascination with each other. He’s obsessed with finding out who I am and what I’m up to, why I want to take him down so badly. (I never answer him, because I don’t. I just want to make him angry and distract him.) And I find myself in admiration of him, despite myself, because I can’t believe he’s just that good. All the time. Isn’t it exhausting?

“He’s busy,” Fiona answers, and I hear the excitement in her voice. “Someone did your job for you. Come over. Let’s fucking do this.”

I pack up my shit and drive to Fiona’s; the roads are clogged, but slowly clearing up, and it takes me a while. I let myself in. She waves me toward the spare bedroom, and I go change into my suit. First the underlayers, then the leather on top, and finally the cape. I can’t find my socks, so I steal a pair of Fiona’s. I’m not worried about someone slicing at my ankles today.

When I come out, she’s dressed head to toe in black, complete with shiny black boots that reach halfway up her thighs. She’s even wearing black lipstick. The white streak in her hair is stark against the look. A black mask dangles from one of her hands.

“What do you think?” she asks. “Thought I’d dress the part of Vampire’s sidekick.”

I set my own mask on the table. “It’s more like I’m your sidekick.”

“Yet you get all the glory,” she says with a dramatic sigh. “Hey. Think you can lift me?”

“Obviously. Why?”

She has a maniacal glint in her eye, her eyebrow arched dangerously. “Because we’re not taking the car. We’re going to fly there.”

“We are not flying.”

“It’s cloudy. The streetlights are off. Plus, it's integral to my plan.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

She rubs her hands together. (She’d make a better villain than me, a hundred times over.) “Excellent. Let’s go.”

***

I dip below the clouds as we near Town Hall, sweeping the area for signs of life. I swoop down, grazing the tiles. “Now,” Fiona says, and I shift to grab her wrists. She swings down like a trapeze artist, landing lightly on the roof and running forward as I release her. 

I circle above, keeping watch as she starts working on the roof access door. It’s set into the floor, with a big wheel like the hatch of a submarine. She takes a pair of bolt cutters from her backpack and breaks the padlock, then spins the wheel. It opens with a quiet creak, and she waves me over. I drop down, landing like a cat, and follow her swiftly into the hatch.

I shut it behind me and slide down the ladder like it’s a fire pole. Fiona hums the Mission Impossible theme song as we slip down the stairs and through the door to the main building. 

“Shut up,” I hiss.

“Who’s going to hear me?” she snaps back. “Let me pretend to be a sexy spy in peace.”

“Not all of us have to pretend to be sexy.”

We find a building directory at the bottom of the stairwell. “Mayor’s Office,” she mutters, scanning it.

“This floor. By the lift.”

We creep down the hallway, sticking ourselves to the wall, and find double doors labeled with his name. They’re unlocked, and Fiona sweeps her torch around the room. It looks like a normal enough office; marble floors, a large desk with a portrait of the Mayor hanging above it.

Fiona darts over to the file cabinet immediately. She sifts through a few folders. “All of this is from three years ago.”

“I told you, it’s all digital now.”

She steps up to his computer. “Fucking Millennials.”

“Mage isn’t a— never mind.”

She clicks around on the computer, but nothing happens.

“It’s just a monitor. He probably has a personal laptop he takes home.”

“Fuck. Is there anything useful we can take?”

I crouch next to her and sweep a hand over the desk. “Flash drives, external drive, anything like that. Look for a safe.” There’s a small drawer unit beneath the desk, but it’s locked. “Can you pick this?”

Fiona pulls a small lockpicking kit out of her bag. “On it.”

“Where did you even get that?”

“Amazon.”

As she works on the lock, I wander around the room, running my hand over the walls. I pull out my phone and keep one eye on my news alerts, in case the power comes back; the lights might stay off in here, but the cameras would turn on with no warning.

My hand catches on the wall. I run my hand the other way, but it’s smooth. Back to the left—just a small groove. It continues down to the floor and up as far as I can reach. There’s a bookcase right next to it, and I snake my hand behind it. “Fiona,” I whisper. I pull out a few books and feel around the back wall of the bookcase.

She looks up, and I wave her over, showing her the seam in the wall. She shines her torch into the back of a bookcase, where I see it—so smooth it nearly blends into the wood. A square button.

I reach out to press it, but she grasps my wrist. “It might be booby-trapped.”

“Then get ready to run,” I say. Fiona scoops up her pack from the floor and zips everything into it securely. 

I hold my breath and press the button.

But no alarm sounds and no red lights flash. Nothing happens at all.

“It’s fucking electric,” I realise.

“What do you think it does?”

I shine the torch behind the bookcase, then below, it where the floor looks uneven. “Maybe this slides out of the way.”

Fiona sets her hands against one side, bracing her legs. “Well, don’t just stand there. It’s worth a try, right?” I push with her, and after an almighty grinding sound, something catches and the bookshelf slides smoothly to the side, revealing… a lift. 

“You’re joking,” Fiona says flatly. “A personal lift? That’s it?”

“Maybe there’s a secret floor.” I wedge my fingers between the doors and try to pull them apart, but they don’t budge. 

Sometimes I wish The Golden Blade and I were allies instead of enemies… I could use his brute strength and his sword in a situation like this. What would he do? Probably bash until it opened. Wedge his blade in between the doors and twist. 

“What now?” Fiona says. “We–”

I hear something, and I clap a hand over her mouth. “Wait.”

The hum of electricity throughout the building. My phone buzzes a second later with the news notification.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” I slam the button to call the lift. It dings with a horrifying loudness, and I shove Fiona inside. “Get in!” I pound the close door button. A corner of my cape billows out, and the doors slam shut on it. “Fuck.” I yank on the cape. 

Fiona pulls out a knife and moves to cut the fabric, but I stop her. 

“It’ll be left there and everyone will know it was me.”

She slices through the cape in one fluid motion. “You’re already a wanted criminal, Vampy. One more infraction won’t hurt.” 

One button is a different colour. LB: Lower Basement. 

I press my ear to the door and listen for footsteps, or an alarm, but there’s nothing. We zoom smoothly downwards.

“They’ll know,” I say again.

“Hell if I care,” Fiona says, her jaw set. “Looks like we’re about to find something we’re not supposed to.”

“That’s even worse.”

I watch the screen above the buttons flashing: 3, 2, 1, G, B, LB. I swallow the nerves bundling in my throat. Screw the cape—there might be cameras down here. Everyone will know that Vampire and his aunt/sidekick infiltrated Town Hall. 

I can’t go to prison. I need to graduate.

“If we see cameras,” I say, “we turn back.”

“And what? Have a sleepover in this elevator?”

“No. I’m claustrophobic as fuck.”

The door opens, and Fiona’s torch beam darts to the top corners of the room. “No cameras,” she whispers. I open my phone camera and look at the room through it to see if I spot any red lights. (I read about this trick online and honestly have no clue if it actually works, but at least it makes me look like I know what I’m doing.)

In the glow of the torch, I can see a few long tables. A hallway snakes out from the back of the room.

“Light switch,” I whisper.

Fiona flicks on the light, and I stifle a gasp when I see what’s in front of me.

Fiona grins from ear to ear like the cat who got the canary. She looks at me, then looks back at the room, and literally cackles. “Ohh shit, this is gonna be good.”

Chapter Text

Simon 

When Penny dropped me home last night, bandaged and bruised, Baz was already asleep. He’d put my soup away—he hates when I leave a mess in the kitchen—and even finished baking the bread in the oven. (I couldn’t believe it.) I ate half the loaf when I got home, I was so ravenous from the fight.

I laid there restlessly for a few hours, turning over what Egghead said in my mind. Can it be true? Am I actually fighting for the bad guy?

I kept rolling around to keep off my shoulder. The stab wound in my arm was killing me, and every time I felt myself drifting off, it would wake me up. I must have overdosed on Ibuprofen.

I texted Penny all my thoughts until she stopped replying. I tossed and turned until I got too hot and went to sit under my window. 

If Mayor Mage is the bad guy, what does that make me? His weapon? His hitman? And does that make Vampire the good guy, or just an independent party who wants to take me out? I always thought I was doing the right thing. I don’t know who I am, if I’m not the good guy.

I laid on top of my duvet, letting the cold wind calm me down, and finally fell asleep.

***

When I walk into the bakery on Wednesday morning, I force myself to switch out of Golden Blade mode and back into Simon mode. Which means I’m definitely not thinking about Baz. Again.

I’m not thinking about how he came to the bakery on Monday—it was two days ago, it feels like weeks ago—and I’m not thinking about how good he looked when he smiled, even if it was to make fun of me. I’m not thinking about his hair tumbling free or his milk foam mustache. How that exposed a moment of embarrassment and vulnerability. The flush working up his face, and how nice that looked on his high cheekbones.

I’m definitely, definitely not thinking about how I’m secretly hoping he’ll come by again today.

He doesn’t come by.

Maybe he’s mad about last night. Maybe he’s suspicious… 

I spend the early morning refining a new pumpkin spice scone recipe with Trixie. Well, mostly I create the recipe while she texts someone. She’s in a better mood than usual and distracted, typing on her phone with a dreamy expression on her face.

I’m not feeling dreamy at all. I’m feeling stressed, because it’s nearly six and the bread isn’t done proofing, and the muffin batter is nowhere to be seen.

“What’s going on?” I finally ask.

“What?” she says, still looking down.

“You’re all… distracted.” 

She doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. She takes a selfie on Snapchat, her flower-shaped nose ring glinting under the kitchen lights, then looks up. “It’s mine and Keris’ four-year anniversary today.”

I feel a bit bad about not knowing that in advance. “Oh, that’s… um, congratulations! That’s huge. Why didn’t you take the day off?”

She gives me an appreciative grin. “Because you wouldn’t survive the morning without me, Simon.”

I might not survive this morning in general—I feel like I didn’t sleep at all. “We’re running behind,” I say.

“Yeah… can you make the muffin of the day?”

“You haven’t started?”

She thrusts a mixing bowl at me, a silent plea in her expression. I sigh and take it. “How bad is it if I just use the same pumpkin spice mix we just made?”

She slides the bread out of the proofing drawer and into the oven. “It’s October. People would snort pumpkin spice if they could.”

Trixie takes a tray of scones in each hand and pushes out of the kitchen. The swinging doors are made of wooden slats, and through them I see her start to arrange some scones in the display case and stack the extras on the wire shelves behind the counter. I slide the bowl into a stand mixer and turn it on, then add eggs.

“So what are you doing for your anniversary?”

“Just a fancy dinner.” Trixie twirls back into the kitchen with the empty baking sheets, looking every bit like a pink-haired fairy. “What about you, Simon? Anyone special in your life?”

“Um, no, not really.”

“What about the girl you’re always with? Penny?”

“She’s my best friend.”

“Or that blonde girl, what was her name?”

“Agatha? We, uh, broke up.”

Trixie shakes crumbs off the baking sheets into the bin. “What happened?”

“She just…” Only dated me because I was a superhero. And I only dated her because she was a reporter, and we knew each other from uni, and it was what everyone expected. And then fucking Vampire decided to strike on Valentine’s Day, of all days, and Agatha decided she didn’t actually want to date superheroes. “Isn’t my type.”

Trixie raises an eyebrow. “Not your type? That girl is everyone’s type, Simon, have you seen her?”

“Well,” I say, jutting my chin out, “not mine.” 

“Oh.” She gets a tray of croissants, then pauses. “Oh,” she says again. “Not your type, like…”

I know she’s not going to say ‘the reporter type.’ “Whatever you’re thinking,” I tell her, “probably not that.”

“Girls!” she exclaims.

“What?!”

“Girls aren’t your…” She sees the puzzled expression on my face. “Never mind. I'm reading these vibes very wrong, aren’t I.”

“No, you…” Couldn’t possibly know that I live a double life as a superhero and have sworn against dating reporters. “It’s okay. I’m, uh, they are, but um. Yeah. I just don’t-- I don’t even know.”

I think about Baz on the couch, his eyes cutting over to me as he makes some sarcastic remark. I think about Vampire, hovering easily above me, the wind ruffling his cape. 

My stomach goes all weird with an emotion I’d usually peg as anger, but now, I don’t-- I don’t even know. I snatch up a spatula and fold chocolate chips into the muffin batter with a little more aggression than usual.

“Hey, it’s okay to not know,” Trixie says. “Just… don’t think about it too hard. You’ll meet someone you like, whoever they are, and you’ll be fine.”

“I… um. Thanks.”

She grins, going out to stack the croissants. “I’m always here for relationship advice,” she calls. “Or sex adv--”

I set the muffin tin down with a loud clatter. “Great, thanks Trixie, got it!”

***

I man the till all morning. As predicted, the pumpkin spice scones are a hit, and so are the muffins.

When the morning rush quiets down, I distribute the cookie dough from yesterday onto six cookie sheets—we always let it rest for 24 hours or more—and slide them into the oven. 

At ten, I hear the bell on the door tinkle and I hurry out to greet Ebb. She waves at me as she walks around to the back, unwinding her scarf. “Hiya, Simon,” she says. She’s wearing a giant, chunky white jumper, and her hair is sticking up at odd angles with little bits of leaves in it.

“Morning,” I say. “Did you take a tumble on your way?” I gesture up at her hair.

“Hm?” She swipes at the leaves, sending them scattering to the ground, and laughs. “Nah, it was just windy, that’s all.”

I start picking my way across the tables, gathering dishes and napkins. “Trixie and I made new scones,” I say to Ebb as she heads into the kitchen. 

She emerges with one already in her mouth and says, “These are brilliant, Simon, I love them.” Or something to that effect. I’m mostly fluent in garbled full-mouth speech, but you never know.

“Thanks. We thought they’d be good for the season.”

Ebb tidies up the counter area while I grab a rag to wipe the tables down before the mid-morning snack crowd comes in. “You always have great ideas, Simon. You’re a natural at this.”

“At… baking?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. You love this bakery, like I do.”

I rub the back of my neck. “I… yeah. I do.” 

Where is this going?

“And you’ve had some great ideas as manager, like that deal with the sandwich shop down the road. We’ve sold loads more bread.”

She gives me a watery smile. “I used to be worried about what would happen to this place, when I’m gone. My brother… when we founded it, he was so passionate, and I just went along. But now, the shop is all I have left of him.” 

Ebb wipes at her eyes with one woolly jumper cuff. “Ach, sorry for my ramblings, Simon.”

“No, no, it’s fine, Ebb, of course it’s fine.”

“It will be.” She studies the till. “Once you came along, I didn’t worry so much about the shop.”

“I…”

She sniffles. “I know you’ll take care of it someday.”

Oh.

Ebb wants to pass the bakery onto me.

I can’t help the lump that rises in my throat.

“Ebb, that’s… I’m honoured but… not very soon, right? You mean this in - in the far future, yeah? When you retire?”

She puts away the cleaning supplies and starts walking upstairs, to her office above the shop. “I’m going to go work on the accounts.”

“Wait, Ebb-”

“Holler when you need me for lunch rush, yeah?”

 She closes the door, and I stare after her, stunned.

Baz

I don’t know how I got here.

I mean, my life has been one magnificent, glorious disaster, but at least I’ve never sacrificed my pride and my image.

Which is why I’m sitting in the corner of my room with the door shut and a jumper stuffed under it to muffle any sounds, wearing headphones and listening to ‘Zero or Hero? Separating Fact from Fiction.’

Snow has knocked on the door twice to ask if I want some scones, which is nice, but I’m on a mission to die a slow and painful death via podcast here. I can’t be interrupted.

Shepard, who is without a doubt the most irritating person I’ve ever encountered (yes, more than Snow), is currently prattling on in my ears about some of the more ridiculous fan theories about Vampire and The Blade.

Apparently I’m secretly in the Mafia, and Blade gets superpowers from his sword. (Sounds like an anime.)

I’m actually a woman trained at a ballet school in Russia, Black Widow-style, and Blade is just the Mayor in a suit. That one makes me snort. There’s no way Mage is that in shape.

I’m this famous local footballer, Chaz (don’t I wish) raging against the city because not enough people came to the last game. (Did they pay Shepard to say that?)

I’m listening to this inane, brain cell-killing podcast because I need to find Shepard. He’s the only person I can think of, besides the Mayor himself, who might have The Golden Blade’s phone number. And getting his phone number is the best plan Fiona and I have right now. I skip to the end.

“Thanks for listening, everyone, and if you have any ideas you want to share, just email me at [email protected] or stop by the Local News 4 office in Watford City. Until next week!”

Time to pay Shepard an office visit.

Simon

When the shop quiets down in the afternoon, I just look at the bakery for a minute: the familiar dark wood floors and paneling, the string lights, the wooden chairs with multicoloured cushions. I pull a chair out and sit down, staring at the mural. Everyone is featured in it—mini Ebb is off to one side, baking bread in an old-fashioned furnace, mini Trixie and Keris have snuck off and are kissing near the woods, and mini Penny and I are seated on the grass with a mound of scones and butter between us. 

I think I’m having a quarter-life crisis.

Over the years I’ve gotten good at pushing things away that I don’t want to think about. Reasons and responsibilities. I do what I’m asked to; I do what’s expected of me. And it’s worked out so far.

But now, with the news from Ebb… 

I love being The Golden Blade. It’s every kid’s dream to be a superhero; it was mine, back when my only friends were secondhand comic books. 

It helps me let off steam, forces me to stay in shape, and most of all, I feel like I’m giving back to the community, doing something good. It feels right to serve this city after all Mayor Mage has done for me. 

Well, after last night, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. 

I like being a superhero, most of the time. It’s fun, and I feel like a badass. I have the whole tragic backstory. It works.

A baker with a tragic backstory? Not so much.

Baking used to just be a hobby, but I loved it more than anything. I started as the morning baker at Watford during uni. I used to have trouble talking to people, and I enjoyed the long hours of freedom and solitude here in the night. I’d just come and bake, and no one would expect anything of me, except for good bread. It was like a haven from the outside world. Watford Bakery was one of the first places I ever felt happy… one of the first places I felt like myself.

No pressures. No expectations. Just me and a kitchen.

I stayed at the bakery for a few months after uni while I looked for a “real job,” but then Ebb promoted me to manager out of nowhere—a leap of faith, honestly, considering I could barely work the till back then. 

For over a year I’ve done both, and even with the rise of Vampire, it hasn’t been stressful. In a weird way, I almost like sparring with him—I know I can’t do anything to seriously hurt him. Now more than ever, I desperately want to know his endgame, what he’s plotting. 

This year I’ve been… content. It’s strange, honestly.

But now the stakes are rising again. The Golden Blade has gone from a simple protector of the city to something else, something more political. A figurehead, with certain values and opinions.

More pressures. More expectations.

I hadn’t given much thought to what my future looked like.

But this bakery could be mine someday.

Ebb wants me to have her bakery.

The idea makes my breath hitch.

I can’t even imagine it—the idea of this bakery being my own. I don’t think even Ebb realises how much it means to me. I didn’t have my first real possession until I was 11 years old. (My school uniform; I even wore it on weekends.) 

I should get to the kitchen.

I let myself think about the future, for a moment. Ten, twenty years down the line, smelling sour cherry scones baking every single day of my life… decorating for holidays, dropping free biscuits off at tables for the broke uni students like Ebb did for me, creating new recipes in the early hours of the morning. Adding our new employees to the mural.

I wonder what life would be like. Would I still be The Golden Blade? Where would I live? Would I be married or something, coming home at the end of the day to… someone? 

I’ve only ever come home to Penny. 

And Baz.

I shake it off and finish cleaning up. 

***

As I’m packing up the leftovers from the day, lingering over the tables as the last customers start to leave, my phone starts buzzing. I glance at the name on the screen and nearly drop it. 

Agatha Wellbelove.

She hasn’t called me in ages, not since we broke up almost six months ago. I remember us saying we would stay friends, but we didn’t stay in touch, except for the occasional Vampire-sighting text.

“Hello?”

“Simon!” She sounds out of breath and slightly panicked. 

I immediately start walking back into the semi-privacy of the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” 

“Well, I didn’t know if it was a big deal, but I thought you should know.” She lowers her voice. “Vampire just… walked into the news office.”

“He what?!” I shift into action mode immediately, untying my apron and preparing to run upstairs and tell Ebb. “Is everything okay? Should I come?”

“No!”

“What?”

“I mean, no, don’t come. It’s… it’s fine.”

I stop moving, my apron bunched in one fist. “How is it fine?”

“He’s not hurting anyone. He just came to ask Shepard a question.”

“What do you mean, not hurting anyone? Call the fucking police!”

She lets out a huff of air. “We did, Simon. He was already gone by the time they got here.”

“Did he do anything?”

“He like, stalked over to Shepard’s desk, and Shep…” She huffs a laugh. “He wasn’t even scared, he was just excited. Asked Vampire if he’d do an interview.”

“Jesus. That man has a death wish.”

“I know. Anyway, Vamp said something kind of menacing sounding, and then Shep wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to him. A phone number, probably.”

“Okay… well, is everyone alright? Are you sure I shouldn’t swing by?”

“It’s fine, I just thought you should know. At least he didn’t try to kidnap me.”

“He’s not that stereotypical, don’t worry.”

“He sounded different than I’d expected,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. He sounded posh.”

“Villains are always posh.”

“And he’s graceful, isn’t he?”

“I suppose.” I’ve thought that before too, because he is. Especially when he flies, it’s just incredible to watch. But it’s a little uncomfortable when Agatha says it. “Maybe Shepard’s ballerina theory is true.”

“I don’t know, Simon, he just… didn’t seem evil. Is that weird?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing Vampire—might I remind you, the literal supervillain of our city—right now?”

“I’m trying to help you,” she says. “You always wanted to figure out what he was up to, so I’m spelling out the facts for you. He came in here. He didn’t set anyone on fire. Okay?”

“Fine.”

She hums lightly.

“Thank you,” I say gruffly.

“You’re welcome,” she responds in an angelic voice. “By the way, Penny’s been pestering me to get coffee with her. Can you--”

“Come to the bakery. Both of you,” I say. I’m probably going to regret that. 

“Oh. I was going to ask you to tell her to stop, but… are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just… come by. It could be, um. Nice.”

“Nice,” she repeats.

“We can all hang out. Like old times.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Okay. We’ll swing by tomorrow at lunch.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, Simon.”

Not a minute has passed after we hang up when I get a phone call. It’s from an unknown number, and I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. A hunch about what phone number Vampire wanted from Shepard. I stick my head out of the kitchen to make sure there’s no one waiting at the till, then walk into the storage cupboard, close the door, and sit down.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Blade.” Oh. I know that sinister (and yes, posh) voice.

Vampire.

“Um…” Why the fuck is he calling me? What do I even say? I clear my throat and shift into my superhero voice. “Who is this?”

“It’s Vampire.” 

It’s weird hearing him say his own name.

Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s an internet troll or a prank call. He sounds a little like Baz… if Baz sounded like Batman.

Penny would say I’m being absurd.

“How did you get my number?”

He ignores this. “Meet me on Friday in the Wavering Gardens. Midnight.”

“Is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me.” He sounds put off, and I decide to mess with him a little. It’s not like he can punch me over the phone.

“I don’t believe you. I get a lot of prank calls, you know.”

He growls in annoyance. “Blade, you’re fucking joking right now.”

“Well, you’ve never called me before.”

“We are not doing this. Just meet me on Friday.”

He hangs up. I stare at the screen.

That didn’t happen. Vampire did not just call me on my personal phone.

I save the number in my contacts as “Vampy,” just in case.

I text Shepard.

Me: did you give my phone number to fucking vampire???

Shep: …

Me : i swear to god shep

Shep : Sorry man

Shep : He said he’d do an episode on my podcast if I did

Me : i can’t believe this

Me: he’s going to come kill me in my sleep

Shep : Nah, have some faith Blade

Me : what does that mean???

Shep : He has more flair than that. He’ll make a show of it 

Me : idek this seems secretive

Shep : Wdym? Did he call? 

Me : he asked me to meet him somewhere on friday. seems like he doesn’t want the crowds there

Shep : That does sound like a trap.

Me : yep

Shep : Fun!

Me : if i die it’s your fault shep

Shep : I did it for the gram, my dude.

Ebb calls my name, and I scramble out of the cupboard, leaving a cloud of flour in my wake.

Chapter Text

Baz

I don’t know how I got here.

I mean, my life has been one magnificent, glorious disaster, but at least I’ve never sacrificed my pride and my image.

So why am I walking into Watford Bakery for the second time in one week?

I tell myself it’s because I want a mocha breve.

I’m nervous about Blade—about that stupid phone call yesterday and our stupid meeting, and what I have to try to do on Friday—and I need something sweet to settle myself.

But as soon as I catch sight of Simon Snow with flour caught in his hair, I know the real reason I’m here. My stomach does an unwelcome series of acrobatics.

This is different than seeing him at home; he’s a bundle of energy in motion here, chatting animatedly with customers, calling out orders, passing out all manner of baked goods, accepting tips with a shy nod of his head. He’s incandescent and flushed under the warm bakery lights. He looks good enough to eat.

As soon as he sees me, he freezes. Then he waves, hesitantly. 

I step up to the counter. He’s got a bit of flour on his nose, and I think it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “Baz, hi,” he says. “What, um - what can I get for you?” He rubs the back of his neck, and more flour scatters onto the floor. Did he take a bath in the stuff?

“A mocha breve,” I say.

He crosses his arms. He’s broad-shouldered, for a baker; he fills out his shirt and apron so well. (So well.) “I’ve not got time for that today.”

“Fine, I’ll just go to Starbucks then.”

“Fine,” he says. I don’t move. I don’t actually intend on going to Starbucks. Snow’s mocha breve was much better. Plus, it’s a chilly Thursday afternoon, so naturally the line at the Starbucks on campus is out the door. “There are people behind you, mate.”

I take a step to the side and let them go ahead. When he’s done with them, Snow regards me again.

I came to maybe flirt for a change, but I don’t think I can. I’ll probably say something humiliating and then I’ll ruin it and he’ll move out and never speak to me again. So I settle for heated eye contact. It’s fine. He has nice eyes. Blue.

“Well?” I say.

He looks at me, then scans the bakery. He sighs. “Alright. I’ve been working on something for you, actually.” His cheeks go a bit red at the admission.

I raise an eyebrow. “All for me?”

“Well, you gave me the idea, but… just wait here, yeah? I’ll be right out.” He grabs a mug and heads through the double doors behind him. I wait at the counter, listening to the various, concerning sounds emanating from the kitchen; the coffee machine sputtering, metal against metal, thumping, something spilling, and a few curses. Christ. He’s a mess.

“There you go,” he says, setting the drink down on the counter. It’s topped with whipped cream. He looks nervous.

“What is it?”

“Just try it.”

I do, and it’s fucking incredible. Like a pumpkin spice latte and a chocolate lava cake had a baby. I take another sip. And another. Snow watches me, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Well?”

“Not terrible.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s… pumpkiny.”

His expression immediately moves to concern. He’s always worn his emotions on his sleeve, but it’s kind of pathetic—and endearing—how much he cares that I like his drink. “You do like pumpkin, right? I just thought… since you ate so many pumpkin spice scones yesterday…”

I thought he hadn’t noticed.

“It’s good, Snow. Really good.”

He smiles, and it sends a shot of warmth through me that has nothing to do with the drink in my hand. 

“How much?” I ask.

“What?” 

I pull out my wallet. 

“Oh,” he says. “No, it’s on the house.”

“Snow.” I push my credit card towards him.

He pushes it back and grins at me. “Just this time. For taste testing the new recipe, yeah?”

Why does he have to be so damn friendly all the time?

“Fine.”

“Do you want a scone?”

“I know you won’t believe this, but not everyone is as obsessed with scones as you are.”

“A croissant, then.”

“Stop trying to feed me.”

“You’re too skinny, Baz. You’d do well to gain a couple kilos.”

“You sound like my stepmother.”

 He slides a hazelnut croissant across the counter. “You’ll like this one.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

The fool winks at me. “I know.”

***

I’m still sitting in the bakery, trying to get some reading done, but I’m distracted.

Snow is distracting. He keeps coming over and asking if I want more coffee or food. I’m running out of insults for him. If he keeps this up I might start being nice.

Fiona keeps texting me with ideas for what I should say to The Golden Blade tomorrow night. Most of them are insults. The plan was actually my idea; she doesn’t think it’s going to work. But she’s not the one who meets up with him every other weekend.

I look up when the bell tinkles and see Bunce walking in, arm-in-arm with Agatha Wellbelove.

The reporter. Snow’s ex-girlfriend.

I instinctively duck my head before I realise I was wearing my mask when I went to the news office yesterday. Still, she looks over at me for a second too long.

They step up to the counter. Simon’s lively and awkward all at once, smiling and rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he’s nervous. He nods animatedly, his curls flopping onto his forehead.

Jesus. I tear my eyes away. 

“Baz, hello!”

I drag my eyes up again to see Bunce pulling over two chairs. She and Wellbelove get cosy at my table, uninvited. “I’m studying,” I say.

“Have you met Agatha? You must have seen her on the news, at least.”

I make eye contact with Wellbelove; her brown eyes are surprisingly warm. She reaches out a hand, and I reluctantly shake. “Nice to meet you…”

I consider saying Tyrannus Basilton, just to hear it in her audiobook voice, but Bunce beats me to it. “Baz,” she says. “Simon’s flatmate.”

“Baz,” Agatha repeats. She holds my hand for a moment too long, smiling at me. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and wrench my hand free. 

“What are you drinking?” Bunce asks.

“Coffee.”

“You hate coffee.”

“I—” When did I even tell her that? “It’s a pumpkin mocha breve, if you must know.”

“That’s not on the menu,” Agatha says.

“Snow made it for me,” I mutter.

“What?” Bunce asks. “Didn’t catch that.” She has a look in her eye that I don’t like at all.

“Snow made it,” I repeat, louder this time. He hears his name—this is my fault, for sitting near the register—and raises his eyebrows at me. He talks for a moment to a tall blond woman, who takes his place at the register. Then he slings a towel over his shoulder and picks up a few plates, bringing them to our table. 

“Your quiches,” he says to Bunce and Wellbelove. He drops another croissant in front of me that I didn’t ask for, drags another chair over, and sits down between me and Agatha. This table is made for two people, and it is officially over-crowded. “Good to see you all getting on,” he says jovially. 

I want to punch him. I catch Wellbelove with a similarly murderous expression on her face.

Huh. Maybe we will get on.

They start catching up—Bunce talking about her latest research, and Wellbelove saying something about work. I couldn’t care less; I turn back to my book and take out my phone. No notifications, so I take out my “work” phone.

There’s a text from The Golden Blade.

does midnight on friday mean tonight or tomorrow?

Tomorrow, you nimwit, I type.

i still don’t believe it’s you, he says. 

He’s fucking insufferable.

I might as well mess with him a little. He’s not very high-tech, and he isn’t the brightest, so I’m not worried about him tracing the signal or anything. Plus, it’s Fiona’s old iPhone 5, pink and hideous, so I can always just drop it off some rooftop. 

I’ll be there. Are you scared, Blade? I write.

I look up. Snow looks as bored as I feel with Penny and Agatha chatting about their mums or something. He glances at the register, seemingly regretting his decision to come spend his lunch break with us.

prove it’s you, comes the response.

“What are you reading, Baz?”

Wellbelove is staring at me, eyes wide. 

“It’s for class,” I say.

“What do you study?” 

I think she’s batting her eyelashes.

I know I’m not that flamboyant, but a girl hasn’t mistaken me for straight since I was in school. I’m literally wearing a flowered button-down shirt right now. Not to mention an extremely fashionable scarf.

“Linguistics and classical literature.”

That catches Simon’s interest, and he scowls. “I hate literature.”

“That’s why you went to uni for business,” Bunce says with some measure of disgust in her voice. Glad we agree on that point, at least. 

“What do you study?” Agatha asks her.

“Linguistics and Computer Science,” Bunce says. My ears perk up at that. Linguistics I knew, but computer science could be helpful. Though I don’t think I’ll be able to reveal myself to her. Bunce is fine with breaking the rules, but she’s too close to Snow—he’d go straight to the police, probably.

“There’s nothing wrong with business,” Snow defends. “It helped me… manage this place.”

“Did it? Did it really?” Bunce asks.

I snort.

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” Wellbelove asks him. “That’s what matters.”

Wonderful, she’s a fucking flower child too.

I turn back to my phone and write, What do you want to know?

Snow swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple move. “I s’pose I am,” he says. “Are you? Now?” There’s another question in his gaze.

Wellbelove sighs. She sizes me up for a second, as if deciding whether to tell the truth in my presence. “We weren’t a good match,” she says flatly. Snow nods most enthusiastically, and I resist a smile. “But I’m still…” She pauses. “I don’t love Watford City,” she says carefully. “There’s too much drama.”

Bunce snorts. “Your job is covering the drama, and you don’t like it? Would you rather live in a boring town?”

"Yes, ” Wellbelove says. “Absolutely. Vampire literally came into the office yesterday. Can you believe it? That would never happen somewhere normal.”

Bunce and Snow exchange a look so quickly I think I’ve imagined it. 

“What did he do?” I ask innocently. As if I didn’t know.

“Nothing,” she says.

I had stalked in with my most menacing supervillain walk and announced that I was there for Shepard. Heads turned, and everyone mutely pointed toward his cubicle like in a movie. I marched over, grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into the air.

I try so hard to be dramatic, and this is the response I get. Nothing. 

I scoff. “I find that hard to believe.”

“What, are you mates with him?” Snow asks.

“No.”

“He just pranced in and got a phone number,” Wellbelove says. “Like a schoolgirl. I don’t know why he wanted it so bad.”

Schoolgirl? Pranced?

I ball my fists in my pocket and school my features neutral. Even though I know she’s going to continue to unknowingly slander me, some masochistic instinct forces me to ask, “Well, what did you think of him?”

Snow is staring at me. I suppose if he finds out, I can always toss him off a building. (Except I won’t.)

Wellbelove smiles, and I swear I see something wicked in her eyes. “He was fit up close,” she says. I choke on my coffee. “More than The Blade, I’d say.”

I’m having a coughing fit. Snow narrows his eyes at me.

“Agatha, how can you say that?” Bunce asks. “The Blade is— he’s—”

“Fit as hell,” Snow says vehemently. “You’ve met him, Aggie, he’s much more attractive than Vampire.”

“I’d have to agree,” I say. Mostly to get Wellbelove to stop making doe-eyes at me.

All three of them blink at me. 

“You’re agreeing with Simon?” Bunce asks.

“What? Blade is a superhero. It’s pretty much universally acknowledged that he’s hot.”

Snow has gone completely red in the face, but says, “See? Baz agrees.”

Wellbelove stops trying to flirt with me after that.

“Anyway,” Bunce says, “I think we’re lucky to have superheroes and villains here in Watford. It’s exciting. Keeps us on our toes.”

“I don’t want to be on my toes,” Wellbelove says. “I just want some peace and quiet.”

Same here, except my family is overly invested in this city’s politics, and oh, right—I am the drama.

I look down and see a new text: where did you burn my suit last fight? they didn’t show that on the news

I send back: On your thigh. You’re pale as fuck, by the way.

When I glance up, Snow is looking at me curiously. “Who are you texting?”

I scowl. “No one.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Wellbelove asks, eyes wide.

Bunce snorts. 

“No,” I say.

“Boyfriend?” Snow asks. 

I force myself to look at him. “You’d know if I had a boyfriend, Snow.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know much about you. I bet you have all kinds of secrets.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “We live together. What could I possibly hide?” 

Besides everything.

“Like… you never talk about your family.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t either.”

“They’re dead,” he says hotly. 

Oh. The sarcastic response I had ready dies in my throat.

“Well?” he asks, before I get a chance to respond.

“I… have four younger siblings,” I say. “They live in Hampshire, with my father and stepmother.”

“Oh!” Wellbelove says. “The Grimms. I see them at the club all the time. They’re precious.”

“What club?”

“The country club.” Of course. Daphne meets her friends there. She brings my siblings along, and they play in the pool.

“The Grimms?” Bunce asks. “As in, Richard Grimm?”

“His uncle,” Snow says quickly, dismissively. He turns back to me. “But isn’t your last name Pitch?” 

“After my mother. Technically I have both.” I’m going to regret saying this. “Hyphenated.”

Snow presses his lips together with a spark in his eye. He’s all trouble. “Your first name is Tyrannus, right? I saw it on your mail.”

“Snow, I will—”

“ Tyrannus—” He holds back a laugh.

“—murder you—”

He accentuates every syllable, half-laughing. “Tyrannus, Basilton, Grimm-Pitch.” 

I push out my chair with a screech. “That’s it, you nightmare, I’m leaving. I came here for coffee, not mockery.”

“Ta ta, Tyrannus.” He looks coy. I might strangle him in his own bakery.

I sit back down against my better judgement. (I want to finish my drink.) “Apologise,” I order. I sound petulant, but I don’t care.

“Or what?” Snow smirks.

I like him when he’s confrontational. He reminds me a little of Blade—more brawn than brain, and self-confident to a fault.

Bunce huffs. “Stop it. We’re all adults here. Simon, just apologise.”

“Fine. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. You can’t help that you were born a numpty.”

Wellbelove stands up, making a show of looking at her watch. “I’d best get back to the office, actually. Good to see you all.”

As soon as she leaves, Bunce says, “See, Simon, that wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be.”

“Only because she was distracted by Baz,” he mutters.

“I tend to have that effect on people,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says absently. 

He’s looking to the side. I could trace a line down his forehead, follow the planes of his face. His nose looks like it’s been broken. He has a mole above his lip. The warm lights make his hair shine golden, and he flashes me a small smile before he gets up and goes back to the register.

Distracting indeed.

Italics = Vampire

Bold = The Golden Blade

(14:22): i am not pale

(14:22): i prefer the term golden

(14:23): like golden blade, get it?

(14:25): Yes, I get it. Do you believe me now?

(14:32): i suppose

(14:33): why did you call me anyway

(14:35): Because I felt like it.

(14:40): you’ve never called me before

(14:40): I never needed to before.

(14:43): do you know who I am?

(14:44): Not a clue. Feel like telling me?

(14:48): not today vampy

(14:48): Don’t call me that.

(14:51): your esteemed majesty bloodsucker

(14:52): I prefer His Royal Highness.

(14:55): your grace, archduke dracula

(14:56): None of that made sense. And Dracula was a disgrace.

(14:56): Don’t you have better things to do than bother me?

(15:00): are you suddenly an expert in sarcastic royal titles

(15:00): i live to bother you. also im nearly done with work today

(15:02): Ah right. The famed day job.

(15:05): everyone’s obsessed with my day job, i’ve no idea why

(15:05): do you work?

(15:07): No. I just plot all day.

(15:10): i knew it

(15:10): i knew you were plotting

(15:13): no but seriously you must do something???

(15:15): I’m a student.

(15:15): what really

(15:17): Yes.

(15:19): where

(15:21): Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

(15:23): fuck off

(15:28): what house are you? i’m gryffindor

(15:30): Figures.

(15:40): I’m Hufflepuff.

(15:41): i don’t believe you

***

(16:00): whatcha doing vampy

(16:02): Couldn’t resist my charms, I see.

(16:02): its not every day you get to text your nemesis

(16:03): Is that what we are? Nemeses? 

(16:04): i didn’t know there was a plural form of that

(16:05): You really are as stupid as you look.

(16:08): you sound like my flatmate

(16:10): The Golden Blade has a flatmate?

(16:11): it’s temporary. he’s kind of a twat

(16:13): Language, Blade.

(16:14): sorry didn’t realise I was talking to my mum

(16:14): anyway

(16:15): what else would we be if we’re not nemeses

(16:15): yeah no it still doesn’t look like a real word

(16:18): Nemeses nemeses nemeses.

(16:19): I hate you

(16:45): If we weren’t nemeses, we’d have time for other things. Like modeling.

(16:46): modeling??? 

(16:47): Someone told me I was fit today. 

(16:49): as a joke, right

(16:50): Nothing I didn’t already know, but it went to my head.

(16:50): who was it. are they ok

(16:52): A girl.

(16:53): ooh you’re popular vampy 👀

(16:56): Of course I am. The people love me.

(16:57): last i checked they clearly did not

(16:57): so tell me about this girl

(16:58): I will not.  Anyway, it’s not like that. 

(16:56): that’s what they all say

(16:56): i always figured you wore a mask because you’re like, deformed or something

(16:58): You insult me. I’m fucking beautiful under this mask.

(16:58): I wear one for the same reason you do.

(17:00): because it looks fashionable

(17:00): Yes exactly.

Chapter Text

Simon

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Penny says. “It’s just… a wonder of engineering. A marvel.”

You’d expect her to be talking about something cool. A skillfully designed piece of technology. Maybe some art.

But no.

She’s talking about a sock.

Baz’s sock, to be exact. She’s holding it in the air like it’s made of glass.

“What is so special about Baz’s sock?” 

She thrusts the sock at me, and I take it. “Hold it taut,” she says. I hold it out in front of my chest. She takes hold of a meat scissor and reaches towards me.

I yelp and jump backwards. “Penny!”

“Just trust me. Hold it,” she says. I hold it out to the side, and she tries to cut through it.

The material doesn’t tear. It barely even stretches.

“Let me try.” We swap, and I slash at it. Nothing. “What the fuck?”

“It’s ridiculous,” she says. “I have tried stabbing it, cutting it, setting it on fire, and even using a seam ripper. I called my mother.”

“What material are they?”

More importantly, why does Baz have fucking magical socks?

“I have no clue,” Penny says. “It’s like— like mithril, you know, from Lord of the Rings.” I haven’t seen Lord of the Rings, but I don’t say anything. “Just completely impenetrable.”

“That’s…” I groan and put my head in my hands. “Maybe they’re just super fancy one million thread count cashmere.”

Penny goes to her room to get a magnifying glass.

“Penny," I say. "What if Baz is… Vampire?” It sounds crazy now that I’m saying it aloud.

She stops in her doorway. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“No. You’d know if you lived with Vampire. And have you seen Baz? He’s built like a string bean.”

“Vampire’s thin.”

“Simon, this is absurd.”

I pull out my phone. “Just look at these texts.”

“You’ve been texting Vampire?” 

“He’s the one who called me!”

She scrolls through, frowning. “These are weirdly flirty.”

“That is not the point.”

“That could help us! Do you and Vamp usually flirt?”

“No!”

“Do you and Baz flirt?”

“No. I— maybe. I don’t know.”

“This does sound like him. ‘Someone told me I was fit today?’” she quotes.

“Right? Agatha said Vampire was fit.”

“She just said that to get on your nerves. But then Baz said The Blade was fit…”

“Actually, he said I was hot.” My ears go warm, despite myself. 

“Simon. Are you—” She peers at me through her spectacles, as if I’m a specimen in a lab. “You’re blushing.”

“No.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No.”

She waits a beat, giving me another opportunity, then decides to move on. “Fine. But it could be a coincidence. Maybe Agatha said it to Vampire’s face in the office. Do you have other evidence?”

It’s a collection of impressions more than anything; the black clothes, the way he talks about The Blade and Vampire the same way I do, not as casually as regular people do. And he was texting during lunch today—he’d look down, and I’d get a text from Vampire right after. 

But the specifics…

I tell Penny about the cape. (“Don’t shame people for cosplaying, Simon.”)

“And during the blackout, he was on the phone, and said something about… surveillance.”

Penny looks at the sock through her magnifying glass. “Does he go out a lot?”

I shrug. “He studies a lot. Sometimes he goes out before I leave, when I’m fighting Vamp. Which could be a clue…” 

Penny throws the sock back down. “I don’t know, Si. Baz is… Baz. He’s so moody and studious. Sure, he’s not the most cuddly, but he doesn’t seem motivated to like, take down the city.”

“I guess.”

It’s not like I want it to be true. I have this image of Baz in his fuzzy socks, drinking tea on our sofa. He’s full of acerbic wit and amusement, but he’s not malicious, not necessarily. And then the image of Vampire; flying, dressed in tight black leather, dramatic. Sadistic, full of malice. I can’t reconcile the two. 

But if I was living with Vampire, I’d want to know. I’m certain that if Baz is Vampire, though, he doesn’t know that I’m The Blade… he would have tossed me out the window by now. Or poisoned my tea. (Penny would argue against that; only a barbarian would poison tea, she’d say. Or maybe an American.)

Penny grabs my phone again. “It’s a Watford City area code.” She frowns. “There’s no way Vampire is a Hufflepuff.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Has he ever asked about your identity?”

“He never seemed to care,” I say. “Can you trace the signal to a location or something?”

“No. iPhones are weirdly secure,” she says.

“It really could be him,” I say.

“Or it couldn’t.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “I just think you’re speculating too much. And Baz doesn’t exactly have a motive, does he?”

“His uncle is Richard Grimm!”

“So? I have loads of uncles, and I don’t even talk to them.”

“Penny.”

“Simon,” she says. “It’s one thing to speculate about who Vampire is. It’s another to accuse your flatmate of being Vampire.”

“But he could be!”

“Is it possible you’re projecting your weird crush-slash-obsession for Vampire onto Baz, and as an extension his identity?”

“I— what?” I stammer. “First of all, I do not have a weird crush on Vampire or Baz—”

“Right, okay.”

“Penny!”

She smirks. “It’s like a love triangle. Vampire likes you, you—”

I glare at her. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Penny sighs. “Well, I know he’s not the friendliest, but maybe if you get to know Baz better, you’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe.” I walk to her cabinets and search for some food, but they’re mostly empty except for tea. “Do you eat?”

“I… may have forgotten to do the shopping this week.”

I grab her keys from the table. “Let’s go. I’m too hungry to think properly.”

***

We end up at McDonalds, of all places. I get a hamburger and Penny gets a Happy Meal with chicken nuggets and fries. We carry it all outside to a park, settling on a bench among swirling autumn leaves. The sunset casts orange light and shadows on us through the trees.

She opens the box and peers in with mischievous glee. “Yes!”

“What is it?”

She purses her lips, then reaches inside and pulls out the toy. “Specially for you, Si.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” I groan, laughing.

It’s a Golden Blade action figure.

Penny laughs and picks it up. She butts its head into my shoulder. “Grr, I’m The Golden Blade. Who needs talking when you have fists?” She takes the doll’s little hands and punches them into my arm.

“Hey! I don’t sound like that.”

“Oh look, it’s Vampire, my sworn enemy. Wow, he’s so fit…”

I try to wrestle the figure from her. 

“Give me a smooch, Vampire,” she gasps out between laughs.

“Penelope.”

We both lose it, dissolving into laughter, and she throws the action figure onto my lap. “Hide that in Baz’s bed. If he screams, then we’ll know if he’s Vampire.”

I stare at the doll. It’s much more buff than me; you can see its little abs through the painted-on clothing. I would buy every Happy Meal in the city and burn all these action figures if I could. Penny had convinced me that the McDonald's partnership was a good idea, but seeing myself in miniature plastic form is just too much.

“Do you think I should go tomorrow night?” I say.

“Could be dangerous.”

“Come with me.”

“And what? Run alongside you, holding a computer?”

I steal one of her chips. “No, hide in a bush or something. I liked having you talk in my ear last time. What do you think he wants?”

She shrugs. “Honestly, I think it’s a trap. But I know you’ll go anyway.”

“I wish I knew what he wanted…”

“To sext you, apparently.”

“Stop. No.”

“Text him tonight, try to find out. Send a winky face, maybe that’ll persuade him.”

She eyes my phone, and I tuck it away before she can grab it.

“I’ll come over tomorrow after work,” I say.

“Bring pies,” she says. 

Italics = Vampire

Bold = The Golden Blade 

(21:48): vampy are you up?

(21:52): Don’t call me that.

(21:52): Also, “you up?” Really? What am I, your booty call?

(21:53): don’t you wish

(21:58): anyway i just wanted to ask why you want to meet tomorrow

(22:00): It’s a midnight booty call, clearly.

(22:00): if you wanted to fight me you could just like, steal some cats again or whatever

(22:01): wait what were you doing with cats anyway

(22:02): I’m allergic, so I decided to rid the whole city of them.

(22:03): i can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not but that sounds like some dr. doofenshmirtz shit

(22:03): Plot twist, I am Dr. Doofenshmirtz.

(22:04): i would love that tbh, heinz is a babe

(22:04): ok answer the question

(22:06): I’m not going to ambush you, if that’s what you’re worried about.

(22:06): that’s exactly what someone who’s going to ambush me would say

(22:06): [admiral_ackbar_itsatrap.gif]

(22:07): I cannot believe you just sent me a gif. 

(22:07): convince me otherwise

(22:08): I don’t ambush on the first date, Blade. I’m a gentleman. 

(22:08): ...weirdly enough enough i actually believe you

(22:08): So I’ll see you tomorrow?

(22:11): fine

In the morning, I walk into the kitchen to see every single one of our pie tins lined up on the long table in the middle of the kitchen. Trixie is up to her elbows in dough, and as I step up to the counter where she’s working, she flips the gigantic bowl, sending flour everywhere.

“Simon!” she says. “Good morning.” She gestures with her elbow to the other side of the kitchen, where pots are simmering on the stove. “I’m nearly done, just need you to finish those.”

It’s Friday Pie Day.

Trixie and I came up with this idea a couple years ago to combat slow Fridays in the shop, and it’s become a Watford Bakery tradition. Every Friday, we make meat pies, fruit pies, lemon meringue pies, apricot tarts and pistachio tarts… basically, anything we can fit inside a pastry shell goes into one. Now, people line up from lunchtime until closing to get their hands on a Watford pie.

Trixie kicks a bag of flour at me. “Hot water crust,” she says.

“I can do the tarts—”

“Meat pies only for you, hot hands.”

“Hot hands,” I grumble. 

It’s Ebb and Trixie’s nickname for me, because as much as I love to flaunt my baking skills, I can barely make pastry crust by hand. I’m not proud of it. But I run hot, and my hands are always warm. The butter starts to melt as I assemble the crust. “Stick to bread,” Ebb used to tell me.

I yawn as I tie my apron on and start working on the crust. I barely slept last night, distracted by thoughts of Vampire and what he could want tonight and why we’re texting, of all things, like teenagers. Plus I usually get to bed by ten, and because I was talking to him I didn’t tuck in until 10:30. I hate coffee, but I go start the coffee machine anyway.

Penny asked me last night if we flirt, and I said no, but now I’m thinking back to all of our interactions and realising that I was probably wrong. He does nothing but flirt with me. Because he knows it’ll tick me off. (Not because he’s a bloke… but because he has the gall to say things like that after he broke me and Agatha up.) And it makes me so damn angry that the only person who actually flirts with me, even if it’s in a mean, sarcastic way, also happens to be the one person hell-bent on destroying me.

“Did you unload the dishwasher?” Please let today be the day.

“Fuck no.”

I finish setting up the seating area, then call to the kitchen, “Scone, muffin?”

“Pumpkin spice again for both, I got lazy,” Trixie calls back. I reach under the register for the chalk and write the flavours of the day on our board.

The day can’t pass quickly enough, and I find myself glancing down at my phone more than once for a text from Vamp. Penny’s done some digging on Google and has assembled a few guesses about what he could want (including “baked goods”), but we’re still mostly clueless.

When 4:00 hits, I pack up as quickly as possible, wish Ebb a good weekend, and walk the few blocks home.

Baz is in the kitchen. He’s holding his phone to his ear with one shoulder and folding black clothes into a fancy leather duffel bag with both his hands. He looks startled when I come in, as if surprised to see me come home from work at my usual time.

I set down the leftover pies I brought on the counter. “Going somewhere?”

He straightens up and zips the bag shut neatly. “I’m sleeping over at my Aunt Fiona’s tonight.”

Well, that’s one problem solved—at least I won’t have to deal with Baz on the way to or from my meeting with Vamp. “Oh.” 

I start walking toward my room. 

“Snow,” he says.

I turn around.

“You haven’t seen my socks, have you?”

I can’t believe this.

I suppose he could have lost some other socks, but I know which socks. The socks. The magical socks. I look at the ground and try to not move a single muscle in my face. “I, uh— what socks?”

“They’re black.”

“That narrows it down.”

He looks down at me. “I don’t lose things, Snow.”

“I’m supposed to believe you’ve never misplaced a single sock in your life? Everyone loses socks.”

“Not these socks,” he mutters.

“What, because they’re fucking bulletproof?” I burst out.

He rounds on me. “So you did take them.”

“I didn’t! They were in my wash.”

“What did you do with them?” His eyes are accusatory.

I feel a frustrated flush creeping up my neck. “Why are you so heated about socks?” 

He’s not, actually. That’s the most infuriating part. The more angry I get, the calmer he seems to get. His face is neutral, his grey eyes boring into me.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be heated,” he snaps, “if you didn’t steal my clothing.”

I can’t believe he thinks I stole them. I force myself to stand still, balling a fist in my coat pocket. “I told you, it was an accident,” I huff. “Seriously, what’s so special about them?”

“They’re… expensive.” 

“Expensive,” I repeat. “And that’s why they’re made of magic fucking fibers.”

“They have a high thread count,” he shoots back. “I wouldn’t expect you to be acquainted with finer fabrics.”

“Seriously?”

He cocks an eyebrow at me, as if daring me to say anything else. Unfortunately for him, I don’t back down from dares, spoken or unspoken.

“Does this have anything to do with the cape I found on Monday?”

His face is unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. Maybe the socks really are just expensive, fancy fibers. Maybe he really does—

“I told you already. It’s just a costume.”

“Right, and stab-proof socks are part of the getup?”

He waits a beat too long before saying, “Fan conventions can be pretty nasty to cosplayers.”

He’s lying. He has to be lying. Baz Pitch does not go to fan conventions. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “No.”

“Christ, Snow, who do you think I am?!”

Vampire.

But I don’t say it. I can’t. It sounds ridiculous. I would sound like a raving madman…

“I— No one. Just. Nevermind,” I finally stammer out.

“Good,” he says, swinging his bag up onto his shoulder in a smooth motion. He pauses by the door. “Return my socks,” he says. And then he leaves.

Baz

Shit.

Simon

I drive to Penny’s, parking around the back of a building a block away. I grab my bag and the pies and head up to her flat, knocking with my elbow. She’s dressed for action when she answers the door, wearing leggings and a hoodie instead of her usual skirt or dress—probably a bit more practical for crouching in bushes.

We heat up the pies, and I tell her breathlessly about what happened with Baz, but she doesn’t seem convinced. She frowns. “I don’t know, Si. The fabric is interesting, but I don’t think that’s proof of anything.”

“But you can’t honestly believe that Baz cosplays—”

“Maybe he does.”

“He practically admitted— I mean, I could tell he was lying, it’s like he didn’t even care if I knew— I just— Argh!” I could tear my hair out.

Penny lays a hand on my arm. “Just let it go. Let’s focus on Vampire.”

“But he could be Vampire!”

“Or he couldn’t be, and you’ll be distracted and get yourself killed tonight,” she says tightly.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” I say.

“Whatever you want,” Penny says with a sigh. “Just after tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Did you find anything out over text?” 

I show her the exchange from last night. Her eyes widen as she scrolls up, and she laughs at something. “He’s funny,” she says. “I didn’t expect that.”

“He’s not, he’s fucking annoying.”

“Witty, too.”

“First Agatha, now you,” I grumble. “No more complimenting Vampire.”

“Don’t worry Si, I’ll hold off on calling him fit until I see him up close tonight.”

We finish eating, then watch The Lego Batman Movie while Penny studies and I scroll through the news feed about Vampire and Baz’s Instagram. Then she takes a nap while I sit and browse Pinterest on her laptop for new baking recipes; I’m too nervous to sleep. 

Finally, we pack up around 11:30 and head to the Wavering Gardens. Penny follows me downstairs to my car, and we make sure to take back roads, arriving ten minutes before midnight.

The Gardens are manicured at the front, but as we walk through, the pathways slowly grow more gnarled and unkempt. We pass a barrier that separates the public gardens from the forest and jump over it. Huge trees cast ominous shadows, and it’s hard not to stumble and fall into thorny bushes. It’s muddy underfoot, and I’m sure the bottom of my suit is more brown than gold at this point. Penny turns her flashlight on, and I have to hack through vines with my sword more than once. But I’m not scared; I’m familiar with this place. I used to train here when I was learning how to use my sword—it’s one of the only places I could be totally undisturbed in Watford City. 

There’s a clearing where I know Vampire will be, so we find a nearby bush for Penny to hide in. She pulls out her binoculars and we set up the call so she can hear what’s going on through my phone. I slide my sword into my belt. “I’m ready.”

She points to her ear. “I've got your back.”

I walk out of the shadows and into the clearing.

Vampire is hovering in a beam of moonlight, his feet pointed downwards and barely grazing the floor, his cape ruffling in the wind. I fall back into a fighting stance, drawing my sword.

He spreads his arms in a gesture of truce. “Glad you could make it, Goldy. Now, kindly put that thing away before someone gets hurt.”

Chapter Text

Baz

I’m nervous as hell.

My fight with Snow earlier about my goddamn socks set me on edge—he knows, he must know—and Fiona tried to get me amped up but only exasperated me further. After seeing what Mayor Mage was hiding, I felt like hope might be lost. Sure, I’m a flying supervillain, but I’m powerless against him.

And then Blade shows up. He’s drenched in moonlight and his body is taut with energy ready to be released, like a drawn arrow. His muscles stand out as he grips his sword, staring me down. And he’s a nuclear bomb. He’s a meteor that crashed to earth. He’s an open flame. 

He may be my sworn enemy, but I believe in him more than I believe in anything else right now. He’s not just a man, he’s a symbol. He’s a fucking force of nature.

He’s The Golden Blade, and he’s going to be my secret weapon.

He stares at me for another second, then releases his blade, letting it fall to the ground. A gesture of peace, but his posture is still wary. “What do you want,” he says. It’s more of a demand than a question.

He asks me this every time we meet, and I’ve never given him an answer. Until today.

I reach up into my sleeve, and he flinches back. When it’s clear I’m not going to blast him with fire, he lowers his arms slowly. I unclasp the gauntlets on my arms and let them clank to the ground, then drop a few inches so I’m standing on my feet. I swallow. “I need to ask you a favour,” I say.

“Why would I do anything for you?” he asks.

It’s a good question, one I expected. “Because I have some information.”

“And I would care because…?”

“It’s about your Mage.”

“For the last time,” he growls. “He isn’t my anything.”

“Get over yourself, Blade,” I snap. “Like it or not, you’re aligned with him. And there are things we found that you might want to know about.”

“We?” he says.

I didn’t mean to say that. 

“Me and my… associate.”

“There’s nothing I could possibly want to know.”

“Trust me,” I say. “You want to know this.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Fair enough. I haven’t exactly given you reason to.”

He paces, all rippling and golden, like a caged lion. Watching him is riveting. “Why are you even telling me this?!” he says.

“Because I…” 

Just say it, Baz.  

I haven’t spent six months building this ruthless fucking persona to lower myself to this moment. 

But I have no choice. He is the best chance we have.

“I need your help,” I say. I force myself to stare at him, dead in the eyes. There’s no backing down from this. And if I’m going to say it, I may as well make it clear that I’m still the alpha here.

Blade takes a step back. “You what?”

“I’m not going to say it again.”

“Vamp,” he says, suddenly serious. “You’d better tell me what is going on right now.” His hands grasp at empty air; he’s used to swinging his blade around, passing it from hand to hand.

I take a few steps forward, and he lets me. I pause an arm’s length away. “There’s something larger at work in Watford,” I say in a low voice. “A threat. A common enemy.”

“You think it’s Mage,” he accuses.

I hesitate. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

“I can,” I say. “But you’ll have to come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Blade--”

“No,” he says. He’s thrumming with rage, and it takes everything in me to stand still. “I knew this was a trap. What do you want from me, Vampire? What do you want?”

He surges forward, and now he’s got my collar in his fist—I hadn’t even noticed him come closer—and I can see the blue glint in his eyes. And suddenly, I’m angry too.

“I want you to stop being such a prick--” I push him away, hard. We stumble backwards into a tree with an impact that sends the branches shaking and a few leaves raining down. I stand my ground, cornering him. “--and just listen for once.”

Blade squares his jaw, glowering, and I suddenly remember that I’m weaponless.

He’s on me before I have time to react, bowling me over with his solid bulk. I grunt as we tumble to the floor and shove him away, digging my elbow into the springy ground to try and gain traction. I’ve never been good with my fists; I get in maybe one hit as we tussle. 

I roll on top of him for an instant and scramble, preparing to strike. But he surges up, overwhelming me, and then he’s on top of me again.

He pins my shoulders roughly to the floor. “Maybe if you didn’t lie to me, I would.”

I struggle underneath him, but he jams his knee into my thigh. His whole body weight is thrown on me, rendering me helpless. 

(If this were any other situation, I’d be incredibly turned on. As it were, now is really not the best time.) 

“I’m not lying,” I spit at him.

“I won’t help you with your evil plots,” he says, his breath hot on my neck. “Ever.”

I struggle again, but he’s too strong. I’ve never felt more powerless. But I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. “I’m not evil.”

He growls. “You are. You do nothing but cause trouble.”

“Trouble,” I say pointedly. “Not evil.” 

He calms, and looks in my eyes, and I swear he sees right through me—right through the costume and the bravado to see me. Scared, under it all. Vulnerable. I let the tension drop from my limbs.

“Give me one reason to trust you,” he says quietly. His face is centimeters from mine.

“It wasn’t an ambush,” I say. “I kept my word.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not enough.”

“Blade. I haven’t lied to you.” My breath is coming quickly; he’s crushing my lungs. “I wouldn’t come to you for help if it wasn’t serious.”

He eases off me, and I take a deep gulp of air. (He was heavy. Like a fucking boulder sitting on my chest.) Then he stands and offers me his hand.

I stare at it like I’m in some dramatic movie. I can’t help it—it’s like a metaphor. For accepting help. And for knowing when I’m defeated.

I take his hand, and he hauls me to my feet and says, “You really can’t beat me in a fair fight.”

And then we regard each other for a moment, unsure of where to go from here. This is the most civil conversation we’ve ever had, even including the brief tussle. We need him, we need to cooperate, but I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how to act around him, if I’m not against him.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” I start.

“Bullshit.”

“Let me finish. I didn’t want to hurt you—I just wanted you out of the way.”

“For what?” 

“So I--” Not me. Fiona. “My associate could investigate Mage. We wouldn’t get near the office if you were protecting him.”

“So you were a diversion…” he says. And whispers, almost to himself, “I was right.”  

“You could call it that. During the power outage this week we found something. Mage…” I hesitate. “Is not who you think he is.”

Blade doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then he says, “I’ll go with you and see your ‘evidence--’” he makes air quotes at that— “if you tell me the truth about one thing.”

He sounds almost mischievous; I wish I could see his face. My heart pounds with trepidation about what he’ll ask. My identity? The secret to how I can fly?

“What.”

He folds his arms, and now I hear the teasing tone of his voice. “What were you really doing stealing cats?”

Simon

That was Penny’s idea. She’s been whispering in my ear nonstop, feeding me lines like I’m an actor on set. 

We’re not surprised that this is about Mayor Mage. But I don’t believe that Mage is evil. Penny said it herself. He’s corrupt, and maybe his policies are bad, but he’s not evil.

I don’t know whether to believe Vampire. But he’s never been this serious before. He hasn’t even tried to flirt with me tonight. He hasn’t teased or joked. (Even when I was on top of him, which is when he usually says something halfway between mean and dirty. I almost miss it).

He’s asking for my help. And he’s looking at me with a hundred hidden layers in his dark eyes, as if trying to read my mind. He’s weaponless; he let me pin him to the floor and he didn’t even try to set me on fire.

He could be lying, but my gut says he’s not.

If he wants to kill me, let him fucking try. I’m not scared of his Batcave or wherever we’re going after this.

Vampire snorts at the question. “I just did that to get on the news. I took them to a meadow.”

Penny whispers, “He… what?”

“And?” I ask.

He folds his own arms, mirroring my position. “And they were… cute.”

Penny chuckles in my ear. Intimidating, imperious Vampire shouldn’t be saying the word ‘cute.’ It sounds wrong in so many ways. 

“Happy?” he asks.

I smile, even though he can’t see it. “Sure.” I pick up my sword from where I left it on the ground and slide it into my belt. “So. Where are we going?”

“My vampire lair,” he says. I snort, and he says, “My associate’s place.”

“Why not your place?”

“I have a flatmate.”

As if she can read my thoughts, Penny says, “It could be a coincidence.”

Before I can ask about the flatmate, he says, “Is the Golden Car around here?” 

“Don’t call it that.” I start walking back down the path, and he’s flying again. He shoots out so he’s floating alongside me. I don’t think we’ve ever been this close together without fighting.

“It really is a bland name. What else would I call it?”

“The… I don’t know. Goldmobile?”

“Snowmobile,” Penny whispers. I don’t say it aloud.

“How did you get here?” I ask.

“I flew,” Vampire says in a deadpan voice. Except he actually did fly.

We pass the bush that Penny’s hiding in, and I shoot it a panicked look. She waits until we’ve passed, then says in my ear, “I’ll take a taxi home. Unless you want me to come?”

“I don’t think you’re invited,” I whisper.

“I’ll get home,” she promises. “Stay on the line, I’ll just listen.” I take one of my earbuds out and tuck it away.

Vamp glances over. “Talking to someone?”

“My, uh, partner.”

“Like a sidekick?”

“No, you know. She’s smart and does the computer stuff.”

He nods, like this is unsurprising. “I’ve always known the sword was the only sharp thing about you.”

"Ouch," Penny whispers.

We reach my car, and Vampire drops to the ground. I get into the driver’s seat, and he folds his limbs into the passenger spot. I almost laugh; he looks absurd sitting in a car. 

It makes him look more human, too. Smaller.

He gives me directions. I keep looking at him, feeling like he’s going to either fly away or stab me at any moment. But he doesn’t, just tells me when to turn left and right. As we exit the secluded area of the Gardens, he says, “This car isn’t very subtle, is it?”

“Yeah, it tends to stick out.”

“How did you get here without being seen? Where do you even park this thing?”

“I took back roads. And, um…” I don’t care if he knows—if he really wanted to kill me, he’s had plenty of chances already. “Underground.”

“Where?”

“As if I’d tell you.” 

“Shame, I thought we were getting on so well.”

I hesitate. “Between the White Chapel and Mummers Street.” I probably shouldn’t have said that, but apparently we’re mates now. 

His head jerks toward me. “Mummers? What’s so special about Mummers?”

Coincidence, I can hear Penny say in my mind. And then she actually whispers it, under her breath.

“Nothing,” I say. “There’s, uh, no tube line right underneath it.” A beat. “Who’s your flatmate, Vamp?” 

“None of your business. Turn right.”

“You tried,” Penny sighs.

Vampire guides me to a building in a nice neighbourhood. It’s strange and mundane, taking driving directions from him and his posh Batman voice. I park around the corner, then reach into the backseat and get my coat. No one’s around, but I can’t risk someone seeing me walk into a building with Vampire, of all people.

The flat is dark and empty when we step into it. “Where’s your associate?” I ask.

“She must be out. Or sleeping.” He crosses the room and peeks into a door left slightly ajar. He looks like he doesn’t belong here. I’ve never seen him indoors; he looks too big for the space. “She’s out.”

He texts someone, then turns on the light. I look around. The black leather I expected, and the sharp, modern lines of the kitchen. I didn’t expect it to be so messy. (Baz is tidy... maybe I am projecting.) And I didn’t expect to see music posters everywhere—mostly 70s and 80s music, whoever lives here has good taste—and down the hallway, a few family photos. I crane my neck to see--

Vampire takes hold of my arm and steers me to the couch. “Sit. I’ll get the files. Would you like tea?”

“Um…” I suddenly have a mental image of Vampire fussing over a kettle, and I stifle a laugh. “Okay. Thanks.”

He retreats into the bedroom, and I take the opportunity to look more closely at the living room and kitchen; they flow into each other, like at mine and Baz’s flat. I whisper my observations to Penny, and I hear the click of her keyboard as she writes it all down.

“How am I going to drink tea?” I ask.

I can see her rolling her eyes. “Just lift the bottom of your mask. It’s stretchy, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“Whose flat do you think it is?” she asks.

“I dunno,” I say, scanning the kitchen. “It’s a woman. She likes music… she smokes… and wears really tall boots… um, none of her mugs match…”

“That’s not very helpful. Who could it be? Did Vampire ever mention a partner before? A girlfriend?”

I nearly snort at the idea. Baz definitely doesn't have a girlfriend. (Not that it's Baz. Except it could be.) “I don't know. I’ll try to find out more. At least it’s not a creepy cave.”

“Might as well be,” Penny says darkly. “There’s only one exit, isn’t there?”

“I think there’s a balcony.”

“Send me your location, I’ll map an escape route just in case…”

Vampire comes back with a flash drive and a laptop in his arms. He stoops down next to the TV and starts plugging things in. I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from tensing completely; it’s my natural reaction when he comes near. I perch unsteadily on the edge of the couch seat as he passes again to start the tea.

“You took off your cape,” I say.

He looks over his shoulder. “It gets in the way.”

He opens the cabinets, and I’m still reeling from the ridiculousness of this situation; Vampire, the Vampire, my nemesis who has done nothing but try to throw me off rooftops for six months, has invited me over to his place and is making tea. He reaches into a cabinet for the tin, and I watch his shoulder muscles flex—I’ve never seen his back before. He looks thinner without the cape. I knew he was slight, but his outfit always made him seem more imposing. 

“Biscuits?” he says.

Vampire has never seemed more like a real person. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Baz

It’s one in the morning, but Blade is a ball of energy. I know he must have the metabolism of a cheetah. He nods, and I toss him the biscuit tin. I’m not worried about the tea keeping me up; we’ve a lot to cover. And anyway, I’m a graduate student. Caffeine doesn’t affect me anymore.

He watches me warily as I add milk and two spoons of sugar to my tea. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I bring everything over and set it on the coffee table.

I wish we could take our masks off and be done with this. The hiding, the sneaking. Plus I’m getting sweaty and itchy under here, and some fresh air would be nice.

But Blade still might be in Mage’s pocket, no matter how much I try to convince him, so maybe it’s not the best idea to reveal myself.

I still feel like a numpty as I pull up just the bottom edge of my mask so I can drink. But then Blade does the same. He’s staring at my lips. (Probably trying to figure out who I am.)

“Why do you wear a mask?” I ask.

“What?”

“I mean, no one’s going to throw you in prison for saving the city…”

“It’s stylish.”

“No, really.”

He rolls his eyes. “Because. I don’t do this for fame. I do it to help people.”

He really is who everyone says he is. A perfect, golden, selfless hero. 

It makes me hate him a little more.

It makes him harder to hate.

He continues, “It puts a target on my head, yeah? I don’t want anyone to come after me. Or the people I care about… my friends, coworkers, flatmate…”

Of course Blade cares about his damn flatmate. I’ll bet they’re best friends. He probably cleans up after himself in the kitchen. He’s probably the epitome of the perfect flatmate.

Unlike Simon Snow, who steals my socks.

“So,” he says. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here now?”

I tear my eyes away. “Right. Power down your phone.” He was talking to his sidekick earlier. (It all makes sense now—of course there’s a ‘brains’ of his operation, and it’s not him). For all I know she could still be on the line. He swallows, then then does what I asked and sets his phone on the table. 

At first I mistake the tension coming from him as fear, but it’s not. It’s like a spring coiling—raw energy, ready to burst—in case I try something. I relax further into the couch, leaning back and putting my feet up on the table. That’ll infuriate him.

I tug my mask back down. I feel too exposed like this, and not like myself. Well, not like Vampire. “During the power outage, F-- my associate and I snuck into Town Hall.”

He nods, chewing on a biscuit. I can’t believe I’m telling him the truth, all of it. I’m pinning my hopes and probably the future of this city and the world on his outright goodness; his need to do the right thing. Hopefully he’ll see that this is the right thing.

“In the back of the Mayor’s office, there’s a hidden lift,” I say. “It goes to a secret level, the Lower Basement.”

“What?”

“This is what we found.” I press a button on the remote, and a photo flashes on the large screen. And the next one, zoomed in so he can see--

Blade drops his biscuit. “Fucking hell.”

Simon

These are war plans.

There are new maps of the city, divided into factions like some sort of futuristic dystopia. Detailed assassination plans for local leaders in opposition… and for the prime minister. Blue grid paper with new architecture and energy sources. Weapons. An army…

It’s a whole outline for a “perfect society.” I don’t remember much from history class, but I seem to recall that being, well… bad.

Vampire glances at me, judging my reaction, before flicking to the next slide. It’s a big sheet that someone’s holding open, and it just says, “Plan B.” And beneath that, a photo of me.

I stare at it for a long moment.

“This-- this can’t-- this isn’t--” I grab the remote from him and click back to the assassination plans. They’re drawn out like a storyboard, with notes underneath. “This can’t be real,” I finally say.

I recognise Mayor Mage’s handwriting.

“It is,” he says evenly.

“The Mayor-- he’s not-- he’s--”

“Stop blustering,” Vampire snaps. “It’s real. He’s planning to take over, and he’s planning to use you.”

I stand up. I need some air, and I don’t like how angry he sounds… or upset, I can’t tell which. “Why are you showing me this?” I storm over to the window and he follows, silent. “What do you want from me?”

“We can stop him--”

“There is no we!” I shout, gesturing in the air between us. “We’ve never been anything but enemies. For all I know, this is still a trick!”

“It’s not a trick,” he snaps. “This is important. You needed to know.”

“Oh, so you suddenly care about this city? Since when, Vampire? Since. When.”

“I’ve always cared about Watford,” he says through clenched teeth.

“And that’s why you fucking terrorised it for six months.”

“I did not--”

“And why you fought me when I was trying to protect it--”

“I care that it’s not run by a fucking tyrant!” he bursts out.

“And what do I have to do with this?”

I can’t breathe, and I need to think. Mayor Mage isn’t who I thought he was, and he is using me, he’s planning to… 

I’m not his servant. I won’t-- I wouldn’t. I would never help him with that. I wouldn’t.

I could punch a hole in this wall right now. Hell, I literally could if I wanted to. I’m shaking, and Vampire takes a step back.

“He’s using you!” he shouts. “Don’t you care?!”

“Of course I care! But you-- I don’t understand,” I say, pacing in a tight circle. “I would never turn against Watford.”

“If you didn’t see this,” Vampire says. “You’d follow his orders. You wouldn’t even know.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I wouldn’t follow blindly--”

“You might,” he says, “if you thought you were doing the right thing.”

“I wouldn’t.”

But he’s right, I realise. And if he’s right, then he’s doing this because he wants me to know… he wants me to decide the right thing for myself, not just do what I’m told. But Vampire’s not exactly known for being kind and generous, and it doesn’t make any sense for him to be telling me this so that I can uphold my personal moral code. It doesn’t make sense at all.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say.

“I know enough,” he shoots back. He’s closer now, and his eyes are stormy grey.

“Why does it matter.” I knock my fists onto the wall and hold them there. “You expect me to just-- defect to your side--”

“Yes!” he bursts out. “Sorry if that seemed fucking naive, but I trusted that you’d want to do the right thing--”

“Trust? You want to talk to me about trust?”

“Christ, you just won’t believe me, will you?”

“You haven’t given me a single reason to.”

He takes another step towards me, his breath ragged. His eyes are locked on mine, and he has me backed against the wall. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and serious. “Watford is my home, too,” he says. “I care about it. And I care about… you. I care that you aren’t being taken advantage of.”

What?

I’m looking up at him. He’s so close I could lean forward and touch him. 

Vampire.

His eyes are dark pools, and he’s looking at me like… 

He trusts me. 

He trusts that I’m good.

And he’s doing this to help my city. 

Our city. 

He says, quietly, “I understand if you hate me.”

“I don’t.” I feel like I was wrong all along. Like I was missing something. Like all of this fighting has been for nothing.

“Why?”

Because you said you care. Because maybe we were on the same side this whole time.

“You never hurt anyone,” I say instead. I feel suddenly defensive of him. He’s put all his barriers down, exposed everything to help me. He wants to work together instead of fighting, and I’ve come in here and yelled at him.

“I did. I hurt you--” His eyes are almost angry. 

“You didn’t. You’re not,” I say thickly. I feel tearful, for some reason, and I swallow. 

He tries to step back, but I grab his wrist. He stills, and he’s looking at me like he’s a puppy asking to be kicked. Like he’s scared of me. 

I don’t want him to be scared of me.

Baz

Blade is simmering. His energy is rolling off him in waves. He looks like he’s about to explode.

He lifts his hand, and I flinch back, bracing for the blow.

But it doesn’t come. He tugs up the bottom of my mask, and I let him.

“Blade…,” I say. 

And then he kisses me.

Simon

I don’t know what I’m thinking.

I’m not thinking at all.

Baz

Blade’s mouth is hot.

He threads a hand behind my neck and swells up, crashing into me. I push back, hard, deepening the kiss. I bracket him against the wall with my arms, and he kisses me desperately, fiercely. 

He kisses insistently, like a dare; he juts his chin forward, a gesture I’ve seen on him a hundred times. I rise to the challenge, attacking him with my mouth, biting on his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan.

This is nothing like fighting. 

This is everything like fighting.

Then he reaches for my back, pulling me to him, as if I’m made of strings and glass and he’s the only thing holding me together. 

Maybe he is.

It’s unexpectedly tender and I lean into his mouth and almost just give in. (I’ve wanted this for so long.) And then I remember where I am. What I’m wearing. Who I’m kissing.

I grasp his shoulders, and it takes all of my willpower to push him off. He hits the wall with a dull thunk, gasping. 

“What the fuck, Blade,” I say. I’m out of breath, too. It’s embarrassing.

“Take off your mask,” he says.

“No.”

He stares at me. His eyes are daydream-blue. He has a mole above his lip.

Simon

I stare at him. He looks at me like he’s trying to read my mind.

His eyes are stormy sky grey, and his lips are pink and bowed. Familiar.

I swallow, and his eyes track the movement.

“Kiss me again,” he says.

I do.

Chapter Text

Baz

I only know how long we were kissing because at some point, Fiona gets home, kicks the door open, and says, “For fuck’s sake, it’s two in the morning. Can’t you take it to your place?”

By the time Blade shakes himself out of the kissing-daze and looks up, she’s already in her room.

He pulls away, biting his bottom lip. It’s soft and pink and utterly kissable. I was doing that a minute ago. “I should go,” he says.

I don’t want him to go. I already miss the feeling of his body against mine. And for the moment, it didn’t matter that he was my sworn enemy or whatever. It mattered that The Golden Blade was a fucking incredible kisser—and he was kissing me, and kissing me.

“We could take her suggestion,” I say. Mostly as a joke.

He shakes his head emphatically, tugging his mask down, and my stomach drops. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m a bit out of my element here…” 

Me fucking too, Blade. What’s the protocol for the aftermath of snogging your nemesis, probably adding a hundred new problems to an already convoluted situation? Oh right, there isn’t one.

“I mean, I don’t think you planned this when you said this would be a midnight booty call.” I hear the grin in his voice.

“Hey, this could have been my evil plan of seduction all along,” I say, and he laughs. I tilt my head. “Why did you kiss me, anyway?”

He shrugs. “I wanted to, I guess. I wanted to stop fighting.”

“And that was your solution?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s not the point,” I say. “We’re still… whatever we were. This doesn’t automatically make it all rainbows and sunshine.”

“We’re on the same side now,” he says. 

We are. I couldn’t feel more relieved. If I had to fight for Watford City against Mage without Blade on my side, I don’t think I’d make it out alive.

“Wow,” I deadpan. “If I had known all it took was a kiss, I would’ve done this long ago.”

“That’s more like it,” he says, almost to himself. 

“What?”

“You were scaring me earlier with your lack of flirting. It was unsettling.”

“My lack of--”

“You heard me. It’s always a nice ego boost, that.”

I shove him lightly. “Shut up.” 

His eyes are still smiling when he says, “I really should go home.”

“We still have to meet,” I say. “To plan everything.”

He nods solemnly. “Always plotting, Vampy.”

I feel turbulent on the inside, and I also feel that kissing Blade, whether he’s my nemesis or ally, wasn’t a good idea. Not when we’re wrapped up in all of this, trying to save Watford and the world. Not when we don’t even know each other’s real names.

(That doesn’t stop me from wanting to do it again. And again.)

He doesn’t seem to regret it, but he’s always been unreasonably overconfident. I’m confident, too, about one thing: that this was probably a one-time event.

“Maybe we should just… forget this happened,” I say. 

He hesitates, then agrees. “I s'pose. If you want.”

“It would complicate things. We’re temporary allies with a common goal. We’re not anything else.”

He stares at me with an inscrutable look, then nods. “Right. Well. Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Text me about meeting up. My place, if you want. I’ll talk to my flatmate…” 

Of course he will. His flatmate probably knows he’s The Golden Blade. He probably cheers him on from the sidelines during our fights.

He says flatmate with emphasis, as if I’m supposed to glean some magical meaning from behind the word. The only thing I’m gleaning is that I hate his flatmate. Whoever it is. 

Blade leaves, and I take the opportunity to admire the way the spandex nicely highlights his arse before trying to go to bed.

And, subsequently, laying awake for two hours replaying the feeling of The Golden Blade’s lips on mine. 

Penelope

Simon texted me at three in the morning to let me know he got home safe, but hasn’t said much else. He slept in longer than he ever has, and luckily had the foresight to request the day off from work. In the afternoon, I head to the bakery anyway so he can catch me up on the night’s events… and because there’s someone I need to meet later.

I wait at a table and send the text: Let’s meet at Watford Bakery. 2:00 work?

The response comes immediately. Right-o. See ya then!!!

How can a person be so irritating over text?

Simon walks in with bags under his eyes. It’s weird seeing him in the bakery out of uniform. He plunks into the chair across from me, and I slide over a coffee and a scone. He takes a sip and makes a face, but keeps drinking it anyway.

He gets me up to speed on what Vampire showed him—Mage’s plans for some kind of dystopian domination situation. I’m honestly less surprised by that than the fact that Simon and Vampire are apparently going to work together on this. I can’t even imagine them having a real conversation without trying to rip each other’s throats out.

By the time he’s done, he’s gone through three scones and another coffee.

“You should come to the meeting,” he says. “In disguise. I’m guessing it’ll be next week.”

“Does he know who you are now?”

He hesitates. “No. I hope we just drop the act soon…”

“Do you still think it’s Baz?” I ask quietly.

“I’m almost positive.”

“Why don’t you ask, then?”

“What am I going to say? ‘Hey Baz, just a quick question, real casual you know, are you by any chance the super evil villain who has been ravaging this city?’”

I snort.

“And he wouldn’t tell me, anyway,” Simon continues. “And it would expose me as Blade.”

“What happened to your burning curiosity?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’m over it. He hasn’t killed me yet in our flat. He won’t start now.”

Over it? That doesn’t sound like Simon. Maybe there’s something he isn’t telling me about. I’ll pry it out of him later.

He stands up, stretching. “I think I’m going to go take a nap.” 

I glance at my watch. “Good timing. I’m meeting Shepard in a few minutes.”

“Shepard? Why?”

“Because he knows too much,” I say. “And I want to get to the bottom of it.”

Simon shakes his head, smiling. “You always do. Let me know what he says.”

***

I’d seen Shepard on the news, but I didn’t expect him to be so lanky —he’s a cluster of limbs as he bounds across the bakery and seats himself across from me. “Hello, Penelope.”

“The sour cherry scones are good,” I say as a way of greeting. 

“Really.” His eyes light up and he stands. “Would you like one?”

“No.”

“Let me buy you something.”

“This isn’t a date,” I grumble.

“Then what is it?”

“An interrogation.”

His smile doesn’t drop as he walks over to the counter and buys a scone and a hot chocolate. He folds himself back into the seat. “Alright, I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”

Why you’re smiling like that when this glare I inherited from mum usually makes people cower.

“You contacted me last week regarding Egghead,” I say. “How did you know about that?”

He runs a hand through his curly hair, leaving it sticking up even more than before. It irks me for some reason.

“Did Egghead tell you and Blade anything about his motives?”

“He blamed Mayor Mage and his reforms.”

“Right.” Shepard rubs his jaw. “So I don’t know if you know this about me--”

“I assure you I don’t.”

He continues as if I hadn’t interrupted. “--but when I first moved here a few years ago, I played the French horn in a brass band.” Of course he plays the most bothersome instrument. What else? “Egghead’s right-hand man was a tuba player in the same band. We’re still friends…”

I raise an eyebrow. “And he just told you where they’d be moving drugs?”

Shepard takes a bite of his scone. “Damn, this is good. And yeah, sort of. You’d be surprised what people will tell you if you just ask.”

“Is that what you do, just pester people until they give you information?”

He shrugs. “That sums it up.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and take a bite of croissant instead. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew to contact me.”

“You’re The Golden Blade’s partner, right?” I like how he said partner, and not sidekick. Sidekick makes me sound like I fight out there with him in a matching outfit. I almost laugh at the thought. (But I’d do it, if he asked.)

I bristle. “Nobody is supposed to know that.”

“I know lots of things I’m not supposed to know.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” I snap. “How did you find out about me and Blade?”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone.”

“I’d probably have to kill you if you did.” His eyebrows furrow, and I say, “That was a joke.”

“Ah, she’s capable of humour!”

“I’m a very funny person,” I deadpan. “Now answer the question.”

He laces his hands together. “Well, I figured out that Simon Snow was The Blade--”

“How?”

“That was actually an accident,” he admits. “I’d seen him on the news, and was trying to piece it together… but then one day in the office we were watching some footage of Blade, and Agatha was like, ‘I never should have dated that overly-righteous moron.’” 

I almost forgot that they work together. Shepard’s hands fall flat on the table in a somewhat dramatic gesture. “And I was like, ‘Say what now? Didn’t you date Simon, the baker?’ And she was all, ‘Oh no, dear me--’”

“I get it,” I cut in. “Agatha fucked up.”

I hope she hasn’t slipped up like that with anyone else. We’re usually more careful.

But Shepard has this open, honest face. (Americans are too friendly.) It’s a face you want to talk to and tell all your secrets to. It’s nothing but trouble. 

I must look angry, because he says, “I won’t tell anyone, Penny.”

“It’s for his safety, and ours,” I say. “He has enemies--”

“Vampire isn’t that scary.” 

“I don’t trust your judgement there. You’re not scared of anything,” I say. 

“I have no reason to be. Not until it proves itself to be harmful.”

“That’s a great way to get yourself hurt someday.”

He shrugs. There’s a silence while he finishes his scone, brushing the crumbs away, and then he says, “I got your number from Agatha.”

“Great.”

“I told her about Egghead’s crew, and she wanted nothing to do with it. And then she said if anything remotely tech-related needed to be done, I should contact you, not Blade.”

“She was right.”

Shepard grins at me. “So are we cool? I can help with anything in the future--”

“We don’t need your help.”

“Funny, that wasn’t the case when I tipped you off about Egghead.”

“What do you even want? To tag along on secret missions?”

His eyes widen. “Are there secret missions?”

“No.”

“Alright.” He sips his drink. “Will you appear on my podcast, then?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on. We can even come up with a cool superhero name for you, a brainy one… you know, like how Batman has Oracle.”

“What would you even ask me?”

His entire face brightens. “Are you in, then?”

“Not yet.”

“I’d just ask about what it’s like working with The Golden Blade. Nothing specific. And maybe we can do a kind of deep dive into how it feels to do all that work and, you know, not get credit.”

“I don’t care about credit.” 

Simon’s my best friend… I just help him because I don’t want him to die .

“Then we can talk about that! Most people would feel differently.” He’s practically bouncing. “And then everyone would know about you--”

“I’d rather they not.” He purses his lips, and I say, “This is not a good idea.”

His face goes serious. “Fine. Can I ask you something else, then?”

“Depends what it is.”

He pulls out his phone and types something in. “Since you’re close to the situation, I thought you might know. Is there any truth to this?”

I accept the phone, and it takes me a minute to understand what I’m looking at. 

Oh my god. I scroll down the Tumblr page, imagining Simon’s face when he sees this.

It’s fanfiction. 

A high-pitched giggle escapes me—it’s embarrassing.

There’s fanfiction about The Golden Blade and Vampire. Together. As in, together. There’s fanart, too, and even some photoshopped images. I know I’ve made the joke, but I didn’t expect other people to see that as… an option? A “ship”? I don’t even know.

Simon would lose his mind. 

“I…” For once, I don’t have any words.

The fanart is quite good, actually. 

Shepard shakes his head mischievously. “It’s a public rivalry. What did we expect from the people?”

“This is real life, not a fucking YA novel.”

“And yet,” he says. He swipes over to another page on his phone, a fanfiction site, and there’s literally hundreds of pieces tagged #goldenvamp.

I read the descriptions, and I can’t stop laughing. I’m bent over the table, wheezing. 

“I’m guessing it’s not true,” Shepard says carefully.

I try to take a sip of water, but it only makes me laugh more. I hold up a finger, letting him know I’m going to speak. I have to stop breathing to make sure I don’t shoot any water out of my nose.

“I think I broke you,” he says, amused.

“It’s not true,” I finally gasp out. “But they-- that’s--”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, I thought I’d sensed sexual tension.”

I burst out laughing again. “Oh, there’s definitely sexual tension.” 

I need to get a grip. I take a few deep breaths. 

Shepard is smiling so widely I can see his bottom teeth. “Will you talk about this on the podcast, Penny?”

I’ve already made a fool of myself. Another hour of it can’t hurt. 

Simon’s going to kill me.

Episode 61: #goldenvamp mythbusters (ft. special guest)

“Hey hey hey everyone it’s Shepard, and welcome back to ‘Zero or Hero? Separating Fact from Fiction!’ So I’m here today with a very special guest. The one, the only, Quickwit! Say hi, Quickwit.”

“Hello.”

“Quickwit here has always lived in the shadows… until now. She’s The Golden Blade’s right-hand woman and the brains behind his brawn! Thank you for appearing on the podcast with me today.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And before you ask, no they’re not a couple! In fact, what we’re here to talk about today is a very special relationship.

“Over the past few months, we’ve observed some interactions between The Golden Blade and Vampire that have made us all wonder—is this truly a rivalry, or is something else going on here?

“We’ve all seen it before. Perhaps the burning passion in their eyes we mistake for hatred is really something else. Like Rey and Kylo Ren.”

“Or Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.”

“Sam Puckett and Freddie Benson.”

“Who?”

“Ugh, England. You’re so uncultured.”

“That’s rich coming from you, former colony.”

“ANYWAY. Maybe Blade and Vamp’s rivalry gives them a deep mutual respect for each other, in a way. Quickwit, do you have any insights?”

“I’d say it’s definitely possible. Sometimes I wonder if they’re about to drop the weapons and snog each other senseless.”

“You heard it here first, folks. So now we’re going to review five of the most popular one-shot fanfiction pieces. Feel free to vote on your favourite, and we’ll send the author a fruit basket! 

“And since she’s close to the subjects, my friend Quickwit here is going to judge them for authenticity. Let’s get started with one of the most popular ones on the web, ‘A Love Worth Fighting For.’”

***

“So guys, that really ranged from funny to incredibly uncomfortable, but all in all, well done!”

“Mostly uncomfortable.”

“Don’t forget to click the link in the podcast notes below to vote on your favourite. And we’ve got one more surprise for y’all… You wanna announce it, Quickwit?”

“We’re starting a betting pool.”

“You bet we are.”

“That was terrible.”

“I know! Guys, I’m so excited for this. Hit the link below, submit the date you think Vampire and Blade are finally gonna get together, and submit your bet via credit card or PayPal.”

“Whoever guesses the date most accurately wins.”

“And the winner takes it all. If they don’t get together, we’ll refund you, of course.”

“Though the chances of that are quite slim.”

“Right, ha! And on top of that, you’ll get a meet and greet with the one and only Golden Blade! And maybe Vampy, if we can get him to agree…”

“I’d start with not calling him Vampy.”

“He did say he’d appear on the podcast.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Chapter Text

Simon

Sunday, October 27. 

I go to the bakery early to help Ebb put up more Halloween decorations. Sundays are quiet, so we spend most of the day decking it out; we take down all the cosy scarves and plaid wall hangings and replace them with spiderwebs and spooky purple lights. 

We plaster the windows with bat-shaped decals and place a motorised witch in the corner. I pin up paper ghosts onto the mural and draw out designs for Halloween-themed iced biscuits. Penny and I carve jack-o-lanterns in the kitchen, and I save the pumpkin guts for pies.

Baz has been ignoring me, steadfastly; he doesn’t even respond if I say hi, just walks into his room. And if I so much as mention The Golden Blade or Vampire he goes all pale and snaps at me.

I think he still has no clue who I am. I don’t even know how to broach the subject.

If Baz is Vampire… if I kissed Baz on Friday… I don’t think I would mind it.

Monday, October 28.

I go to work. Trixie puts a witch hat on me and I end up wearing it all day, making customers laugh. The biscuits are a hit, and people jump when they walk past the motorised witch—she cackles and throws tiny bags of nougat at them.

We put up a chalkboard sign in front of the bakery. Ebb’s idea of a practical joke on me: Dress up like a superhero on Halloween for a free Watford Bakery pumpkin scone! 

Trixie brought a catwoman costume, and she looks incredible in it, so we take some photos for the bakery’s Instagram; she strikes sexy poses in front of the shop, holding a basket of scones. (I know I should probably be the one to pose for Instagram, but it might be a bit on the nose.)

I mentally prepare to see a lot of Golden Blades and Vampires on Thursday.

Baz is still ignoring me.

Tuesday, October 29.

I text Vampire: alright vampy?

Nothing.

do you listen to shepard’s podcast? i swear i didn’t tell my partner anything. total coincidence

Still nothing.

we’d win the betting pool if we entered. tho i don’t need a meet and greet with myself

wouldn’t it be funny if we did the meet and greet together

ppl would lose their shit

did you actually say you’d go on his podcast?

A few hours later, I look back, and he’s turned on read receipts. Petty bastard.

I try again. so. when should we meet?

He finally responds: Friday at 6.

And doesn’t say anything else.

I don’t know what we “are” right now. And to be honest, I’ve just decided not to think about it until we meet up, because I don’t know anything for certain except for the fact that I really, really liked kissing him. I didn’t even know I wanted to until I did, and then I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been doing that all the time instead of fighting. (I suppose that would have been a bit impractical.)

He liked kissing me, too. That much was clear. And neither of us are actually going to forget about it anytime soon… 

We’ll figure it out later. We can be begrudging allies who snog. Enemies-with-benefits. Whatever.

I’ve tried dropping hints to Baz that I know who he is, but he’s being outright hostile at this point, so I go to Penny’s after work and bother her while she studies.

Wednesday, October 30.

“You should come to the bakery tomorrow,” I tell Baz. He’s cooking dinner and has been barely tolerating me as I put those annoying sticky things on our window while watching Halloweentown. “Free pumpkin scones. I know you like them.”

I would have been happily surprised if he spat at me, so I do a double take when he says, “Do I have to dress up?”

“Yep,” I say. “As a superhero.”

He makes a sound in his throat.

“What?” I ask innocently. “You have your Doctor Strange costume, don’t you?”

Baz

I might kill Simon Snow. Today might be the day.

I’ve been trying to shut down his suspicions, but I don’t know how. Usually I’d just dryly say, “Yes, Snow, of course I’m the evil, dastardly, extremely fit Vampire,” but I’m afraid he might actually take me seriously. And he’s been looking at me curiously, all week; as if I’m fragile, and as if I’m a different person than he thought.

But I didn’t do anything. We haven’t really interacted since the sock incident.

I even caught him trying to follow me around to see if I was “plotting.” He followed me to the library; I was just trying to get my reading done. And get The Golden Blade out of my head. 

I try not to think about him during the day; the thoughts come at night, when I’m in bed. Kissing and more. His warm, strong body pressing into me. (I know how it feels—we’ve fought like that.) His broad chest covering mine, his fingers pressing into my hips. His lips, trailing over my skin…

It’s overwhelming. And I’m constantly on edge, because when I’m not bothered by dreams of Blade, I open my eyes and am faced with the reality of Simon bloody Snow. 

My flatmate, who I live with and have to see every day.

He’s jolly this week, flushed with cold, in his element with stupid holiday cheer. His freckles are fading as we have fewer and fewer sunny days. He’s all happy and glowy, and I can’t even keep myself from staring—he’s like the fire crackling in the hearth on a chilly night. I want to sink in. He keeps shooting me these small smiles, as if we’re in on a secret. 

We’re not, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation, which is that I’m using my gorgeous flatmate as a distraction from thoughts of hate-fucking my gorgeous arch-nemesis-turned-ally. Christ.

Instead of laughing I just snap at him so he doesn’t bother me, because I’m so electrified I might kiss him or kill him at any moment.

I could text Blade and I’m sure he’d say something devastating like come on over vampy, my flatmate has gone out ;) but despite what I said to him, he isn’t a booty call. I don’t think I have feelings for him, but I meant what I said—I don’t need to complicate whatever we’re doing with kissing. Or more. (But god, do I want to.)

Simon Snow is blinking at me with big eyes. “You have your Doctor Strange costume, don’t you?”

Damn my fucking brain and the fucking lie about cosplaying as Doctor Strange. Where can I even get a Doctor Strange costume with a day’s notice?

“Of course,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “Excuse me.”

I go to my room, sit on my bed and Google Doctor Strange, and fuck me —his cape is red. How did I miss that? 

I call Fiona. “Do you have a red cape?” 

“What the fuck, Baz? No, I do not have a red cape. Also, while we’re talking, do you feel like sharing with me why you were snogging The Golden Blade in my living room--”

I hang up and scan the internet. Amazon one-day shipping? The outfits look cheap and flimsy. Procosplay.com? £250. Absolutely not.

If I don’t have a perfect costume, he’ll know I was lying. So I’ll get a perfect costume. Whatever it takes.

Simon

“I still can’t believe you did that,” I say. 

Penny looks up from her laptop. “It was fun.”

“Yeah, I bet ruining my reputation and reading bad fanfiction about me was real fun,” I mutter.

“I didn’t ruin anything,” she defends. “I just supported what people already think!”

“That’s even worse, you’re an insider, now they think it’s true!”

“Is it?”

She keeps asking things like that. I’m not a great liar, especially with Penny—she knows I’m hiding something. But I haven’t told her about the kiss because even though Vampire said it didn’t mean anything, it feels… private.

“No.”

“Maybe you should change that.” She tries to wiggle her eyebrows.

“So you want to make the dirty, and I quote, ‘uncomfortable’ fanfiction a reality? That you will have to witness firsthand?”

She laughs. “Alright, maybe not. But at least I got to correct their sexist notions about your ‘sidekick’ being a white man.”

“Good.”

I stand up to get a glass of water, and she says, “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

“What do you mean? My… work uniform?”

“Don’t staff have to dress up like superheroes, too?”

“Oh, shit.” In the bustle of preparations for the bakery, I’ve completely forgotten to think about my own costume. “Uh, I guess I’ll just… go as myself,” I say.

“Oh, come on.”

“I am actually a superhero. It’s like, the one day I can wear my outfit to work!”

“Wait,” she says, and she has a glint in her eye. “I have an idea. We might need Baz’s help, though.”

“Baz? Why?”

Penny takes out her phone. “Because he has a costume piece you’ll need.”

Baz

When I enter the bakery on Halloween morning, I nearly jump out of my skin when I see The Golden Blade sitting at a table. My heart pounding, I quickly scan the room, reaching instinctively for my flamethrowers… that are currently sitting in my apartment. 

There’s another Golden Blade. And another.

Right, Halloween. Dress like a superhero. I feel silly.

And then I look at the register.

I have to bite my own tongue to stop my jaw from dropping. This is it—I’ve died, and I’m in heaven, I suppose, because there’s no other way that this very particular fantasy that I didn’t even know I had has come to life.

Is this some sort of cosmic joke?

Simon Snow. He’s wearing the richest blacks and tight leather trousers (fuck, they look better on him), and he’s wearing my cape. When Bunce texted me last night, I expected she needed it for a costume… I didn’t think it would be for Snow. He whirls around to pick up a scone and the cape flutters up behind him. He’s not wearing a mask, but he’s wearing a high-collared shirt like the one I wear, and it makes his jawline look sharp as a knife.

Snow looks good in black. He never wears it. He looks good as a villain. (As me— I suppose this whole thing is a bit narcissistic.) The dramatic, contemporary cut of the suit contrasts with his spilling golden curls and his freckles. His cheeks look higher in this outfit, somehow; his face holds more shadows. 

He looks dangerous. 

I’ve never been so turned on.

I step up to the counter, and he stares at me.

Simon

Baz sweeps into the bakery, and my mouth goes dry.

I’m almost certain he doesn’t actually cosplay as Doctor Strange, and that he did this just to prove a point. But I don’t mind. He looks stunning—the deep navy blue robes suit him. He looks like he could take this place down with a flick of his hand. I could cast him in the movie right now and no one would blink.

Boom boom fucking whoosh.

Baz was made to wear a cape. It billows out behind him, dramatic and casual all at once, as if he walks around in capes every day. (And then I remind myself, he does.)

He steps up to the counter, and I know I’m staring, but I never really noticed his widow’s peak like that, or his cheekbones. His skin contrasts strikingly against the bloodred of his collar. I look down to his lips. (Bowed. Familiar.) I trace their shape with my eyes. 

Yeah. Same lips. 

He’s staring at me, and a hint of a blush graces his cheeks. “My scone,” he says.

I snap out of it, force myself to breathe for a moment, plop a pumpkin scone onto a plate, and slide it over. “Happy Halloween.”

“Thank you.” He stares at me for another moment, clearly deciding whether to say something—most likely an insult. But his eyes rake over the costume, and he says, “This look suits you, Snow.”

I snort an awkward laugh. “It-- it does?”

He hitches up that eyebrow, and I feel a curling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the compliment. “You could work on the personality a bit.” He grins slyly at me and glides away to sit down.

Fuck. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Their mannerisms are so similar. And I can’t believe it’s true— but it makes sense, I suppose. 

At least I know I’m only attracted to one infuriating, egotistical prick, and not two.

I see a few girls in the shop staring at Baz, and I want to tell them to fuck off.

A customer snaps in front of my face. “Your esteemed majesty Vampire?”

It’s The Golden Blade again. (Probably the fifteenth one today.) Except it’s also Penny, and she has the best Golden Blade costume in the shop… because it’s the real one. 

I burst out laughing, and she frowns at me. The spandex is armored and padded and shaped, custom-made for my body, and it makes her look like she has bulky shoulders and crystal-cut abdominal muscles. Plus she’s a lot shorter than me, so the suit bags at the wrists and ankles. And she’s hiked the belt up so it’s doing this fashionable high-waisted thing. 

She crosses her arms. “I feel ridiculous enough already, don’t laugh at me.”

I hand her a scone. 

“Seriously, how do you wear this thing with any semblance of dignity? I can’t even face myself in the mirror…”

“Hey. Don’t disrespect The Golden Blade like that,” I say. “Don’t you feel a little bit badass?”

I glance behind her to where Baz is sitting, and Penny turns to look. She lets out a low whistle. “Shut up,” I say, my face burning.

She starts to walk over, but someone’s standing behind her. Another Blade, but in a significantly cheaper-looking costume. 

“Hey there, Golden Blade,” he says, tapping her on the shoulder. Penny reaches up and whips off his mask; it’s Shepard. 

“Hi, Simon. Nice outfit.” He winks at me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Here’s your scone.”

“Did you like the podcast this week?” he asks. He and Penny exchange a look. Fuck it all, he knows.

“No.” I give them my best glower.

“Ah, well, art is subjective,” he says. 

I serve customers absently while I watch them walk over to the table. Penny introduces Baz to Shep, and Baz visibly bristles away. I would kill to be sitting there, just to see Baz’s reaction when Shepard starts talking about the podcast.

I keep stealing glances over as I work. The bakery’s cheerful—Trixie stayed late and is running a cookie-icing workshop in one corner, and Ebb is greeting everyone and handing out candy. (She’s dressed as Thor. It’s fantastic.) In fact, everyone is smiling except for Baz Pitch, who is shaking his head, picking at his scone, and attempting to look bored while, in fact, he’s flushed completely red. 

I catch Penny’s eye, and she grins at me and mouths, “podcast.”

I’m still mad about it. I didn’t even hear about it from Penny; Shepard texted me a link without any context, and I only listened because I hadn’t read the summary. I can’t believe Penny sold me out like that. But all in good fun, I suppose.

And while the fanfiction was mostly horribly inaccurate (8-pack abs, really? I’m a baker), they got one thing dead right. The man inside the Vampire suit does look like a fucking supermodel. Even with his eyes cast downward, his hair falling into his face… no, especially like that. And I’ve got it bad for him.

Baz

I listen to the podcast, but against my will: Shepard is practically force-feeding it to me. It’s god-awful and I can’t believe some of the things written about fanfiction-me. Do people actually think I sleep upside down?

Half my brain is occupied, though, with stealing glances over at Snow. If he takes up some of my attention usually, it’s nothing compared to this consuming desire.

I like him in that outfit. I also need him out of that outfit before I explode. (Not in that way.) (Well, that way would also solve the problem, I suppose.)

I used to love Halloweens in Hampshire. Fiona used to take me trick-or-treating in town, and when I got older, I would drive all my siblings down and chaperone them. In uni, my Halloweens were usually spent at parties with minimal-effort costumes—they often consisted of removing clothes rather than adding them—and usually ended with some bloke with beer breath making a bad pun about whatever I was wearing and trying to get me to go home with him.

Last year, we stayed home and watched a movie.

And this year… I wouldn’t mind the same. I’d watch anything with Snow. I’d even watch the second Twilight movie if he asked.

I go back to the flat and study for the rest of the afternoon, then head to Fiona’s for dinner and wine night. (“I might be mad at you, but we never cancel wine night, Baz.”) 

We argue about the movie; she wants to watch Hocus Pocus, I want to watch Harry Potter. (Harry Potter wins.) I was planning on staying the night, but she ends up kicking me out around ten. She says she’s meeting someone, but I think she’s still just frustrated that I won’t talk to her about Blade. 

I’m tipsy, so I take the bus home. There’s a light on in our kitchen window.

***

I hear the music first, and then the humming. Feet tapping against the floor, a very (very) nice arse, still clad in black leather. Simon Snow is in the kitchen, singing along to “Rich Girl”—the Hall & Oates one, not the Gwen Stefani one—and using a bottle of red wine as a fake microphone. He’s dancing, his narrow hips swaying a little clumsily, and he’s trying to simultaneously stir a bowl of something.

I clear my throat, and he turns around. His face splits into a huge grin. “Baz!” he says, and before I can protest, he’s caught me by the hand, dragging me towards the counter. He’s looking at me and singing, except he’s botched the lyrics, “You can rely on your own damn money, you can rely on your own damn money!”

“What--” I start, and he takes another sip of wine straight from the bottle, then sets it down and grabs my other hand.

I’m tipsy and he’s drunk and Simon Snow is dressed like Vampire, so at this point I’d let just about anything slide.

He’s smiling like he can’t stop, and he’s smiling at me in a way that makes my organs feel funny. Why is he looking at me like that? I haven’t exactly been friendly… 

“Come on,” he says, and then twirls me around on the spot.

“Snow, what is happening--”

“We’re dancing,” he says, trying to keep a straight face. “And singing.” And then he sings along again, messing up most of the words. He offers me the wine bottle, and I take a hearty swig. 

You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far

'Cause you know it don't matter anyway

You can rely on the old man's money

You can rely on the old man's money

It's a bitch girl and it's gone too far

'Cause you know it don't matter anyway

Say money but it won't get you too far

Get you too far

Snow isn’t a good dancer and he’s an even worse singer, but he’s strong and solid, and I’m light on my feet—I’ve always been a natural at this, and this song is easy to dance to. He’s spinning me in circles around the kitchen, his hip bumping against the counter. 

Half of me is appalled at this entire situation. I suppose I could wiggle away if I really wanted to. But the wine is decent, and his smile is so bright it’s blinding, and he’s singing “you’re a rich girl” right at me, which is hilarious. And he’s looking at me in this way that makes me want to go along with whatever he says. 

I’d dance an Irish jig right now if he asked. I’d do Swan Lake. 

The song changes to Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, and he smiles and bounces, and I’m pulled along. I have no idea why he’s having so much fun with this and why he’s smiling at me like that when we’ve never done anything like this before and we’re not friends and he knows—he knows if I weren’t tipsy, I’d have thrown his speaker out the window by now.

“Snow,” I attempt again, “what are we doing?”

He takes another chug of wine, shrugs, and pulls me closer. He takes my hand and places it on his own waist, then offers me the bottle again. I can feel his waistband. I can feel the angled muscles of his stomach, moving under my fingers as he dances. I feel skittish, suddenly, and pull away roughly. 

He freezes and reaches for his phone to pause the music. 

His eyes are so blue. I try to blink the tipsy haze away as I say, “Snow.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I know…” He tugs at my sleeve, his face moving to a teasing, knowing expression. He’s trying not to laugh. “I know what you are.”

I snort. “Okay, Bella. Care to explain?”

“You messed up the line.” His face falls, solemn.

I roll my eyes. “Fine. ‘Say it.’” The quote is practically burned in my brain. But he’s looking at me so seriously now, and a knot of trepidation grows in my stomach. “Out loud. Say it.”

He knows something. Or I’m about to admit to something.

I know what his next line is. Still, I’m shocked when he looks me dead in the eyes and says it. He’s not just quoting Twilight anymore; his eyes betray a hidden meaning. A question. 

“Vampire.”

I swallow, not allowing myself to blink, not allowing myself to panic. He knows, he knows. My stomach has dropped through to the floor and is actually doing the fucking Irish jig. How long has he known?

He knows, and he’s still talking to me. He’s still flirting with me…

I swallow again and recall the next line. “Are you afraid?” I nearly whisper.

“No,” he says.

He leans forward and kisses me, and my entire body goes stiff. What the--

Oh.

I’ve been here before. 

These lips, this kiss has been playing over and over in my mind since Friday… Fuck, I’d know these lips anywhere. I pull back, gasping for air, and he looks back at me with wide eyes.

His eyes are daydream-blue. He has a mole above his lip.

Fuck.

In a rush, everything is abundantly, absurdly clear. 

Simon Snow is The Golden Blade.

Chapter Text

Baz

This is fine.

I mean, I hate myself enough already. So it’s fine.

I’m living with my nemesis. The bronze-haired, mole-dotted, affable baker I live with moonlights as a fucking superhero who was hell-bent on ending me until a few days ago, but has now decided he’s hell-bent on kissing me, apparently. For god knows what reason.

“Blade,” I whisper, shell-shocked.

He nods, once.

I take a panicked step backwards. Every molecule in my body wants to run. Simon grabs my wrist, and it does absolutely nothing to stop the pressure building in my chest.

The pieces are clicking together in my head, and it seems now that it should have been obvious all along. I’m an idiot, truly.

He would always be out at the same times I was out. And he’s defensive of our local superhero, and seems to be so knowledgeable about him. But not because he’s in a creepy fan cult. Because he’s the primary source. 

And maybe he dated a reporter because he thought he should do what everyone expected. (Who does he think he is, Superman?) And maybe he has so many muscles because he has to train in order to beat up a certain black-clothed grad student.

And then there’s that time I found a pair of golden fucking handcuffs clipped to his bag, and Snow looked me right in the eye and said something to the effect of “they’re for the bedroom” and at the time I didn’t have the bandwidth to be suspicious, because I was too busy trying not to fucking pass out.

Anyway, he’s not very good at keeping secrets. But apparently, I’m even worse at figuring them out.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

“Since Friday.”

“When?” Something leaps in my throat, hammering. “When on Friday?”

His face softens. “When you made your tea.” He clears his throat. “Before we, um…” 

He smiles in a goofy way, and my eyes drift over to the empty bottle of wine.

“You knew,” I say, disbelieving. “You knew and you didn’t say anything. And-- and you kissed me!” He shrugs again, and it ticks me off. “What the hell, Snow.”

“What?”

“How could you think that was a good idea?”

“I wasn’t really… thinking.”

“Clearly!” Except it doesn’t come out as harsh as I wanted it to, because I can’t summon any emotion except shock. He’s still holding my wrist, and I wrench it away. “This complicates everything.”

“Or fixes it.”

“Why did you kiss me just now?!” 

He hesitates, his lips parted, hair messy, and the irrational part of my brain decides I’m not that angry and I don’t even need a real answer, because he kissed me. Again. 

“I wasn’t sure if you really were Vampire,” he finally admits. “And I couldn’t just… tell you… so. Yeah.”

“And that was your plan to find out?” The Golden Blade isn’t known for his wits, I suppose. Something deflates a little in my chest. Maybe Simon didn’t actually want to kiss me—he just wanted to confirm his suspicions. 

He shrugs and grins again. “I figured I’d know when… you know.”

“You should have said something before,” I accuse.

“I tried,” he says. “But someone has been avoiding me all week.”

“I thought you were onto me.”

“I was.”

Simon

I hope he doesn’t think I was fake-flirting with him just to find out if he was Vampire. I wasn’t.

Vampire—well, Baz, I guess—said we should forget about the kiss, and I remember agreeing, but fuck that. Maybe it’s the wine speaking, but if he was trying not to flirt back, he was doing a shit job of it. Anyway, I mostly knew already; the kiss was just a bonus.

Though from his reaction, he had no idea I was Blade before we kissed… which means all his flirting was directed towards just Simon. That’s nice to think about.

I’m relieved to have our identities out in the open, but Baz looks enraged. 

“How the fuck did you hide it all this time?” he says.

Honestly, I have not been very subtle. I don’t care that much if my friends know. I only started being careful recently, when I started having suspicions about Baz.

Still, he could have done any number of things. Compared Blade’s phone number to mine, for instance (only he has two separate phones), or trailed me home or to Penny’s. But he really had no idea at all.

“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re supposed to be the smart one, yeah?”

Baz looks pissed off—probably because I figured it out first. “Fuck off,” he mutters, then picks up his phone off the table. “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait--” I grab for the back of his shirt as he leaves, but my fingers slip. “Shouldn’t we talk about it?”

“You’re drunk, Snow,” he snaps. “I’d prefer to have this discussion sober. And there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, there is,” I insist. “Everything’s so much easier now.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the same,” he says coldly. “I’d rather keep my personal and work life separate, and you’ve ruined that.”

Does he have to be so difficult all the time? “I didn’t ruin anything, Vampire,” I say. His expression darkens at the label, and he turns on his heel, but I succeed in catching his wrist this time. “Did you expect me to never figure it out?”

“Yes!”

“How stupid do you think I am?” I say. “You left your cape out. And your magic fucking socks. You took me to your Aunt Fiona’s flat!” That one was an educated guess, but by the way he sneers at me, I know I’m right.

“Let me make this abundantly clear,” he spits. His face is all twisted, and I can’t tell if he’s about to attack me or burst into tears. “I don’t. Want. To talk about it.”

“So-- what? We ignore it? It’s not just going to go away,” I say, waving an arm around. “We can’t pretend we don’t know now.”

“Fine, run along then, turn me into the police.”

“I’m not-- what? No.”

“Wasn’t that your goal? Find out who Vampire is, so you can rid Watford City of him once and for all? Well, congratulations. Here I am.” He spreads his arms. “Stake me through the heart with that shiny sword of yours and we can be done with it.”

“Baz, what the fuck,” I say, frustrated. “Did you forget we’re working together now? And you-- you--”

“I what,” he snarls. 

“I don’t care!” I yell. “I don’t care that you’re Vampire, because--”

“Then why do all this, if you don’t care--” he interrupts. I swear I could punch him right now.

“All of what?” 

He clenches his jaw. “Find out who I was. And then fucking kiss me again, when I already told you we should forget about it.”

Is he that upset about the kiss? Did he really not want to? He seemed like he wanted to… but that’s before he knew I was Blade. But he also kissed me as Blade… fuck. I’m so confused.

Baz

I’m so angry at him.

I can’t believe he knew this entire week and has been holding it over me, dropping sordid hints and sending funny texts. He knew. And this evening, was it all an act? I feel taken advantage of—like he played with my feelings and used me to get to the truth.

And now he’s expecting me to say what? Yes, this is perfect! Time to hold hands and frolic around the fields.

“I didn’t want to forget about it!” Simon bursts out.

He… he didn’t?

“You agreed--”

“It was your idea,” he shoots back. “I was trying to be respectful or whatever, but I’m not the one who’s been flirting for six months.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually think anything of that—I’m a fucking supervillain, Snow!”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

“Well, I didn’t mean any of it seriously,” I snap. 

I don’t know why I say that. It’s a complete lie. But I don’t know how else to deal with this mess of emotions, so I just hurl out the first thing I can think of to say. I almost like seeing the expression on his face; at least I can get some rise out of him… 

“Well, I did!” he counters. 

I freeze, forgetting to be mad at him for a second. 

“What?” I say quietly.

“Never mind,” he huffs. “You’ve made your opinion on this pretty clear, so just… go. I won’t bring it up again.”

“No, wait, I--”

He won’t look at me. “Just go.”

“Snow.”

He brings a hand up to tug on his hair, frustrated. “What.”

I don’t know what I was going to say. Take it back? Say I did mean what I said, all of it? I can feel the words behind my throat: It wasn’t a mistake and I don’t want to forget about it and I’m sorry.

But Pitches don’t apologise, and if I wasn’t used to Snow trying to murder me all the time as Blade, the look he’s giving me right now would make me cower. “Nothing,” I say instead. “Goodnight.” 

I barely keep composure until I walk into my room and slam the door. Then I sink onto the floor, wondering how the hell to fix this.

Simon

I slept fitfully, debating whether or not to text Penny a thousand times. In the morning, I find an open bag of salt and vinegar crisps and a tin of tea left out on the counter. (Baz stress-eats.) I was too angry to finish baking my brownies last night, so I grab the bowl of batter from the fridge and carry it to work with me.

The street is littered with candy wrappers from Halloween; the wind scatters them like neon leaves. I pick up a few on my way in and try to start my day.

I’m distracted; that much is clear to Trixie and later Ebb, all the customers, and every other person I interact with. But I don’t know what to do. I thought things were going well with Baz… he’d been nicer lately, even flirty. But last night I felt like nothing I said was right.

Is it because he knows I’m Blade now? Maybe he likes Simon, but hates Blade—that could be the source of his anger. He liked kissing me as Blade, that much was obvious… but he still pushed me away.

Maybe I got this backwards. Maybe I should have made sure he liked me as Simon, first, and then broke the news gently. Knowing Baz, though, that might have resulted in the same reaction.

For a minute last night, he also seemed almost upset that I wanted him despite him being Vampire. I suppose it’s wrong, on some level. He’s my sworn enemy and a known criminal, but I can’t bring myself to care. 

Because under all that, he’s Baz, after all. And I had a whole muddle of feelings about Baz that only very recently became clear. Namely when he started coming to the bakery and proved that he actually had a soul.

In my mind, this simplifies things.

It’s after lunch, the bakery’s empty, and I’m putting together the sourdough for tomorrow when the bell tinkles.

Speak of the devil.

Baz

The Golden Blade and I are supposed to meet tonight to go over our plans regarding Mage, and I physically will not be able to face him until I clear things up with Simon.

So here I am. I must have turned back five times by now before finally steeling myself and stepping in. It’s near closing time, and Snow is at the register, talking to Bunce while cleaning up. His expression darkens when he sees me, and he turns to retreat to the kitchen.

“Wait, Simon--” I say, but he doesn’t come back out.

Bunce whirls around to face me. “What did you do?”

I scoff. “Why do you assume that I was the one to have done something?” She raises an eyebrow. “It was both of us, okay?”

“Well, what was it?”

I lower my voice, glancing around the shop to double check that no one else is there. “I know, okay? I know Simon’s Blade and seeing as he has no other friends, you’re probably… Quickwit or whatever.”

Her eyes widen. “And you are… who Simon thinks you are?” 

I give the barest of nods.

“Right,” she says slowly. “So what’s the problem? Doesn’t this make things easier?”

I groan. “That’s what he said, but-- well, I said some things last night I didn’t mean.” 

I don’t know how much she knows, and I’m not exactly going to admit, in the middle of the bakery, to my big embarrassing crush on Simon combined with my weird lust for Blade that I was hoping would just go away. Even though that’s what I came here to do.

“What kind of things?” Bunce asks sharply.

I rake a hand through my hair. “I didn’t know how to deal with this. We live together, for god’s sake, and I thought he was just Simon but now…” Bunce glances toward the kitchen. “He can hear me, can’t he.”

“Simon, just come out,” she says. We wait, and nothing happens, so she hops over the counter, heedless of the skirt she’s wearing. She disappears behind the kitchen doors, and I hear some fierce whispering. A moment later, she comes back out, dragging Simon behind her by the hand. I smile. Bunce is nothing if not persistent.

She points at me, then Simon. “You two need to figure this out. If Blade and Vamp can somehow get along, so can you.”

I roll my eyes. Simon glares at me, his arms crossed like an indignant toddler.

“Penny, you’re not our mum,” he grumbles. 

“No,” she agrees. “I’m your partner. And in the interest of the world as we know it not ending, I’d like you two to put an end to whatever drama this is like mature adults.”

It’s my turn to glare.

“So!” she says brightly. “I trust you can handle it, and we’ll meet at your place at six. See how easy it is now that we have a common space to meet that’s not a creepy forest?” And with that she picks up her bag and leaves.

Simon and I stare at each other in silence for a moment. (I know Bunce means well, but no one likes being treated like a misbehaving child.) Then he sighs and rubs a hand along his jaw. “You want a scone?”

Simon bloody Snow and his scone obsession. “Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll just… finish cleaning up. Sit down.” The chairs are already put up on the tables for the night, and I move to take one down. “Not there. The booth.” 

A moment later, he appears with two scones and sits down across from me. “So,” he says expectantly.

Now for the hard part. I’m gearing up to apologise, but what comes out instead, softly, is, “When you said last night you meant it seriously… was that true?”

Simon huffs. “That’s what you came to talk about?”

“It’s important.”

The strings on his apron suddenly catch his interest. “It’s…” He swallows and looks up, and I’m so surprised by the eye contact that I forget to look away. “Yeah,” he says. “It was true.”

I’m a coward. Or he’s stupidly brave. Most likely both.

Next question. “Why?”

“Why?” he repeats, incredulous. “What do you mean, why?”

“You hate me,” I say. “I mean, you hate Vampire.”

“Not this again,” he says impatiently. “I thought I did, but I don’t. I thought that much was obvious.” 

“I--”

“Anyway, why do you care so much that I don’t actually hate you? Shouldn’t you be happy?”

Because I don’t deserve you, Simon Snow.

“I was lying.” It slips out. “When I said it didn’t mean anything. Last night, and on Friday.”

It can’t go wrong now. It’s easier, now that he’s admitted to something. It’s shameful, honestly, that I didn’t have the strength to say anything until he did. 

The confusion is evident on his face. “But you seemed so…”

I’ve taken a bite of scone, which was an awful idea, because now he’s staring at me waiting for an answer and I’m just trying to chew without suffocating. There’s an awkward silence.

“So you actually did want to kiss me?” he asks.

I finally swallow. “Yes. I mean--” I don’t know how to explain this. “I wanted to kiss you, as in Simon.”

His grin takes over his whole face, and I want this cushioned bench to swallow me whole.

“But not Blade?” he asks.

I hate Blade, on principle. And now that I know Simon is Blade, everything’s such a mess. I thought I could separate my feelings for them, but now I fucking can’t, because they’re the same person.

“To a lesser degree.”

He raises his eyebrows, and I groan.

“Fine. Maybe a lot. Almost the same.”

Simon grins again, and his eyes are dancing. “I always thought Vampire was fit. But you know that.”

I roll my eyes. “Fit from afar. Fit like how Tom Hiddleston’s Loki is fit, but no one says they want to date him.”

“I never said anything about dating.” 

“I--”

“But,” Simon says with a smirk, “I seem to remember a certain proposal for a romantic night out last Valentine’s Day.”

I feel myself standing at a crossroads, like this is the moment that could change everything. I know that’s not true—everything’s already changed. But this time, I choose that change intentionally.

“The invitation still stands,” I say, holding his eyes.

Simon smiles with all his teeth. And this time, I’m the one to lean over and kiss him.

Simon

Even though we seem to have come to an agreement—one that I’m quite happy with, in fact—this is decidedly weird. The reflection in the mirror shows The Golden Blade and Vampire, fully outfitted, standing next to each other in our tiny loo. I make eye contact with Baz in the mirror and burst out laughing.

He elbows me. “Shut up. Let’s go, Fiona will be here any minute.”

“What should I call her?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her when she gets here?”

“Because she might rip my head off.”

Baz wanted to drop the costumes altogether for the meeting, but I outright refused. His aunt Fiona hates me, even though she’s only met me a few times. One time she nearly ran me over with her car and didn’t even acknowledge it. According to Baz, she hates Blade even more, but at least this way I can have a sword on me.

Anyway, he looks good in that costume. 

Penny’s hovering in the kitchen, wearing the new “Quickwit” outfit we put together for her. A purple skirt (she likes skirts—I didn’t even try to argue), these wicked black boots with gold accents, and a matching black-and-gold trenchcoat thrown over a purple turtleneck. We got her a domino mask, too, and she’s piled her hair in a frizzy nest on top of her head. She almost looks cooler than me, and ten times more competent.

Baz nods his approval. “Good to see you have better fashion sense than Snow.”

“Hey!” I protest.

“I’m not apologising. Half your wardrobe is trackies.”

“Some of us are too busy saving the city to worry about fashion.”

“More like too busy saving leftover scones…”

There’s a sharp rap at the door. Baz and I exchange a look, and then he strides over to answer it.

Fiona’s dressed exactly as herself—all black, thigh-high boots—except with a winged domino mask. She shakes out her hair as she looks around. Baz plucks the cigarette out of her hand and stubs it out in our kitchen sink. “Where’s Snow?” she asks.

I busy myself with trying to look as non-Simon-like as possible.

“He’s not home,” Baz says in his Vampire voice. It’s similar to his own, just a little more gravelly. 

“Ah, did your clandestine hookups with Watford’s superhero put him off?” Fiona says. “I don’t blame him.”

I cough, and Baz/Vampire looks away. “Something like that,” he says.

Fiona turns to Penny and me. “I’m Queen Vicious. And you are?” she asks Penny.

“Quickwit,” Penny says, reaching out her hand. Fiona doesn’t take it. “Blade’s partner.”

“Didn’t know he had a sidekick.”

“Partner,” Penny says sharply.

“Whatever.”

“She was on Shepard’s podcast last week,” Baz says loftily. “Didn’t you listen to it?”

I snort. He acts like it was on international news. I’m pretty sure Shepard’s podcast has three listeners total: me, Baz, and Penny.

Fiona/Vicious grunts. “You got me, kid. I’m in the betting pool. Going to win, by the looks of it.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, speaking up for the first time. “You saw us--”

I haven’t told Penny yet. My eyes dart over to her.

Nothing gets by Fiona. She grins like a cat. “Saw you two having your little gropefest in my living room? Exactly.”

Baz mutters “fucking hell” just as I say, “I wouldn’t phrase it like that--” and Penny loudly says, “I’m sorry, what?!”

“We just kissed,” Baz says impatiently. “Once.”

“Twice,” I correct. 

“Actually, thrice.”

Penny and Fiona look back and forth between us and the expressions on their faces couldn’t be more opposite. Penny with absolute bewilderment (and a hint of betrayal), because she knows it’s me in this suit, and Fiona with utter disgust, because she doesn’t. (I’m not sure her expression would change if she did.)

Penny shoots me a look that says very plainly, you have some explaining to do later.

“Let’s just move on,” Baz says. “Tea?”

We pile into the living room, and I’m treated to the glorious sight of Vampire carrying a tray of my sour cherry scones. God that’s cute.

Besides the occasional barb from Fiona, and Baz at one point saying “my flatmate is a nightmare,” the meeting is productive. Mostly due to Penny and her magical list-making skills, along with her endless capacity for stubbornness. 

The plan will start on Monday, when I have my weekly meeting with Mayor Mage—given he doesn’t cancel again. Vampire and Vicious will “attack” close enough to Town Hall to cause an evacuation, during which Penny, having entered the building under the guise of getting a petition signed, will download files off Mage’s personal laptop. Hopefully those will contain more detailed information about his evil plan, including assassinating the Prime Minister.

“We can’t let that happen,” Penny explains, adding darkly, “even if we don’t necessarily like him.”

“Why not?” Fiona says. 

Penny points to a set of scribbled notes in the photos Baz and Fiona took in Mage’s secret room. “An assassination attempt, even if unsuccessful, will lead to a call for stronger security throughout the country. Trying to crack down on terrorism and crime means local government leaders—such as the Mayor of Watford—will be given more power.”

“And I’ll have to work overtime,” I add. Baz chuckles.

“You’ll have to anyway,” Penny says. “I’m not 100% certain, but this note seems to imply that he’s going to hire criminals to destabilise the city.”

“What’s the point of that?” 

“So that when he gets rid of them—using you, I might add—people will trust him more,” Baz says.

I groan. “I hate him.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, kid,” Fiona says.

“What can we do about that?” I ask. “I can’t exactly let crime just run rampant under my nose.”

“We can work on Ba-- Vampire’s PR, at least,” Fiona says. 

I elbow Baz in the ribs. He’s close enough that I can whisper, “Bavampire?” 

“Shush,” he whispers back.

“What do you mean, PR?” Penny says.

Baz crosses his arms. “Not that I want to ruin my reputation as the sexiest villain alive… but I’ll help Blade fight crime. And then steal the title of sexiest hero alive.” He winks at me. 

“This is seriously weird,” Penny groans. “But yeah, that’s great. Make the people love you or whatever.”

“They already do, I assure you. Didn’t you read the fanfiction about me?”

“What if we stop the assassination, and he tries to put his plan in motion anyway?” I ask.

Penny lifts a shoulder. “Hopefully we’ll get more details about the timeline on Monday.”

Penny makes us all memorise the plan and then drills us on it, like we’re in a spy movie. She asks a thousand questions about the timing and scheduling and where everyone’s supposed to be at any given time, and Plans B, C, and D in case anything goes wrong. By the end, I’m massively hungry and I’m certain I could recite this plan in my sleep.

On their way out, Penny’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Coming back to the mansion, Blade?”

“I, uh--” I glance at Fiona. “I’ll come back later. Vampire and I have to, um…”

“Have dinner,” Baz cuts in smoothly. “Blade is a great cook, who knew?”

Fiona snorts. “Yeah, okay. Don’t forget dessert afterward.” She cuffs Baz on the shoulder. “Use protection.”

Something between a cough and a squeak escapes me.

And then they’re gone, and Baz and I are alone in our living room. Vampire and Blade, alone in our living room.

Fuck, he looks hot in that costume.

Baz

Fuck, he looks hot in that costume.

Objectively, I know he shouldn’t. It’s a ridiculous outfit. No one needs to wear anything that obnoxiously shiny. But it makes all his muscles stand out, and his shoulder-to-waist ratio is fucking stunning.

The second the door closes, I rip my mask off, and Simon says, “Why are you looking at me like-- mmph!”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because I quite literally pounce on him, whipping his mask off and tossing it away, and start kissing him furiously. I back him into the wall, tugging on his curls hard, and he groans into my mouth. “You look hot,” I whisper.

“Mm? So do you, Vampy.” I can feel him smile against my mouth, and I lean in to bite his lip. I trail my lips along his jaw and down to his neck. He tilts his head back, gasping, and I feel his palms on my back. I kiss the hollow of his throat and suck lightly as I move toward the side. (Hey, might as well live up to the name Vampire.)

I want nothing more than to absolutely wreck his collarbone, but I can’t find a zipper. “How does this thing come off?”

He smirks. “Can’t wait until the bedroom to undress me?”

I feel around the back of his neck. “Shut up.”

Simon leans close to my ear. “It’s velcro,” he whispers. He runs his hands along my stomach, tracing lightly downwards, and I bite back a moan. “And what about this, how does this come off?”

“I’m afraid that’s a trade secret,” I say.

“I bet I can find out.”

“I doubt it.”

He grins wickedly. “I bet I can even get you to tell me.”

“Not a chance, Snow.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He’s looking at me like he’s Blade and I’m Vampire and we’re facing off on top of a building instead of in our living room. His eyes are piercing blue, his jaw jutted forward, and he’s coiled like a spring. The sight of him braced for attack in his suit, breath close to mine, his hand gripping my waist, turns me on more than I’d care to admit.

So I just say, a little breathlessly, “Yes, it is,” and let him half-carry me to the bedroom.

Chapter Text

Penny 

If you wear a suit and lanyard and hold a briefcase, no one questions you. At least, that’s what I can say from personal experience as I stroll directly into Town Hall. It’s an imposing glass building with a three-storey foyer, a winding transparent staircase, and upper balconies. No one spares me a second glance.

I take a moment to look around then start up the stairs, trying to look official. I stride purposefully, hurriedly. 

I have one earbud in, and I can hear Simon talking to Mayor Mage. “I’m concerned about the power outages, sir,” he’s saying. “Last week there was a major drug deal in the city.”

I glance at my phone, where Baz is blowing up the new group chat.

Idiot, Idiot, Idiot & the Smart One

esteemed majesty bloodsucker

I’m outside.

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Vicious insisted on being on the roof.

pennywise 🤡

That’s going to make evacuation a little difficult

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

I know. I told her.

wannabe sex pistol

listen kiddos, I wanted a good view of the action.

wannabe sex pistol

also, I resent this nickname. who did this?

pennywise  🤡

Listen we let you name the group chat

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

I can literally fly.

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Like, in the air. Fly.

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

If anything I should be on the roof, right?

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Right?

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

You get all the glory.

wannabe sex pistol

as I should

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Anyway, we’re in position. On your signal.

pennywise 🤡

I’m outside Mage’s office

Blade's still busy declaring his undying love for you

wannabe sex pistol

I fucking knew it. they’re totally a thing

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Wait, what?

pennywise 🤡

Just kidding lol

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Penelope, this is not the time for jokes.

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

I’m literally outside Town Hall with a megaphone and a smoke machine.

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

What are they talking about?

pennywise 🤡

Egghead and the power outages. A “necessary setback” apparently

Literally fuck Mage

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Not literally, please.

pennywise 🤡

Basilton you know what I meant

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Can’t be too sure.

wannabe sex pistol

nah I’d hit that

wannabe sex pistol

we went to school together. he was handsome

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

DO NOT EVEN

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Snow has said he’s fit before.

pennywise 🤡

Ok wow that’s gross

Anyway they’re almost ready

Blade’s asking about the bookshelf lol

esteemed majesty bloodsucker 

Not obvious at all.

pennywise 🤡

Don’t worry, Mage would never expect it from him

Ok he’s in position

Count to ten, then GO

***

Step One: The Diversion.

I wait in an empty meeting room around the corner with one ear to the door. Time for Baz to work his magic. I hear an explosion out the window, then screaming. There’s smoke flowing upwards from right in front of Town Hall. The whoop of a fire truck… come on…

Step Two: The Evacuation.

The alarm starts in Town Hall, loud and piercing. I crack open the door as a voice over the loudspeaker announces, “Please evacuate now. Do not take the lifts. Follow established protocols and signs posted. Please evacuate now…”

Step Three: Remove Mage from the Premises.

I can’t hear anything through my earbuds over the din, so I crack open the door and wait. They should run past any moment. I listen carefully for footsteps, but they don’t come.

“Simon?” I say. “Simon?!”

I hear him adjust his earbud, then say loudly, “Shouldn’t we get going, Mr. Mage?”

I can’t hear what Mage says in response.

“I think it’s Vampire,” Simon says. “I’ll take care of him, and we’ll be back soon to continue the meeting. There’s no need to--”

I hear a sharp voice, and Simon doesn’t say anything else. A moment later, I hear them walk past and start down the stairs.

“Simon, what’s happening?” I whisper.

I steel myself and scan the hallway before walking over to Mage’s office like I own the place. There aren’t any cameras in here—if there were, news of Vampire being inside Town Hall last week certainly would have been leaked. And now that we know Mage has a secret room back here, there’s no way he’d risk anything being caught on CCTV.

Simon whispers, “Sorry. I just got away. Mage took his laptop with him. His whole briefcase, actually. I’m sorry, I tried to stop him…”

I unzip my bag, working quickly, and pull out my laptop. “Please tell me there’s a ‘but’ in there, Si.”

“Oi, Vampire!” he yells. Then, quieter: “Sorry, Pen. Can’t get to his briefcase—he’s got a security team surrounding him. You’re no match for me, Vamp!” I hear Baz’s voice, and sounds of running. “But there’s good news,” Simon pants. “I swiped his phone-- it’s on the third floor staircase, couldn’t take it with me, too suspicious. Ow, Baz what the fuck--”

Step Four: Hack Something.

I hang up and get to work, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

Simon’s smarter than we give him credit for a lot of the time. I run down one set of stairs and find the phone.

I plug it into my computer and run an algorithm using the four numbers that have finger smudges on them. The phone is unlocked in seconds and I download a full backup, then set it carefully on the desk.

I open a few drawers and do a quick scan of the office, but don’t find anything too suspicious. I glance out the tinted window, where I have a full view of the plaza in front of Town Hall, and I see Simon and Baz fake-sparring.

Step Five: Get Downstairs.

Baz and Fiona didn’t get to explore the back rooms of Mage’s secret basement. I don’t have much time, but if everything goes according to plan, the fake fight will last ten more minutes. I find the bookshelf and take the elevator down. 

This place is a fucking gold mine. It looks more like a science lab than an evil lair, all white surfaces and polished tables, but it’s still properly sinister. I dash through, noting what I’ve already seen in Baz’s photos and taking pictures of everything else. 

I reach the back, heading down a long, dark hallway, and that’s when I hear it. A low humming sound—a computer.

The last room has a metal door. I enter cautiously and immediately feel dizzy. It’s nearly steaming in here; it feels like a boiler room. It takes me a minute to understand what I’m looking at. It looks like a row of black cabinets. With trepidation, I open one.

It’s not just a computer, it’s a supercomputer. And it’s sucking the energy dry from this room. It shouldn’t be this hot—I hear fans whirring, and maybe there’s internal cooling going on, but supercomputers are supposed to be kept temperate—this one must be incredibly unstable.

I’m sweating through my clothes before I even round the corner. That’s when I see the colourful word printed across the backs of the cabinets. Most supercomputers have names, like Summit or Theta. This one is curious, though: HUMDRUM.

Simon

Step 6: The Fight.

I run outside ahead of Mayor Mage and break through the crowds as he’s immediately swarmed by a security team. People have scattered, screaming, and I push my way across the square until I reach the center of the gas cloud. I cough, barreling through. “Oi, Vampire!” I call.

The smoke creeps across the square. I hear a fire truck nearing, and the police are already here. Someone with a megaphone is calling instructions for everyone to get on the grass. They think it’s poison gas. (It’s just a fog machine.)

In a rush, I almost understand why Vampire seems to delight in causing chaos. The utter panic, especially in response to a villain who has never even killed anyone, is hilarious.

I hear a voice cut through the cloud. “Oh, is it the wee Golden Blade, come to take me down?” High and mocking. The megaphone was my idea; we figured a loud, dramatic fight would draw people’s attention.

Penny’s inside already. I stall for a minute, jogging in place around the smoke, as I fill her in quietly on the briefcase situation.

“You’re no match for me, Vamp!” I call in Baz’s general direction. He cackles, and I barrel blindly through the smoke, quickly telling Penny about the phone. Out of nowhere, a fist connects with my stomach, and I grunt. “Ow Baz, what the fuck--”

I spin around, hooking an arm around his body. “We’re supposed to be fake- fighting,” I hiss.

I’m close enough that he finally comes into view, and I can imagine his smirk. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. Then he briefly takes my hand and squeezes. “Come on, let’s give them a show.”

He rises off the ground, dropping the megaphone, then shoots forward horizontally, breaking out of the smoke cloud. “Is that the best you can do, Goldy?”

I slide into the now-clear plaza in front of Town Hall. People are pushing forward to see, a line of police officers holding them back, and I see phones popping up across the crowd. I can feel my pulse all the way down to my toes, and I make a show of cracking my knuckles. “That was just the warm-up.”

He fires up his flamethrowers as I surge into a running tackle and dodges smoothly. Before I can flop onto my chest, I throw my hands out, somersault back up to my feet and spin around. He shoots streams of fire and I weave through them like a skier, finally getting close and knocking his arms out of the way.

We pause for breath as I pin his arms, and I hear the crowd egging me on. Blade, Blade, Blade! I glance back and give them a little salute, and they go absolutely wild. Then I let Baz twist out of my grip and deliver a fierce uppercut to my jaw.

Well, a fake one. No one should be able to tell it’s choreographed; we practised in the woods until it was perfect. 

(That is to say, we practised until the fight devolved into some activities against a tree that definitely were not fight-outside-Town-Hall-approved.) 

I grab for his wrist again, and he throws another small firecracker into the smoke to create an explosion sound and cause some hysteria. Then he shoots into the air, towing me along with him. We rise up a few feet before I push off with my other hand and drop to the ground, landing into another roll to break the fall. Baz floats down lazily, bringing his face almost level with mine. He grabs the front of my suit and pulls me close, as if telling me a secret. 

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Giving them some more content for the fanfiction,” he says.

I can’t believe this. 

I shove him off roughly and return to the script. I draw my sword to a chorus of whispers and camera shutters and point it at his neck. “Give up, Vampire. Leave Watford alone.”

“Maybe another time,” he says, and twin flames shoot out at me. He rises high enough in the air that I can’t reach him with my sword, then thrusts toward me like an arrow, knocking me onto my back.

Our eyes lock as he pins me to the floor, and-- fuck, this is sexy now that the stakes are gone.

No. Fight. Battle. Mayor. Right.

I absolute do not think about what happened after we practised this part yesterday. 

Most people are booing in the crowd. One person wolf-whistles.

I struggle beneath him (as if I couldn’t get out easily). He coils one arm back and I feel a blast, flames starting to lick at my neck… I bring a knee up between his legs and he curls over in mock-pain as I break free, patting out the fire on my suit. Everyone cheers, and I face them, soaking it all in for a moment, before pretending to be taken by surprise when Baz surges up and grabs me from behind. 

I feel his breath hot on the back of my neck. “Fiona says they’ve got guns,” he whispers, nodding subtly toward the police. “Look.”

Sure enough, I see three or four barrels trained on Baz. Every time his body leaves mine for a second, they trail him…

Fuck.

I’m supposed to “win” the fight now, giving him a “stab” to the arm, and then he’s meant to fly away. But if he flies away… they’ll shoot him.

They’ll shoot him.

They will. They won’t hesitate. He’s the villain…

Except I know now. He’s not.

I glance at Mayor Mage, whose eyes are trained on the fight with a hard expression.

I spin around to face Baz, shoving his shoulders roughly. He grabs mine back, and we stay locked there. “Change of plan,” I say. He elbows me in the ribcage, and when I stumble back, I make sure to drag him along. He attacks with renewed vigour, but I absorb the blows, only pretending to rebuff. I hold onto him for dear life. (For his life.) 

“What the fuck, Blade--” 

“Stay with me,” I say fiercely. I try to push all my conviction into the words. If I say it like this, maybe it’ll come true.

It’s Baz in there. Baz. They can’t shoot Baz. They can’t.

I’ve just got him. I’m not losing him now.

“We follow the plan,” I hiss. I sweep out his legs from under him with a kick and stand over him. “But when you fly away,” I say quietly, “take me with you.”

“But--”

I grab his collar roughly and haul him to his feet. “If I’m there, they won’t shoot.”

I see the understanding in his eyes. And the fear. I used to mistake that for anger, but I recognise it well enough now. He nods.

We continue the fight, but I’m scared to breathe, scared to fuck up. I barely leave his body for an instant. (This is turning more and more into last night’s scene). It’s like dancing; we move together, fall together. 

I’m his human shield. I’ve never been so afraid of losing my footing.

Finally, we finish out the sequence we’d planned, and I pause with my foot on his chest. He clutches at his arm, where I’ve actually swiped him—just enough to get some blood on my sword. “Get out,” I say loudly. My voice is wavering. But no one notices; the crowd cheers me on.

I find the guns again and keep them in my peripheral vision. This has to go right. The chief of police catches my eye, and I start to beckon him over, keeping up the act.

I’ve never felt this terrified and nervous. Like my pulse is beating in every molecule of my body. Like the inside of me is bubbling over, threatening to burst. I look down at Baz, and the sharp stab of panic at the thought of losing him almost surprises me.

“With pleasure,” Baz says, and lets out a little cough for dramatic effect. “As long as I can take you with me, Goldy.” 

My eyes widen in false-surprise and I shout as he twists out from under me and shoots upwards, taking my arm along. I hear shouting below, and footsteps cracking across the plaza, the yell of the police as we rise into the air. “Faster,” I urge.

He suddenly yanks me bodily up to his back. “Hold on,” he says. I loop my arms around his neck and bring my legs up to clench around his waist. And then we’re streaking across the sky. The shouting and the sirens slowly become more faint as we shoot upwards through the thick cloud layer.

We’re safe.

I think I’m shaking and I might be crying and there’s no way, there’s no way I am ever letting go.

Baz

Simon is hugging my back like he’s a goddamn koala.

You’d think, for a superhero that faces criminals armed with all sorts of weapons on the regular, he wouldn’t lose his composure like this. Bunce told me that he once fought off an entire gang with nothing but a piece of old rebar.

So why is he quivering so much?

“Snow,” I say softly. His head is buried in my shoulder, and it’s more comforting than I’d like to admit. “It’s okay. We’re safe.”

He shifts until his cheek is pressing against mine through our masks. We both turn, our noses brushing. “I thought…” he says.

“You thought what?”

He’s so warm against me. He’s holding me and I think I could never get tired of this feeling.

“I just didn’t expect the guns,” he says. “I didn’t mean… I mean, I--” Usually I’d cut him off when he starts stumbling over his words like this, but today I just wait. “If-- if you got hurt,” he finally says, “I-- I wouldn’t… I just…”

It hits me in a flash, then—that Simon actually cares about me.

“Simon…”

He peels off his mask and reaches for the bottom of mine. “I don’t have the words for it,” he whispers, and kisses me instead.

Not even in my most ridiculous fantasies did I imagine that I’d one day be kissing The Golden Blade like this… floating above the city, turning slowly in the air. But there’s a first time for everything. I could get used to this.

It’s a good kiss, they all are, but the angle starts to get uncomfortable. As I break away I finally say, “You know my clothing is bulletproof, right?”

His mouth drops open in an expression of disbelief, and I grin and kiss his lower lip. “Oh. I, uh--”

“I should have said something earlier.” I can only see his neck, but he’s blushing furiously. I know he must be mortified, but I can’t even bring myself to feel bad—I’m still kind of reeling from the fact that he cares, that he was worried for me. Not even two weeks ago, he would have turned me over without a second thought… 

“Snow,” I say. I catch his eyes, and something turns over in my chest. “Simon.” He smiles. I kiss his top lip and the mole above it, then murmur against his mouth, “It’s okay. I feel the same way.”

“You-- you do?”

“I dragged you into this whole mess, didn’t I?”

He hugs me even tighter, if possible. I hadn’t been thinking about it before, propelled by adrenaline as I was, but I’m starting to get tired. Simon’s just pure muscle, and he’s heavy. He leans his head on my shoulder. “Nah, I volunteered as tribute,” he jokes.

“Still. I…” Am bad at feelings. And talking, apparently, but only when it comes to Simon Snow. My thoughts are swirling with entirely inappropriate proclamations of my months-long infatuation with him that I should definitely not say aloud. “I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to you because of me.”

He hums against my neck. “This is funny, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“We were always trying to hurt each other, and now we’re protecting each other.”

I bring my hand up to cover his. Simon isn’t the best with words, but sometimes he just does what no one else can; takes everything both of us want to say and condenses it perfectly into one simple statement. “Funny,” I repeat. “I’d go so far as to say it’s a good thing.”

“Definitely better than fighting,” he agrees. “Hey, Baz?”

I twist around to look at him again and tug down my mask. “It’s Vampire, when I’m wearing this suit,” I say cheekily.

“Vampire,” he says, drawing out the vowels, “um… shouldn’t we check on Penny and Fiona?”

“Shit.”

I’d almost forgotten. Stupid Simon Snow and his stupid heroics and stupid feelings. I check my phone, but I have no service up here.

“You can’t go back,” he says.

“You should,” I say. “They need to know you didn’t, like, defect to the dark side.”

“I did defect to the dark side.”

“Well, you look good in black, Snow.”

“I have no choice,” he says. “I don’t think I could ever get you to wear a gold suit…”

“You’d be correct. Now hang on.” I shoot forward, my stomach skimming the clouds. When I start to see trees, I drop down among the dense cover of the forest behind the Wavering Gardens. Simon tumbles off my back.

“How do you fly, anyway?” he asks.

I cross my arms. “I’m afraid that’s a trade secret.”

He groans. “Not that again. We’re in a public area.” I chuckle. “Seriously, Baz, you don’t have actual superpowers, do you?”

“Of course not.”

He can’t see me grinning at how perplexed he is. “Then what? A jetpack?”

“Nope.”

He stares at me. “You’re really not going to tell me.”

“Maybe someday.”

He grumbles something that sounds like “pretentious twat” and then fixes his mask, pulling the front down over his chin. (It fastens to his suit’s collar—more velcro. The man is obsessed.)

“Get home safe,” he says. 

Get home safe. He’s never said that to me before. Home. Our home. I try not to melt. 

Simon jogs toward the main garden, waving as he disappears from sight.

I pull out my phone and message Bunce. 

Snow’s Better Half (Bunce)

Where are you?

Baz thank god

We saw the guns. Are you alright?

I’m fine. I’m in the Wavering Gardens.

Snow is going back to Town Hall to greet his fangirls or whatever.

I’m still outside Town Hall

Blending in with the crowd, I look like a secretary lol

Fiona’s gone

I’ll call her. I need a change of clothes.

I have a lot to tell you guys

Like, a LOT

Meet at our flat?

Tomorrow. I need time to think of a plan

Plus from the looks of your fight earlier, you
and Si might want some alone time ;)

Christ, Bunce. NO.

Bunce YES

We all saw it. You were practically dry humping in the plaza

He was PROTECTING me from GUNS.

You know what, I don’t even need to justify it.

Suit yourself. Or un-suit, ha ha

We are not having this conversation.

Except we are

You can’t hide from me, Basilton

I know where you live

I’m not admitting you’re right.

But while we’re on the topic of knowing
where I live… please do not come over tonight.

Ha!

Anyway, be careful

You’re even more wanted than before, if that’s possible

See you tomorrow

***

I call Fiona and ask her to bring me a change of clothes. And then I head home.

Home, to Simon Snow.

Christ, I’m living a charmed life.

Chapter Text

Simon

As I walk to work on Tuesday morning, I know I should be thinking about scones. I told Trixie I’d bake them today. I usually think about scones… about 90% of my thoughts in the morning are normally dominated by scones.

Recently, Baz has taken the top spot. I feel like a lovesick teenager.

Last night I got home, showered quickly, and waited for Baz. I paced until I was sure I’d wear a hole in the floor. I considered calling him, but thought that might seem desperate, not to mention an overreaction. I bit my nails down to stubs, then stress-baked a loaf of bread. The kneading helps, usually, but I was so anxious that I over-kneaded it and it came out all wonky.

I suppose I’m not overly shocked about yesterday’s revelations. I knew, before, that Baz was someone who I had the capacity to really care about. But it was all potential and hypotheticals. 

I was more surprised at how quickly the feelings came on. A few kisses (and, okay, blowjobs in the forest, and our lives at risk, whatever) and suddenly I decided that I really, really cared about him.

And he… he said he feels the same.

God.

When Baz finally got home, I basically threw myself at him, covering us both in flour. He didn’t seem to mind. (“You’ve got flour on your face,” he said, then proceeded to lick it off.) 

“What took you so long?” I said. “I was…” 

Worried? Would it be weird if I said that? Did I have the right to be worrying about him? It’s not like we were… anything. 

“Stress-baking?” he asked.

“Yes. That.”

He rolled his eyes. “Just Fiona. She took a while to bring my clothes.”

His hair was pulled back in a little knot—that was sexy—and he had a bandage wrapped around his upper arm. I let my eyes roam over him, making sure he was all in one piece. 

He interpreted the motion a little differently. “I need to shower,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. I turned back to my bread.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Snow.”

“You called me Simon, before.”

Baz huffed, but let a little smile slip. “Simon,” he said. He started walking away slowly, and I noticed for the first time that he was wearing jeans. They looked incredible, hugging his arse and thighs perfectly. 

“I hurt my arm,” he said very deliberately, shooting me a look over his shoulder that could mean nothing but trouble. I furrowed my brow, not following. I’d barely grazed his arm with my sword. Baz rolled his eyes, then said slowly, “So I might need some help getting out of these clothes.”

And then I got it. Oh.

He laughed at the look on my face, then took my hand and dragged me into the shower with him.

I smack into the glass front window of the bakery and it shakes me out of my daydream. I scrub a hand across my face. Okay. Work. Scones. Scones. Baz. Scones.

Fuck, I’ve got it bad.

Trixie appears on the other side of the window. She shoots me a perplexed look, then opens the door. “Did you leave your glasses at home?”

“Thanks. No, I’m just… distracted.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve been distracted all weekend.”

I follow her into the kitchen, pulling my apron off its hook. “Sorry.”

“Want to talk about it?”

It smells amazing in here, like warm spices and melted butter. It helps focus my mind a little. 

“Well, I took your advice,” I say. 

“What advice?” She tosses a big bowl at me, and I catch it. “Scones,” she says.

“You know, the advice about, uh, feeling things.” I walk to the pantry and lug out a sack of flour. “Any flavour ideas?”

“Wait so what, you’re dating someone?” she asks, incredulous.

I try not to be insulted. “Would that be so surprising?”

“Simon, no, I mean, yes, but-- okay, who is it?!”

“Did you make brown butter? How about, like, brown butter chai scones?” I suggest, reaching around to peek at the pot Trixie has set up on the stove. 

“Sure, whatever. Who is it?”

I ladle some of the butter into a shallow pan. “I’m not dating anyone.”

Trixie rolls her eyes and turns back to her croissants. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’m only your friend and coworker, who you see every day, who helped you through your bisexual crisis or whatever--” 

“Fine!” I say. “But I’m not dating him.” I slide past her and put the butter in the freezer to solidify.

“I’ll start guessing if you don’t tell me,” she warns, grinning.

“Then guess.”

“Baz Pitch,” she says without missing a beat.

I freeze. “How did you--”

“Because he’s hot, and you were literally eye-fucking him from across the bakery on Halloween, Simon.”

Oops.

“I mean, really, could you have been more obvious?”

“I, uh…”

“I seriously was about to hit you on the head with a wooden spoon,” she says. “So. Thank god you’re actually shagging .”

“We’re not--” I stop. “Was it really that noticeable?” I ask.

“Seeing as the very morning after you moved into your flat you ranted to me about how he’s ‘annoyingly fit?’” she says. “Yes.”

I laugh and flick some flour towards her. “Objectively,” I deadpan. “In an extremely heterosexual way.”

“Hey, don’t say that word in here.”

“Objectively?”

“No, heterosexual.”

***

I think Penny’s gone mad. That’s my first thought when I finally turn my phone on around seven. (I almost never have it on before work—it disrupts my concentration, and no one else is awake anyway.) It starts buzzing with texts and doesn’t stop. The timestamps read 3:54am, 3:55am… and they don’t stop. Looks like she stayed up all night.

I don’t even bother reading them, I just hit call the first second I’m free.

“Hello?”

“Jesus Pen, what is going on?”

“I did some research,” she says breathlessly. “About the computer I told you about yesterday.”

“You stayed up all night doing research? About a computer?”  

Why am I surprised? I should not be surprised.

“No. I stayed up all night making a plan.”

“If it’s so important, you should have come over yesterday. We could have helped…”

“You were busy,” she says flatly.

“That wasn’t planned,” I protest. “And how did you know--”

“Because it was planned,” she laughs. “Your boyfriend’s devious. He literally told me not to come over.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Also, when have you ever listened to someone who’s told you not to do something?”

“You make a good point,” she agrees. “But there are some things I don’t want to see.” She pauses to yawn audibly. “Anyway, we need to meet.”

“You need to sleep,” I say.

“I’m going to ignore your logical suggestion and go with coffee instead.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Come by, then.”

“We can’t talk about it in the bakery.”

“I’ll make you coffee. We don’t have to talk.”

“Should I bring your boyfriend too?”

“He’s not my--” This is pointless. “Sure. Whatever.”

Penny

Here’s the thing: after seeing how advanced the technology is that Mayor Mage has in place, I’m not sure that this plan is even going to work.

The supercomputer was, of course, extremely secure. I didn’t have much time there, either, because I had to slip out of Town Hall before Simon and Baz flew away.

As I walk the twenty minutes from campus to Simon’s bakery, I jot down a list on my phone of what we know about HUMDRUM:

1. It’s a supercomputer.
2. It’s very protected and even if I had more time, I likely wouldn’t be able to hack any information from it.
3. It’s extremely hot, unstable, and energy-sucking.
4. It may or may not be linked to the power outages. (See #3.) 
5. It’s capable of processing complex, multivariable algorithms and scenarios. For example, automated assassination plots.
6. It has safety measures in place to keep it from simply being unplugged or powered down.
7. There is a mainframe somewhere.
8. If Simon hits it hard enough with his sword, it’ll probably break.

I try to start a list of what we don’t know about HUMDRUM, but it’s so long that I just type “EVERYTHING” and give up.

I spent all night trying to draft a plan that, while not foolproof, at least gives us a chance. Simon will be on board. Baz and Fiona will, too, although today’s mission is to figure out what their true motives are. I’m sure they care about Watford, but there’s something they’re not telling us.

I’ve written Shepard and Agatha into the plan, too. I won’t have a problem persuading Shepard to join in—he’s drawn to danger like a moth to the fucking flame. He’ll probably ask for a costume. Agatha, on the other hand… we’ll see.

The number one goal is to prevent the assassination before it happens. Our best chance of that is somehow issuing a warning to Downing Street’s security team that they’ll actually believe, then getting rid of that computer.

But in order to fully dismantle Mage’s plan, we can’t just destroy the computer. We have to figure out what Plans B, C, and D are and sabotage them. Then we hit the HUMDRUM.

Plan B is the non-automated portion, I think; hiring criminals to destabilise the city. Make the people scared. Then Mayor Mage promises to make the city safer, and they put more trust in him, more responsibility.

It’s a clever plan.

But if we stay one step ahead, we can be cleverer.

As I approach the bakery, the scent of familiar spices waft toward me. It smells like my Nani and Nanu’s* place, like freshly made, gingery chai. They make it four times a day.

Simon waves from the register as I walk in and sit at my usual table near the front. He looks good, flushed, scrubbed clean. He’s done something to his hair… His eyes are all earnest in his face. I haven’t seen Simon look this visibly happy in a while. 

(He looks like he’s in love. I’m pretty sure he is.)

He’s talking to a customer animatedly, pointing to some scones in the display case. I hear the coins clink as the customer leaves a tip. Baz walks in, then, completely bundled up from head to toe. Simon glances about to make sure no customers need anything, then he lifts himself up and swings his legs over the counter smoothly. Baz’s eyes widen at the sight before he joins me at the table. 

“Fucking Snow and his fucking superhero muscles,” he says.

“I heard that,” Simon says from behind him, and pokes his head forward to plant a kiss on Baz’s cheek. But Baz turns the other way at the same time, so Simon smacks into his ear. 

“The superhero aim seems to be off, though,” Baz grumbles.

“I totally meant to do that.” Simon stops himself before sitting down. “Wait, I forgot your scones. Be right back.”

Baz folds himself into a chair and looks after Simon with such a fond expression that I almost think I should look away.

Baz

It’s incredible, really, that Simon can seem so at ease in both an apron and a golden suit.

He’s just as comfortable whisking batter as he is running across rooftops. He can man a register just as well as he can manhandle thugs. He wields a spatula with the same ease with which he wields a sword.

I’ve thought about this before. There’s Blade—brutal, bursting to the seams with untamed energy. Fucking terrifying when he’s facing you down, standing so confidently, and you have to steel every bone in your body to keep yourself from shaking. There’s Simon—the guy who hums bad 80s music while he bakes and gives the warmest fucking bear hugs and is always smiling. 

How can one person be capable of all of that? 

He’s a baker. He’s a superhero. By all standards, he should be a walking contradiction.

Except… he’s not. It fits.

He’s damn attractive in that apron.

He’s damn attractive in the suit, too.

Oh, who am I kidding. Simon Snow could wear a trash bag and he’d look beautiful.

“You’re mooning, Basilton.”

I snap my head back to the table, where Bunce is regarding me calmly. Her mouth quirks up on one side. 

I immediately shift my expression to a scowl. “I am not.”

“Not what?” Simon says, dropping a coffee and a plate of scones on the table. “Also, try these. I invented them today and they’re literally the best. Well, not as good as the sour cherry ones…”

I want to squeeze him right now, he’s so cute.

“Smiling, for once,” Bunce says.

I try to maintain my scowl, but Simon literally feeds me a piece of scone, and I’m reduced to a pile of mush. This is humiliating.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I never understood when people used the term foodgasm, but I do now—the flavours are all melding together in my mouth. This scone is pure ecstasy.

“What the fuck is in this, Snow? Drugs? Magic?”

Simon’s eyebrows knit together. “Brown butter and chai spices,” he says earnestly.

I could kiss him. I could kiss this scone.

“This,” I say, holding up the scone. “This is why I date you.”

He flushes, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly, and I realise what I just said. Bunce perks up. “Simon, didn’t you say--”

“Are we…” he says to me, confused.

“That was an accident,” I say quickly.

We are not having the define-the-relationship conversation in a bakery. 

“It’s been two weeks of… whatever this is,” Bunce says, waving generally in our direction. “Have you really not discussed it?”

We are having the define-the-relationship conversation in a bakery. 

With Penelope Bunce third-wheeling.

It didn’t seem like something we needed to talk about. Not until yesterday, at least, when Simon Snow suddenly decided he had feelings. (Was it suddenly, I wonder?) And I suddenly decided to be honest for once.

And now we can’t just be enemies-with-benefits anymore. It’s all fun and blowjobs until your ex-nemesis kisses you above the city and whispers heart-wrenchingly sweet things in your ear.

“We, uh…” Simon says.

We make sudden, searing eye contact, and maybe he’s thinking all the same things as me.

His eyes are electric and soft all at once, the pupils blown. They’re his bedroom eyes. (That’s where I want him, right now. So I can pour all my feelings and frustration into touching him, anywhere, everywhere, instead of having to put it into words.)

“We haven’t,” I say, not breaking eye contact, somehow managing to maintain composure.

“Um--”

“So…” 

Bunce clears her throat. I tear my eyes away from his, but just end up staring at the hollow of his neck instead. He’s dotted with moles there. Last night I traced those with my tongue among rivulets of water, prompting little whimpers. He shampooed my hair, and I kissed his moles, following a trail of them all the way down his torso… 

“Let’s just do this later,” I say.

Simon

It’s later.

Baz is on me the instant I enter the flat, shoving me roughly against the door. His mouth is hot and insistent, his hands tugging needily at my hair. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off him today in the bakery. He looked so soft— all his angles and sharp edges softened, somehow. He was looking at me both hungrily and tenderly, like I was a scone… 

(I must be the only person in the world who thinks about sex and scones in the same second.)

He pries the bag of leftovers out of my hands without breaking the kiss and drops it to the side. I try to pull back, but he pins my wrists to the door, and my stomach does an unexpected swoop. He groans low in his throat, and the sound vibrates through me.

I like this— his strong fingers latched onto my forearms, pressing them into the wood. His hipbone, sharp against my side. His knee, lodged between my legs. His chest, rising and falling with mine. We’re connected at every edge, every groove. 

I could struggle free if I wanted to. (My brain automatically supplies the motions: twist my arm, bring my left knee up.) 

I like this because it’s just like fighting, only a million times better.

All the heat and the passion and the tension. And none of the death threats.

So I don’t struggle free. I just let him hold me here and I only pretend to fight it, while really I just kiss him back and relish the sensation of heat curling its way up my insides.

“You look good today,” Baz murmurs against my mouth. (I bite back the retort: I don’t look good every day?) He rolls his hips, and my breath catches at the friction. “I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

I finally break away for a breath and move to kiss the corner of his mouth. He bucks into me again, pressing me fully against the door, and I groan. I latch onto his neck, mouthing my way down to his collar. “Me neither.”

He releases me slightly and I finally get to see his whole face; as flushed as he gets, breathing hard, his eyes darkest grey with desire. He raises an eyebrow. “We could repeat it.”

“As much as I’d like that, shouldn’t we, um… talk about…” I cringe so hard at myself that I have to close my eyes.

Baz is unfazed. He hooks a finger in my belt loop and pulls me back to him, into another heated, open-mouthed kiss. “We can multitask.”

***

“Baz.”

“Simon…”

“No, Baz.”

“Oh. What?”

“Do you, uh, do you think we should, um--”

“Spit it out, Snow. Christ, you have the worst timing.”

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

“Are you seriously asking me out right now? That’s real romantic, giving me blue balls.”

“Just answer, you twat.”

“Is this some sort of twisted threat? Like, if I don’t answer you won’t let me--”

“Baz, what the fuck.”

“You have my prick in your hand, it’s a valid question.”

“Fine, I admit it was bad timing.”

“If this is how it’s going to be all the time, maybe I’ll say no.”

“You’re the one who proposed multitasking.”

“That’s really helpful. Real comforting.”

“Twat.”

“Tease.”

“...Well? Hey, my eyes are up here.”

“I forgot to tell you. I’m shit at multitasking.”

“Baz, mm-- Okay, this is not fair.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I want to be your boyfrie-- mmph!”

“Got excited. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Penny

Against my better judgement, I’m in Shepard’s apartment.

I finished drafting up phases two and three of the plan, then called him up. As predicted, as soon as I said, “Watford’s in trouble, and we need your hel--” he said, “I’m in.”

(Actually, he said, “I’m in. Totally in. 100% in. Whatever you need. Seriously, I am so, completely in--” and I didn’t hear the rest, because I hung up.)

You’ll need a costume, I texted him, and he sent me back his full address with the message, Might need some help with that.

He’s too trusting.

When I step over the threshold, I have to stop in my tracks and take it all in.

It’s a nice apartment; or it would be if every inch of the walls wasn’t covered in things. Not just posters, although there are a fair amount of those. These aren’t the typical album covers and football stars, though.

My eyes stick on the Golden Blade poster first. (Of course he has one.) Simon hated posing for those, but the photography team knew what they were doing; he looks properly heroic.

There’s a gigantic, vintage-looking poster with an illustration of an eyeball on a hand and a bomb and the text, “So it goes.”

A wooden sign with a silhouette of a hulking figure among trees that reads: “Warning! Please do not feed the Sasquatch.”

Storm Area 51: 9/20/2019. 

A flag featuring a Welsh dragon.

#BlackLivesMatter.

“I <3 Watford City” license plate.

Renaissance Faire 2019 - Omaha, Nebraska. A foam sword hangs next to it.

“I went to the Hoover Dam and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.” 

“I WANT TO BELIEVE” below a photo of a UFO. I think that’s an X-files reference.

The Marauder’s Map—the souvenir kind you can buy at the studio tour in London.

Buzzfeed Unsolved, featuring Ryan and Shane making silly faces.

“Bizarre Tourism Department. Visit Inescapable Paradise: The Bermuda Triangle.”

About a thousand photos, all jumbled together in a collage. Most of them feature Shepard smiling and pointing at some sign or landmark, or making finger guns at the camera.

Rainbow flag. Below that, a sprinkling of stickers: a pansexual flag, “every pronoun belongs here” over a trans flag, a yellow equal sign on a blue background.

Don’t Panic, emblazoned on a poster bearing an illustration of the Earth and a hitchhiker’s thumb.

I could go on, but instead I tear my eyes away and find Shepard leaning against his counter casually. Waiting. Every guest he has over probably does this, needing a second to take in the sudden onslaught of images and words. I feel indignant, suddenly, at being grouped in with that majority—at being this predictable.

“Done?” he asks.

I resist the urge to cross my arms. “Let’s do this. Lead the way.”

He strides straight into his room, which is similarly covered in posters. It’s like an open scrapbook, all of his feelings and opinions and experiences here on display. (I’d say I like it, but then I’d be admitting that I like something about him.)

His closet door is plastered with smaller items—thank you cards, notes, lanyards, an orange flower made of a pipe cleaner—and he slides it open.

He has an absurd amount of flannel shirts. I think it’s all the same exact shirt, just in different forms of plaid. On the other extreme, he has more suit jackets than anyone needs.

“So,” he says. “What are we working with here? Any colour themes?”

“Gold,” I say.

“Thank you for the valuable insight, Penelope.”

I roll my eyes. “Black. And purple. Do you have purple?”

“Some.” He looks me up and down, but not in a weird way. “What do you wear as Quickwit?”

“Purple,” I say. “And a trenchcoat. I wish it was a cape, though.”

He tsks at me. “Have you never seen The Incredibles?”

“What?”

“No capes! It’s a huge choking hazard.”

I scoff. “Edna Mode is not the indisputable authority on this--”

“Yes, she is. How can you even say that?”

“Vampire wears a cape,” I point out.

“Yeah, but he’s Vampire.”

“I fail to see how that makes a difference.”

He’s already on his phone. “There’s a fabric store downtown,” he says. Then he takes my arm, linking us at the elbows, and starts high-tailing it out of the flat.

“What are you doing?”

Shepard grins at me, a dimple forming in his right cheek, and says, “Getting us some capes.”

Baz

If you asked me a few months ago, what’s the strangest grouping of people you could come up with? I’d say this:

Simon Snow—holding my hand under the cover of my cape. His ex-girlfriend, blinking up at us prettily from a beanbag chair. Penelope Bunce, standing in front of a giant whiteboard like some kind of professor. A nosy American reporter. And my aunt.

But against all odds, here we all are in Bunce’s living room.

Fiona and I are the only ones in disguise. Perks of being supervillains wanted by the authorities.

Bunce has briefed us all on the existence of this supercomputer, HUMDRUM. Shepard seemed completely unfazed by the fact that our city’s Mayor is an evil overlord who wants to convert Watford into the newest dystopian YA novel. 

Wellbelove is still in denial. (I’m not even sure why she’s here.)

The plan is drawn out on the board in a branching, upside-down triangle sort of shape. HUMDRUM is written at the bottom, with arrows pointing to it from two steps of the plan, and above that three steps, and so on.

“I combed through the Mayor’s texts and emails,” Bunce says. “There’s not much we didn’t already guess. He is planning to deliberately cause some crime in the city. He might try to put Simon out of commission, but I’m not sure how.” Simon’s grip tightens on my hand.

“What can we do about that?” I ask.

Penny grimaces. “We stay on our toes. And that’s where Agatha and Shepard come in.”

“I’m listening.” Shepard leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“If the people don’t find out about what’s happening,” Penny says, “they won’t be scared. And they won’t vote to give the Mayor more freedom when it comes to creating new city laws.”

Fiona glances at me, her mouth drawn to one side. That’s her look for, “ I underestimated this bitch.” I can almost hear her saying it.

“You two are the main reporters on the major crimes and superhero or villain events in the city,” Penny continues.

“Right,” Shepard says.

“So if something happens this week—a new villain, most likely, causing chaos, maybe challenging Blade—you are not to report on it.”

“Wait, what?” Wellbelove says, blinking. “We can’t just not do our jobs. We’re given scripts.”

Penny’s mouth flattens to a line. (I admire her sheer stubbornness.) “We need to keep this under wraps. It’s your job or the lives of everyone in this city.”

“But--”

“Agatha, you don’t even like your job. Aren’t you quitting in a couple weeks anyway?”

Wellbelove sighs. “Fine.”

“Shep?”

“I never follow script anyway, and they haven’t fired me yet…” he says with a chuckle. “But what about print and digital news?”

Penny twirls her whiteboard marker. “Right. So I called up a few newspapers already. And I, ah, may have told them that I’m the head of PR for the Mayor’s office, and I have it on good word that any villains that appear in the city this week are just rumors… They agreed not to run anything until an official statement is released from the Mayor.”

She’s brilliant, honestly.

“As for social media news outlets.” She points the whiteboard marker at me and Fiona. “We can’t control what people post online, but at least for official sources, we could try to bribe them.”

“Why are you looking at us?” Fiona says.

“Because you have money,” Penny says flatly.

“Hefty assumption,” I drawl. “What makes you think that?”

Penny rolls her eyes. “You have a fucking jetpack, for one thing.”

“It’s not a jetpack,” Simon and I chorus together. 

“Um… okay. Whatever. Do you have bribe money or not?”

I catch Fiona’s eye. She looks back at Penny and nods. “Depends how much. We’ll talk later.”

“Great,” Penny says, clapping her hands together. She turns back to the board. “The other step this week is a little less dramatic, but also involves Shep and Agatha. We have to let it leak to the press that the Mayor is embezzling funds.”

Embezzling. I love that word. (I know it’s not a good thing, obviously, but it’s a great word.)

“Done,” Shepard says. “We have contacts at every news source in the city. Do you have evidence?”

Penny tosses him her phone. “Annual budget I found in his emails. The amount he got from the new green energy taxes isn’t reflected on there. And the difference can be found there—swipe up—on his personal tax deductions.”

“Jesus fuck,” Shepard says. I’ve never heard him curse before. The vowels sound different, funny in his American accent.

“If he’s exposed as corrupt,” Simon says, “won’t that solve the problem? People won’t vote for someone who’s corrupt…” He trails off.

“Say that again, slowly,” I counsel. Penny snorts.

“Yeah, nevermind.”

“I wish the world worked like that,” Penny says. “I’m sure it won’t help him, in any case, but he can twist it. Especially if his crime plan works—which it won’t, since we’re here—he can say he was building savings for this time of need or whatever.”

“When do I get to wear the costume?” Shepard asks. He’s grinning, looking at Penny like—I can’t tell if it’s admiration or adoration. Maybe both.

She grins. “That’s the next phase.”

I look around again at this group. A baker, two grad students, two reporters, and everyone’s least favourite wine aunt. We’re unlikely heroes. But Watford is in good hands, I think.

Chapter Text

Simon

I usually count it as a blessing that I’m a heavy sleeper.

I don’t wake up when gloved hands carefully pull my sheets back. I don’t wake up when someone ties my hands together with a length of paracord. It’s definitely a fucking curse that I’m a heavy sleeper, because by the time I wake up, my mouth is already sealed with duct tape.

My eyes shoot open and land on a slight figure in the room, covered head to toe in ribbony black cloth. “Mmm!” I yell.

What the fuck.

I thrash about in the bed, and the person darts out and catches me before I roll off. I wish they didn’t—the thump might have woken Baz.

“MMM!” I try to yell again, louder this time. I strain against my bonds.

The person is on me in a flash. I feel the swoosh of the blades rather than see them; feel the cool press of the edge against the soft flesh of my neck. I close my eyes. My next breath comes out my nose haltingly.

“One more sound,” the figure says roughly, “and you can kiss that face goodbye.”

It’s a woman, I think. Her voice is low and husky like she smokes a lot of cigarettes. She’s wielding two wickedly curved blades, crossed over each other and meeting at my neck. If she moves… I don’t want to think about that.

“Up,” she says, carefully removing the swords. I stand slowly. She nudges me from behind. “Move.”

Am I actually being kidnapped from my own apartment right now? And is this person in pursuit of Simon, or The Golden Blade?

Fuck, I should have listened to Baz. He wanted to sleep in here, for “safety reasons.” (I’m sure he had ulterior motives, too.)

But at least he’s safe right now.

I hesitate for a split second, and before I know it the point of the ninja woman’s sword is digging into the back of my neck. “I said move.”

I could try to get out of this, but I’m weighing the risks and it doesn’t seem like I’ll win. I sleep in just my boxers, so I’m exposed. My sword is in the living room somewhere… and my hands are tied. I block out the imaginary scenario in my head—I could pretend to walk forward, then spin and side kick backward. I’d have to hit her shoulder or elbow to disarm her. But she has two swords. And I have no idea how strong she is, but I know she’s fast.

Where is she taking me? I’m going to freeze if we go outside.

Who would want to kidnap me? My gut reaction says Vampire, but that’s no longer an issue. A gang leader, maybe? Or Egghead, back for revenge?

This woman gives off the distinct impression that she works alone.

I walk as slowly as I dare out to the living room and spot my sword leaning against the couch. I glance at the clock—just past one in the morning.

The shock has worn off and panic is starting to settle in—dark and thick, threatening to overwhelm my lungs. I don’t have clothes. I don’t have my phone. I don’t have a weapon. 

I have one hope, and it’s Baz.

Maybe he’s still awake. He studies late, usually. Except on Sundays… he has an early class on Monday mornings. 

Just my luck. It’s fucking Sunday.

I pretend to stumble, just to make any sort of sound, but she catches my bluff. “Don’t you dare, Blade,” she hisses.

So she is after The Golden Blade, then.

How did she know where I live?

The panic wells up in my throat, pounding behind my eyes.

Baz. I stare at his closed bedroom door. Fuck this. 

Baz. If I think it hard enough maybe he’ll wake up.

Baz.

She swings the door open silently.

Baz.

The door closes.

Before we start down the stairs, I feel a hand on my neck. I try to twist away, but she feels around for a pressure point, and the edges of my vision fade.

Baz

I’m a light sleeper.

So I keep my phone on silent when I sleep. Even the smallest vibrations sometimes wake me up, and I’m never happy about that.

But tonight I wake up to the phone shining on my bedside table, incessantly bright, with ten missed calls, thirty-seven texts, and a current Facetime notification from Penelope Bunce.

My first thought is Mage and HUMDRUM and my second thought is Simon.

I grasp for the phone blearily and unplug it, swiping the call open. I squint at the screen and turn down the brightness. Penny’s wide awake with the lights on, and her side is shaking, like she’s walking around.

I’ve never seen this expression on her face before—both murderous and like she might cry.

“Where’s Simon,” she says.

“What?” I ask thickly, trying to blink the sleep away.

“Wake the fuck up,” she says. “Where. Is. Simon.”

“In his bed?”

“Get up.”

“Jesus, Bunce, what’s the big deal--”

“Fucking hell, Baz, get up!”

I hear the alarm in her tone and immediately roll out of bed. I dash to Simon’s room, holding my breath.

The door is open.

I shove down the dread rising in my chest and go in, barely daring to breathe.

He’s gone.

I shake the covers out just to be sure, but it’s obvious there’s nobody in the bed.

His phone is still on the bedside table.

I turn back to my screen, where Penny looks stricken. “Where is he,” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” she says, actually looking on the brink of tears now. “There’s a criminal on the loose—I got a call from Shepard—and he’s not fighting…”

“He would have woken me up if he left--”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No.”

Penny takes her glasses off and rubs at her eyes. “Okay. Let’s, um…” It scares me to see her like this.

But I feel exactly how she looks. Like the world has turned me upside down and shaken me out for loose change.

She visibly resolves her expression and says, “Let’s get suited up and go find him.”

“He could be anywhere.”

“There’s a villain on the loose who is most likely involved. He can’t be far from the action.”

Three minutes later, I’m fully dressed and out the door. I have Simon’s sword clutched in one fist and a backpack with his suit and shoes in the other.

Penny’s car pulls up to the curb. She hops out, suited up in her purple outfit and a new cape. (It’s very stylish, but now is not the time to reflect on that.)

I move to get in her car, but she stops me. “Let’s take Simon’s.” 

I follow her as she hurries down the alley behind our house, counting manhole covers. She crouches, slides one open, and ushers me down a ladder.

I barely have time to glance around the very nice garage, which is completely out of place in the sewers, before Penny shoves me into the driver’s seat. “That way,” she says, and I reverse down the tunnel.

We emerge under the White Chapel, just like Blade told me all those weeks ago—the night of our truce. And now I’m off to rescue him, speeding down the secret path. How the tables have turned.

Penny’s consulting a map on her phone. “Make a left,” she says. “Faster.”

I spin the wheel, and the car drifts around the corner. (It’s a fucking golden Tesla—I wish I could enjoy this more.)

“Shepard says that the villain’s in the financial district. He’s keeping the media away for now…”

Something hollow is rattling in my chest.

I drive, and drive, and pray that Simon Snow is alive.

Simon

Everything’s dark. It takes me a minute to realise she’s blindfolded me. 

It’s fucking freezing and I can’t move any of my limbs. My bare back presses into cold metal—I’m tied to a pole, I think. The wind whips at my hair, raises goosebumps on my skin.

I’ve not been this scared in my entire life. I can’t stop shaking, and my breaths are coming in short bursts, and I think I might piss my pants any minute. I can’t see her. She could be right next to me or behind me.

She could stab me at any second. Her silver, flashing blade could pierce through my heart, or my throat, and I’d be dead in an instant.

Penny’s words from the meeting bounce around my head. Out of commission.

Fuck.

What is happening?

Fuck fuck fuck.

I’ve fought criminals before, faced down knives and guns, but nothing like this has happened before. Nothing that so overtly threatens my life. And when that is the case, it’s usually because I walked right into it.

Baz and Penny will come for me. Won’t they?

I can’t hear her footsteps.

But suddenly, I feel her breath next to my ear. “No one will find you here, Blade,” she says.

I hear the slide of metal as she unsheaths her sword. I steel myself, trying not to tremble.

“Let’s see how Watford City fares,” she says, “when The Golden Blade isn’t there to protect it.”

This is it, I think. But I don’t really allow myself to think about that yet. Not yet. If I feel her sword on me…

The strike doesn’t come. 

“My name is Kim,” she says. “Kim Era. Remember that when chaos reigns.”

I hear the whoosh of her clothing as she brushes past me. And then she’s gone.

Maybe she just wants me out of the way. She doesn’t seem to want me dead. She’s had plenty of chances.

I suppose that should be comforting, but I’m terrified of her. She seems vaguely unhinged.

That’s putting it lightly. She kidnapped me at swordpoint from my own apartment.

I wait a few minutes, then flex, testing my bonds. The rope seems to be wrapped several times around my torso and upper arms. My arms are pinned uncomfortably to my sides, my legs bound to the pole. I seem to be otherwise unharmed.

I can try to get the duct tape off, at least. I lick at the adhesive—it tastes terrible—until it unsticks around my mouth. I bend my face over my shoulder and try to get the edge up. It takes several minutes, but the edge finally peels up. I gasp in a deep breath of air, then work on the other side until it falls off.

I wiggle against the ropes, but they just cut into my bare skin.

Wind whistles around me. I’m in an open space. A field, a parking lot, a rooftop?

“Help!” I shout as loud as I possibly can. “HELP!”

But it’s the middle of the night. And my voice is swallowed up by the wind. I’m alone.

Baz

I smell the smoke before I see it.

I hear car alarms. 

House alarms. Dogs barking.

Windows breaking.

Police sirens.

Penny and I hop out of the car, and I can barely make out a lithe figure amongst the cloud of smoke. The person is running gracefully across the ground, as if their feet are barely touching. They’re armed with nunchucks, of all things, dressed in black, a few tendrils of cloth streaming out behind them. 

We watch for a moment, taking advantage of the fact that the villain hasn’t seen us yet. They’re crashing through buildings, breaking windows. Breaking into car windows, setting off the alarms. Knocking statues off their pedestals.

Destruction. Mayhem. I can see and hear a trail of carnage that goes back for blocks and blocks.

This is definitely going to be on the news.

The police are on their way, but this person doesn’t look as though they’ll be caught easily.

The Golden Blade is nowhere to be found.

Penny presses Simon’s sword into my hand, and I slip it into my belt. I sling the backpack on under my cape. “Find him,” she says urgently. I nod, then step forward and launch myself upwards without another word.

Penny runs off to search every building in the vicinity.

The figure spots me right away, and before I have time to react, a silver katana comes spinning at me. I suck in a panicked breath as it hits me square in the chest, but manage to catch its handle as I fly backwards. (Thank god for this fabric.)

“Thanks for the sword,” I call.

“Vampire,” the villain says. A woman’s voice. “Come to help me out?”

I drift downwards slightly. I had forgotten, for a moment, that I’m also a villain around here. I bring my feet to her eye level so I can look down on her. 

“Heard you’ve gone soft,” she says. “The Golden Blade defeated you publicly on Monday. How embarrassing.”

“Where is he now?” I ask, willing my voice not to betray anything.

“Out of commission,” she says, twirling her nunchucks. “He won’t bother us tonight.”

Breathe, stay calm, breathe--

“Is he dead?” 

“No.”

The tightly drawn feeling in my chest unwinds; I breathe. 

Alive, alive, alive.

“Who are you?” I ask. I’m using my villain voice. Haughty, condescending. I can tell she’s not scared of me. In fact, I get the impression she thinks she’s better than me because she was able to do what I couldn’t: immobilize Blade.

“The name’s Kim,” she says. “Kim Era.”

“Who do you work for?”

“No one.”

“Really?”

She pulls her remaining blade from its sheath on her back and runs a gloved hand along the edge. “Can I trust you, Vampire?”

Time to lay on the charm. I let myself drop to the ground, yet stay a safe distance away from her. “You’ve just eliminated my nemesis. I’m indebted to you.”

“Huh,” she says. “Imagine that. Indebted.”

Her tone is malicious. I’m more than a little scared of this woman.

“I’m from London,” she finally says. “I do some contract work. I was hired by an anonymous source.”

“To do what?”

I can only see one stripe of her face between the layers of cloth. Her eyes, hooded and dark. “To cause some chaos. Property damage. Panic.” She pauses. “And to kidnap The Golden Blade. Keep him out of the way.”

I suck in a breath. 

The “anonymous source” can only be one person. Someone who knows Simon’s identity and knows where he lives.

Kim tosses me something round, and I catch it. “Smoke bomb,” she says, then takes a step closer. Close enough to touch me, if she wanted to. “So, are you in? Just one night of fun. No Golden Blade to stop us.”

“I’m in,” I say. “But take me to him first.”

“Why?”

So I can see him. So I can make sure he’s safe, and alive, and that you’re not lying. So I can hold him and protect him.

“So I can take care of him myself,” I say. “I’ve waited far too long for this.”

Kim Era holds out her hand, and I give back her katana. “I like you,” she says. 

Then she leads me to Simon Snow, smashing every window along the way.

Simon

Someone is here.

Two sets of footsteps. “Hello?” I call. I couldn’t get the blindfold off, and my jaw is trembling. My arms went numb long ago. “Penny? Baz?”

Nothing. 

“... Kim?”

I feel soft fabric brush against my cheek. “Hello again, Blade.” It’s her.

I swallow.

“Tricky, aren’t you? Managed to get the duct tape off.”

I don’t respond. 

I hear a swoosh, then feel the flat of her blade press against my lips. “Maybe I’ll just cut your tongue out instead.”

I don’t dare breathe. I bite back a whimper. She presses the sword into my lip, just enough to pierce the skin; the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

“Watford will be thrust into mayhem before tonight is over,” she says softly. “People are scared… and the hero they trust to keep them safe is nowhere to be found.”

I strain against my bonds.

She’s not going to kill me, she’s not going to kill me… 

Someone has to have noticed that there’s a villain on the loose and that I’m not there. Baz and Penny must have noticed by now…

“But we thought we’d have some fun with you first.”

I bite down the alarm clawing at my chest. Fun? In the movies that’s usually code for torture.

She has someone else with her. I doubt they’re the friendly type either.

“What do you want?” I choke out. “Information?”

The sword moves to just below my chin. I feel a shallow pain, a line of blood drawn. It trickles hot down my neck. I twist around in the ropes.

“I just like making you bleed,” she says.

“I’m not scared of a little pain, Kim,” I spit.

It’s a complete lie. I’m terrified of what she’s going to do to me.

She doesn’t want anything from me. I don’t have a bargaining chip. I force myself to think beyond the overwhelming anxiety, but it’s like pressing against a wall.

“My partner will be here any second, and you’ll be sorry,” I say. I try to infuse more confidence into my voice than I actually have.

The sword caresses my neck. “Who, Quickwit? You think she’d be a match for me? That’s cute.”

Cold metal hovers over my heart.

This isn’t how I imagined the end. Up until recently, I thought it would be at the hands of Vampire. And then I let myself imagine something else—owning the bakery, and nights spent with Baz. Growing old.

I should have let him sleep in my bed tonight.

No one’s coming to rescue me. 

I shudder and swallow the knot in my throat and clench my jaw to keep the tears from spilling over.

The sword traces lightly down my sternum, then disappears. I hear a rustle and footsteps drawing near. 

“I’ll let him have his turn.”

I press my lips closed so tightly they hurt. I can’t stop shaking, and I can’t stop thinking, This isn’t it, this can’t be it. I can’t breathe. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. I screw up my face and wait for the blow.

But it never comes.

Instead, a gloved hand strokes my cheek.

And I hear a voice.

“Hello, Blade. Nice to finally see your pretty face.”

I nearly sob with relief.

Baz.

Baz

I am going to rip Kim Era apart limb from limb. I’ll do it with my bare hands if I have to.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to lunge at her when she was talking to Simon. Not to hurl her off the rooftop and run to him and say Simon Snow, you glorious, courageous bastard. You brilliant idiot.

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

He’s tied and blindfolded and unarmed and he still managed to come off as confident. A bloody textbook superhero.

Mage probably instructed her that he should remain alive, but didn’t specify anything else. Does he know he hired a fucking psychopath?

She was drawing blood from the softest parts of him, and I wanted to scream at her. Stop that. Stop hurting him. 

Only I could read the lie in Simon’s voice, hear the waver when he said his partner would come. I could tell he didn’t really believe it. He thought no one was coming to help him.

It broke my heart.

I never want Simon Snow to think he’s alone. Not for a second. Not while I’m still alive on this earth.

He realises it’s me, and he freezes. “B-- Vampire,” he breathes, almost reverently. And then, louder, “Come to finally finish me off?”

Kim Era is watching me curiously. I draw Simon’s sword from where it’s hidden beneath my cape. 

“I had some other plans for tonight,” I say. 

I undo his blindfold, and nearly lose my breath as we make eye contact. There are a thousand emotions there when he looks at me: fear and relief and hope and determination.

“Do your worst,” he says. I step back.

And then I cut him free in one smooth swing.

Kim Era steps forward, drawing her dual blades. “What are you doing?” she hisses at me.

Simon’s on his feet in an instant. I toss him the sword and he catches it easily, grasping the hilt in both hands. “Guess you didn’t hear me earlier,” he says. “I said my partner was coming.”

“Vampire’s not your partner,” she says.

“Nah,” Simon says, spinning his blade. He winks at me. “Just my boyfriend.” 

And then we attack, together.

***

Simon is fast, but Kim Era is faster. He’s good at hand-to-hand, but she’s better.

He stares her down. I’ve never seen his fighting face before; it’s always hidden behind the mask. He’s barely clothed and barely armed, disheveled and bleeding. But his jaw is set, his freckles paling, his mouth a hard line. The glint in his eyes is absolutely deadly.

He’s beautiful in battle, especially when his sword isn’t aimed at me. I take half a breath to drink in the sight of him: his bare chest glistening with sweat, his hair messy and plastered to his forehead. He’s golden even without the suit, a frenzy of motion.

Kim Era advances, her blades a silver swirl around her, and Simon parries with insane skill. She’s lightning, a blur. She fights like a dancer, flipping backwards, springing off her hands. She launches into cartwheels and backflips, kicking higher than anyone should be able to. She nearly defies gravity. 

The city has finally caught up with us. I hear shouts from down below, sirens. People are out on the street. People are filming this fight. Fuck. I’m in the shadows now. If I help out, that’s it. Everyone will know…  

But Simon’s taking a beating, and even though he likes to pretend he’s invincible, he’s not. He’s already tired and weak and scared out of his wits from just having been kidnapped. I have to do something.

Kim Era throws a smoke bomb, and Simon backs away. I make a snap decision and start to shoot jet after jet of flames into the cloud. I swoop around, distracting her, blasting her with fire from all angles. Faint limbs emerge from the fog in a blur. Simon hacks and slashes, but doesn’t make contact. 

He charges head-on into the mist, and I don’t dare attack again, lest I hit Simon. I hear the clash of metal, grunts and yells from both of them. I fly away and hover just below the lip of the building. When she emerges from the cloud, I’ll rush her.

Simon

How can you hit an enemy that you can’t see?

Kim Era is surrounded in a cloud of smoke and I’m slashing blindly, trying to keep a lookout for her sharp blades. I can see her silhouette, but when I swing, nothing happens.

It’s almost as if she’s incorporeal. Made of gossamer and mist.

I finally land a solid kick, and we both skid out of the cloud.

Baz is gone. I scan the rooftop—did she get him, somehow? Did he fly away?

Kim takes advantage of my split-second hesitance to advance on me. I block and dodge, but she pushes me back until I’m almost to the edge of the rooftop. “Too bad you can’t fly,” she says.

There, in the corner of my vision; a dark figure flies past. 

“You’re right,” I say.

She inches me toward the edge. “You’re out of options, Blade.”

“Right again.”

And then I take a step backwards off the building.

I free-fall for a panicked split-second before Baz catches me. I land hard in his arms, bridal-style. “Fucking idiot,” he mutters.

“Your fucking idiot.”

He swings in a wide arc upwards, picking up speed. We knock into a surprised Kim Era with such velocity that she tumbles over. Baz drops me to the floor and we both rush her.

We’ve never fought together before. It’s bloody brilliant. 

All those months of fighting each other prepared us to know each others’ styles, to predict each others’ every move. I’ve memorised the motions of his body, the way he always feints left before shooting fire from his right arm. He can read the ever-so-slight tilt of my head that says, distract her.

We’re each deadly on our own. But together, we’re fucking unstoppable.

I spin and try the move from earlier, kicking her in the shoulder to disarm her. The sword clatters to the floor, and Baz picks it up. 

She throws another smoke bomb, and everything is cast into a misty haze. She leaps into a spinning kick, using my chest like a springboard, propelling herself into a backflip. It sends me sprawling backwards across the concrete. She twirls to face Baz and stabs with her remaining blade, hitting his armored chest over and over. 

Baz is not great with a sword, and she’s going to hit a weak spot soon. I jump into the fog and tackle her from the side as she lunges for him. I twist her elbow, and there goes the second sword. But the next instant, her nunchucks come swinging at my head.

I barely dodge in time, and suddenly Baz is there, knocking me out of the way. He absorbs the blows, one after another. I run across the roof and dive for the bag he brought, digging around for what I need. As an afterthought, I grab a piece of the rope I was tied up with.

Baz is unflinching when he rises into the air, even while Kim is spinning at him, and pushes her towards me. She’s formidable, moving so fast I can barely find her. I grasp at her arms, slipping. Finally, with some effort and coordination, we manage to pin her arms behind her back.

I toss Baz the rope and handcuff her. He eyes the golden cuffs. “So that’s what they’re really for,” he says.

“The other use is still an option.”

Kim Era growls at me as I push her into the pole she had me tied to. Baz loops the rope around her and knots it tightly.

He stands up and slips his hand into mine, and I’m shocked at how right it feels, after all this time—fighting beside each other, doing this together. We round on Kim, shoulder to shoulder. “Stay the fuck out of our city,” I say.

“And don’t even think about laying a finger on Blade. Ever. Again.”

I’m filled with a rush of affection towards Baz. He came for me. Against all odds. He fought with me. We’ve come pretty far from a few weeks ago.

Kim stares at us, expression inscrutable for a long moment, then says, “I don’t care about you or your city. I was hired to do a job.”

“Who hired you?” I ask.

“Mage,” Baz says to me.

“It was anonymous,” Kim responds. “They paid well. Blade I could handle. Didn’t expect Dracula over here to join in.”

“You put up a good fight, considering,” Baz offers.

“I appreciate it,” she says dryly. 

It’s all the information we needed. It was Mage.

It’s over.

The sirens echo down below, and all at once, the adrenaline wears off.

The moment I relax, the night’s events catch up with me, and I feel exhausted. All the parts of my body that hurt seem to start throbbing at once. My knees nearly buckle, and I teeter and lean against Baz. 

I’m also suddenly hyper-aware that I’m only in my boxers, and they’re bright blue with little baguettes on them.

Baz catches me, rights me, then finds the blindfold and loops it around Kim Era’s head.

He leads me to the other side of the roof—a dark alcove, safe from the cameras—and pulls off his mask. He’s breathing raggedly, his eyes rimmed red, and before I have time to process the storm of emotions on his face he pulls me into his body. “Simon,” he whispers roughly into the top of my head.

He swings his cape to envelop us, cocooning me in fabric.

It’s nice and warm here. I could stay like this for a while.

I cling to Baz like he’s anchoring me here, allow myself to finally relax and sink into the feeling of being held like this. I let my body go boneless in his arms. I haven’t felt this safe—this loved— in a long time. I tuck my head into the crook of his neck. “Thank you,” I whisper. They aren’t the right words to say, or even the ones I want to say, but they’ll do.

He clutches me tighter, if possible, rubbing circles into my back. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“I… I wasn’t sure.”

“Simon Snow.” He pulls away so he can look at me, and I search the planes of his face, memorise them. File away this moment for later. All of his details are thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight. His eyes are filled with something broad and unnameable. “Trust me,” he says. “If you’re ever in danger, I’m not far behind. I’d have torn apart this city to find you.”

That tender, fragile feeling creeps up again, tugs at my ribcage.

“I trust you,” I say. 

They’re still not the right words. I’m bollocks with words. (They’re not the right three words.) But they’re okay, for now.

“I’d do the same,” I tell him.

Baz cups my face in his hands and I could crumble at the smile he gives me. A personal, secret smile, all for me. “And for the record,” he says, “I’m sorry for taking so long.”

And then he’s kissing me, and kissing me, and kissing me.

Baz

Pitches don’t apologise, but I’ll make an exception for Simon Snow.

I always will.

He goes to put on some clothes, and I call Bunce and let her know that he’s safe.

He walks back to me, dressed in his ridiculous suit, and I pull him in again and kiss him soundly. Does he know he’s still shaking? I wrap myself around him. He nuzzles into my cheek with the softest, sweetest sigh of contentment I’ve ever heard.

I kiss him again, and he tastes of blood and metal and somehow, underneath that, butter and cinnamon and warmth.

I’ve got Simon Snow. And if he thinks I’m letting go anytime soon, he’d be wrong.

I’m hopelessly in love with him.

But this isn’t the right time to say it. He’s overwhelmed, scared, and exhausted. So instead I just press three kisses into his temple, one for each word I want to say.

Chapter Text

Official Statement from the Office of the Mayor, Watford City

Dear Citizens of Watford City,

Early in the morning of 11 November 2019, eight blocks of the financial district of Watford City were subject to extreme property damage. Fortunately no one was injured. The source of the damage was an anonymous criminal who has since been detained. The destruction included broken car and building windows as well as public street damage. The city will be providing financial relief for those affected. 

This attack represents a time of extreme uncertainty for Watford City. Local vigilantes have proven that they are unable to prevent new villains from ravaging our home. We urge citizens to stay indoors and avoid going out at night when possible.

Our office is currently drafting new policies in order to maintain order and security in the city. Our number one priority is to create measures that keep everyone safe.

Regards,

Mayor David L. Mage

11 November 2019

Watford City Local News Station 5

“Good morning everyone, Shepard here! So, unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve probably noticed the carnage here in Watford. It seems a new villain was on the loose last night, whose identity still remains a mystery…”

“I’m Premal Bunce, a lieutenant at WPD. We’d like to assure everyone that the criminal has been contained and the city is safe. We cannot offer any information about the villain at this time, but rest assured he or she is no longer a threat.”

“Hi, Shepard. I’m Rhys, I’m on the SCO19 team that was brought into Watford after Monday’s events. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but when we got there the villain was actually already restrained, thanks to The Golden Blade.”

“Eyewitnesses report that they saw both The Golden Blade and Vampire fighting the villain on a rooftop, but these rumours have not been confirmed…”

“The city council is offering reparations for any property damage last night. If you are an individual or small business owner, you can file Form A, and large companies should file Form B.”

“Agatha Wellbelove here, reporting live from Town Hall. Last night’s events have left residents of Watford City shaken and scared. The criminal was engaged by The Golden Blade and contained by the Watford City police. We cannot confirm any rumours as to The Golden Blade’s identity at this time, nor the rumours about Vampire participating in the fight. While the criminal has been imprisoned, we urge everyone to exercise increased caution when going out at night.”

Twitter

trending near you

The Golden Blade

Vampire

#goldenvamp

#teamvampire

#vampirehero

#Twilight

Watford City attack

Watford mystery villain

Golden blade pants photo

Watford City News @WatfordNews4

Last night’s new criminal devastated the outskirts of Watford. See the damage here https://t.co/GtPoFwCI2R

TheGuardian @TheGuardian

What are the repercussions of last night’s events on the safety of citizens and the upcoming Mayoral election in Watford? https://t.co/VnLyDeRJ7X

The Sun @TheSun

Watford City faced a new villain. The Golden Blade showed up too late. Vampire may be the unlikely hero in our midst https://t.co/KpJeVsAM5W

Daily Mirror @DailyMirror

Can eyewitness reports be believed? Watforders insist that Vampire was involved in last night’s Watford City fight https://t.co/UxJWqVHyKB4O

Buzzfeed News UK @BuzzfeedNewsUK

Here’s everything we know about the epic fight that went down last night between superhero The Golden Blade and a new villain in Watford City https://t.co/LtScEHtY9WF

Gail Simone @GailSimone

Is the Golden Blade and Vampire FAKEY OR A TRUE?

tim @cirrellond

@gailsimone True! I’m getting serious Apollo and Midnighter vibes from GB and Vamp [image attached]

Elspeth @PerfectAttendanceBitch

@gailsimone Fakey, Vampire doesn’t have a motive to suddenly turn good. It’s more likely he was fighting with the new villain against Blade than fighting alongside Blade.

Trix @therealpixie

@gailsimone fjwlekajfwe I swear to god #goldenvamp is real. vampire flew right past my window, no mistaking him and they fought together !!! 

Trix @therealpixie

@gailsimone @therealpixie and we could always use some more lgbtq+ representation in the superhero space so you bet im a big #goldenvamp supporter 🏳️🌈

philippa stainton loves you @wontbesilenced

the golden blade is a white man in his mid-twenties with curly brown hair. and for the record, he looks amazing shirtless. nobody is surprised [blurry, dark photo attached]

Sanjana @sanj173

@wontbesilenced you forgot to mention the best part, he wears blue polka dotted pants cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen

minty @mintyfresh

@sanj173 @wontbesilenced RIGHT?!?! get you a man who can do both! 👅

Gareth @beltbuckle69

Where are these new supervillains coming from? Maybe Blade is getting his friends to do crimes so he can stop them for good PR…  

Richard Grimm @RichardGrimm

This incident has taught us one thing: David Mage cannot be trusted to keep this city safe. My new security plan will ensure the well-being of Watford Citizens. Vote Grimm in the upcoming election https://t.co/OyHEvDScUK6P

Mitali Bunce @SuperMom55

We should be increasing safety measures and background checks, not pinning the responsibility on unreliable young “superheroes.” I’ve half a mind to move out of Watford after last night’s attack.

Shepard @zero_or_hero

Guys, stop freaking out. Watch Watford News 4 and then tune into my podcast tonight for some actual mythbusting, featuring @TheGoldenBlade himself.

Rainbow Rowell @rainbowrowell

Is it too early to start writing a comic series about The Golden Blade and Vampire? Asking for a friend.

Simon

Penny is furious. 

She puts her head in her hands, pushing her glasses up to rest on the top of her head. “What the fuck,” she says. “That literally cannot have gone more wrong.”

“At least no one knows about the kidnapping,” I offer.

“Don’t jinx it,” she says, pointing a finger at me.

I already feel exceptionally shitty about yesterday, but if the media got wind of what happened, it would be infinitely worse.

Because what kind of superhero gets himself kidnapped? I’d never felt that helpless—especially when my entire job is about helping people and saving people. I didn’t ever expect to need to be saved.

Worst. Superhero. Ever.

Baz and Penny have assured me that this isn’t the case, but I’m not sure. Sometimes I wish my skills included being smart and witty, rather than just swinging my sword at things. Because sometimes that doesn’t work. Case in point: getting kidnapped.

Shep shrugs, leaning back on Penny’s couch. “I tried my best, dude.”

I’m starting to like Shepard more and more. He was remarkably cavalier about Baz being Vampire (and us being together). Penny told me, “I think he’s seen it all.”

“Don’t ‘dude’ me,” Penny says. “This is a disaster.”

Beside her, the news is playing on her TV, and the sole topic they’ve been talking about today is last night’s fight. It was dark and mostly hidden, so a lot of the coverage is pure speculation.

Luckily, it seems the media only got one photo good enough to circulate. 

Unluckily, that photo is a blurry shot of me in nothing but my fucking baguette boxers, fighting Kim Era.

(You can’t really see the pattern, but still.)

“It’s not,” I insist. Baz and I are sharing a beanbag on the floor, and I’m sitting halfway on his lap. I’m wearing his jumper, and I can tell he thinks it’s cute because he keeps playing with it, tugging at the sleeves.

We exchange a glance, and Baz says, “People think I’m a good guy now. That’s what we wanted.”

“Sort of,” Penny says. “You might not have a target on your head from the police anymore, but you will from Mage if he thinks you’re helping Simon. And you’re going to have to be extra careful about hiding your identity.”

This is all so convoluted. “Why can’t we just… I don’t know, report Mage to the police?” I burst out.

A dark expression crosses Penny’s face. “My brother works for WPD,” she says. “They’re all in Mage’s front pocket. That won’t help anything.”

“Great,” I mutter.

The air is tense, and I have the sudden urge to offer everyone some lunch.

Baz called Fiona this morning to ask for advice, and all she said was, “Call me back after you’ve dealt with the tabloids, boyo. I’m too old for this.”

“We need to do some damage control,” Penny insists. “We were supposed to stop new villains before they did anything.”

Baz’s grip tightens on my hip. “We couldn’t exactly have predicted that she’d kidnap Simon,” he snaps.

“I know. But the tabloids weren’t supposed to publish anything,” Penny groans. 

“Pen,” Shep says, “you could be the Queen and the tabloids wouldn’t listen to you.”

“He’s right,” Baz says. “Still, it did get much more publicity than expected.”

“Thanks to you and your dramatics,” Penny says. “You’re trending! On Twitter!”

Baz shrugs, and I feel the movement against my back. “I can’t help it. The people are obsessed with me.”

Penny is having none of it; she’s getting more and more worked up. “Well, now we can’t leak the embezzling thing until this blows over. And now we have to somehow get everyone to believe that Watford isn’t under threat! People are in a panic, which is exactly what Mage wanted!”

Shepard rubs the spot between his eyebrows. He’s still dressed in his work clothes and he looks exhausted. “Okay. Just… calm down. Let’s get Simon on the news at 5 to give an official statement.”

Penny frowns. (She does not appreciate being told to calm down.) She starts furiously jotting down some talking points for me on the whiteboard, which has become a constant presence in her living room.

“And then y’all can get on my podcast at 7,” Shep continues, “and address the Vampire stuff. Debunk whatever you want, confirm whatever you want.”

“You’re the news guy, what do you recommend?” I ask. Penny shoots me a look that says, I can’t believe you’d ask him instead of me . Sometimes she gets a little in her head.

Shep sighs. “I’ll bring up some spicy takes from Twitter, since you can’t do that without Mage coming after you. And since we can’t stop the media, I think it might be wise to confirm the rumours about Baz…”

Episode 63: what the f*** happened last night?

“Hey guys, Shepard here, and welcome back to ‘Zero or Hero? Separating Fact from Fiction!’

“So if you didn’t catch the news today, hit the link in podcast notes and take a look at some of the videos below. Then come back. I’ll wait.

“Alright, so by no means am I the authority on the facts of last night, but I have a person here who is: The Golden Blade.”

“Hi, everyone. Thanks for having me on here, Shep.”

“My pleasure. So I know what you’re all thinking. ‘Why should we believe you, Shepard?’ Here’s why. Check my Instagram and Twitter right now to see a selfie with The Golden Blade… and… posted. Okay, now that that’s settled, let’s get into it.”

“Did you really have to post that one?” 

“Blade, you wear a mask, you look the same in all of them.”

“... I guess.”

“So let’s start with looking at your tag on Twitter. There are a lot of rumours flying, the main one being that Vampire fought with you last night. Is that true?”

“Yeah actually, it is.”

“How can that be? Isn’t he your nemesis?”

“Not quite… Not anymore.”

“So it’s true! He’s defected to the light side?”

“He did.”

“Wow. Why the sudden change?”

“I can’t say that, but I will say that his heart is pure and his motives are true.”

“Blade… jeez, that’s the most stereotypically superhero thing you’ve ever said. Care to be a little less of a cheeseball?”

“I mean, he wants to protect Watford City. If he hadn’t been there last night, I wouldn’t have been able to fight the villain.”

“Wow. Well, personally I think it’s amazing that y’all are working together. Two heroes is better than one, right?”

“Exactly. The city will be safer than ever from any threats.”

“Amazing. And on that subject… some people believe that you and Vampire are allies in the sheets as well as the streets. Anything to say about that?”

“What?! No, that’s, uh, that’s a funny idea…”

“Is it true, Blade?”

“No! Absolutely not. Definitely not. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Mhm, okay. Well you heard it here first, they’re, ahem, ‘just friends.’ Let’s move on to talking about the villain. Can you offer any insights there?”

“I don’t know much. She was an independent party and seemed pretty focused on taking me out specifically.”

“I knew I was getting badass catwoman ninja bitch vibes!”

“Um… sure.”

“You said she targeted you specifically. You protect Watford, so that makes sense.”

“Right. So what happened last night was that Vampire double-crossed her.”

“Badass catwoman ninja bitch fell for that?”

“She thought Vampire was going to team up with her, but we’d struck an alliance last week—after Monday’s fight—and he ended up helping me.”

“Wow. Just… this is crazy. Unexpected, too, after so long fighting each other. But hey, I’d second you in saying that Watford is safer than ever.

“There’s just one more thing I wanna talk about, Blade, and I think the whole world is wondering along with me: why the heck were you in your underwear?”

“Shep what the [loud beep], we did not discuss this beforehand--”

“Listen, the people need answers! And more photos!”

“I am never talking to you again. This friendship is over.”

“I heard that Calvin Klein already reached out to you about modelling their new collection, is that true?”

“... and D&G.”

Simon

I go back to work on Tuesday, and when I enter the kitchen, Trixie is waiting for me with her phone in her hand.

“Hi,” I say.

She doesn’t look up at me. “I saw something interesting on Twitter,” she says.

Uh oh.

Nothing good can come out of Twitter. I spent half the day yesterday hate-reading through my tags, which was a bad decision and probably qualifies as self-destructive behaviour. 

Baz suffers no such qualms and calmly surveyed his tags, then decided to read the trending #goldenvamp Tweets aloud to me. It was a unique form of torture. I think I preferred the threat of Kim Era’s katana at my neck, honestly.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the news,” Trixie continues, “and that photo of The Golden Blade in his pants, yeah?”

“Um… yeah?”

“I thought they looked a little familiar. I couldn’t place it at first…”

Oh no. Oh no.

Trixie finally looks up, her dark eyes meeting mine. A grin creeps onto her face that she’s clearly trying to fight off.

“Simon,” she says. “I only know one person on earth who has boxers with fucking baguettes on them!”

I close my eyes, face flaming.

(Yes, Trixie has seen those boxers. Yes, it was a long time ago. No, I don’t want to talk about it.)

“I, uh…” I look anywhere but at her face—the walls, the muffin tin on the counter. She waits patiently until I finally look back at her. 

“Is it you?” 

I nod.

I expect her to yell at me for not telling her sooner, or ask what else I’m hiding. But instead she just snorts and starts laughing hysterically.

“What is it?”

“Simon, it’s just-- you can’t even stand up to rude customers.” She reaches out and pats my shoulder, still laughing. “There’s no way-- I mean, I can’t even picture it! It’s fucking hilarious.”

“This isn’t how people usually react…”

“You’re just-- such a shit liar--” She’s literally bent over the table, wheezing. I won’t stand for this treatment. It can’t be that funny.

“Kept it hidden all this time, didn’t I?”

She finally straightens up. “It’s true? It’s really… it’s you?”

“Yes! Jesus.”

She stares at me incredulously. “Well, it explains why you can lift sacks of flour so easily. And why you look like… that.” She gestures up and down my body, and I flush again. “Can I ask something else?”

I follow Trixie on Twitter; I already know what she’s going to say. “It depends.”

“Does Baz know?”

Oh. That wasn’t what I expected.

“What does Baz have to do with it?” I ask. A bit more snappishly than I intended.

Trixie rolls her eyes. “Well, you and Vampire are clearly an item, I mean, I saw the Town Hall footage and I’m not blind--”

“Trixie!”

“And don’t think I forgot about your Halloween costume. So?”

“I’m not cheating on Baz with Vampire,” I grumble.

“Is it time for another relationship advice talk?”

“No!”

She finally, blessedly turns back to the batter she was working on and directs me toward the half-finished scone dough. “Fine. You do you. Anyway, I suppose we could use this for marketing.”

“Use what?”

She gestures in the air, as if pointing to an imaginary sign. “Watford Bakery, home of The Golden Blade!”

I laugh. “Please, god no.”

She shrugs. “We need some publicity. Sales fell by half after Christmas last year. The only other unique angle I can think of for us is that we’re a queer owned-and-run bakery.”

“Wait, Ebb…?”

“Is a raging lesbian, Simon, did the villain hit you too hard on the head?”

I scowl into the scone dough. “Sorry.”

“It’s good though, right? We could get on the news. We could do both, imagine the press!”

I cross her path to dig a zester out of the drawer. “I keep my identity secret for a reason,” I say. I pick up an armful of lemons from the pantry and toss them into a colander. “But I like that. The queer bakery thing.”

“We could update our menus,” she says gleefully. “With little rainbows.”

“Sure.” I start scrubbing the lemons and find a clean rag to dry them.

“You know those scones have to be vegan, right?” Trixie says. “I made the regular ones already.”

I slam the colander down in the sink with an almighty clatter and turn. “What? Since when are we doing vegan?”

“Since about twenty people messaged us on Instagram asking for vegan baked goods.”

“That is an insult to everything I stand for.”

“Simon--”

“You can’t have scones without real butter! You can’t!”

“Today on Watford News 4,” Trixie says dryly, “The Golden Blade fights a new, modern threat, the most terrifying foe yet… veganism.”

I snort and lob a lemon at her, but I’m secretly glad she’s taken it in stride. 

And besides a few more creative jokes and innuendos, things at the bakery are as they always are: hectic, warm, coated with laughter and dusted with flour.

Fiona

If you could see him now, Tasha.

I guess I could say I knew all along that he’s a better person than I’ll ever be. And not just because I work for one of those tax-evasive tech billionaires that you hated.

He looks happier than he ever has, but I couldn’t resist yelling at him when I found out. (“When the fuck were you going to tell me that your obtuse, attractive flatmate is the fucking Golden Blade?”) (“And that you’re dating him? Bloody hell, Baz. At least you’re finally getting some action.”)

He just waited, working his way through the last of my shortbread, until I was done ranting. And then he asked me for the recipe. (“For Snow,” he said. “For the bakery.”) (He’s smit. I swear to god.)

He’s poking around my kitchen now, trying to find the tea. I ran out last week.

“Thanks for all your help earlier,” he says sarcastically. He arches your dark eyebrow at me.

I lean on the counter. “I saw your boyfriend on the news. Came clean, huh? We’re good guys now?”

Baz mirrors my pose across the table. “It makes sense this way,” he insists. “People were suspicious. And now Mage will know what he’s up against.”

He looks brighter, somehow. Heroism suits him, better than whatever it was I pushed him into.

Sorry about that, by the way. I justified it by thinking you’d approve, but I know you wouldn’t if you were here.

We had a good run, though. And look at him now; he wants to do good . He’s more than I gave him credit for.

He’s all grown up and saving your city. Our city.

“I was right about him,” I say. “You owe me, kid.”

He smirks. He has your mouth, too, Natasha—deceptively graceful, innocent and bowed, but it hurls sharp-barbed wit. “Who would’ve guessed we were doing the right thing all along.”

“So now what? Photo shoots? Couples retreats?” I ask.

He blushes at that. (He must get that trait from his father.)

“I haven’t been pardoned of anything,” he says.

If you asked me a few weeks ago, I would’ve said that when I looked at him, I still saw a little boy who was struggling to hold up a name too heavy for him.

You know that around here, most people don’t even know your name anymore? Grimm has somehow become the household name. It’s a damn shame.

I was doing this for you. He’s not. Not anymore.

He fell in love with Watford by himself, not just because it’s what you would have wanted. I think he’s starting to heal. This has become something more than a petty revenge plot, for him.

I wish I could say the same, but I’m not there yet. I miss you too much, sister. I’m still fucking devastated.

I just want Mage out for what he did—the rumours he spun against you during the campaign, whispered in the ears of the press. And then, when it didn’t work, when the people believed in you more than that… the meeting he called you to that was supposed to be civil.

The car crash.

They said it was an accident. 

Nobody will believe me. Nobody thinks that the cheerful, compassionate Mayor is capable of murder.

I’ll have Mage’s blood for that. I’ll have his fucking head.

“Think you’ll reveal yourself eventually?” I ask Baz.

He doesn’t mind hiding. At least, that’s what I assume—he did tell me he’d rather conceal everything from a random flatmate rather than live with me. So it’s a valid opinion.

“If I have to,” he says. “Or after Mage is gone.”

“What are the next steps?” I say. I dig around in the kitchen drawer and light up a fag. (He’s always telling me off for smoking. He gets that from you.)

Baz shrugs. He’s picked that up from his dimwitted flatmate, who happens to be his nemesis and his boyfriend. “Fight whoever is daft enough to challenge us. Follow Bunce’s plan.”

He’s done well enough for himself, I suppose. He owns too much black and about a thousand floral shirts he never wears. He’s moody and snappy on a good day. He drinks white girl frappuccinos. But he managed to get some idiot to fall in love with him, so all in all, not terrible.

“Oh, and Fi?” 

“Yeah.”

“Can you get Simon a new suit? Made of the same material as mine?”

He fell in love with the idiot, too.

“Man, you’ve got it bad, huh?” I say.

“I’d rather my partner not catch on fire,” he tells me. “It’s in our best interests.”

Your boy is all grown up, Natasha. He’s a recovering supervillain and he’s unbelievably gay and he eats all my biscuits.

You’d be proud of him, I think.

Simon

I’m expecting the call sometime this week. Still, it’s a little jolting to hear Penny’s fears confirmed on Thursday—Mayor Mage, on the other line, asking me to come in for a meeting.

“Do you want me to be in your ear?” Penny asks as I get dressed.

“I don’t know…” I’m holding up my costume, debating putting it on so I have an excuse to carry my sword with me. “Do you think I’ll be in danger?”

“Hopefully not.”

“Okay. I’ll brief you later.” 

I drive to Town Hall, nerves rattling. I opted to wear normal clothing in order to seem “less threatening,” in Penny’s words. I park in the Visitor Parking - 30 minutes section and walk around the building. I have an official badge from Mayor Mage, and I use it to swipe into the side entrance.

He’s waiting for me in his office, clad in a dark green suit and tie today. He’s pacing in his usual spot—there are a few planks of wood that are less shiny than their neighbours. When he hears me enter, he turns to face me, clasping his hands behind his back. “Simon,” he says. “How are you?”

Well, I was bound, gagged and kidnapped, so I’ve been better.

“Fine,” I say.

“Tell me about the fight,” he says. I search for hidden meaning behind his words, something sinister, but his voice betrays nothing. He’s a politician—and a good actor. I shouldn’t be surprised.

“It was… fine,” I say. “She was tough, but I stopped her before anyone got seriously hurt. Mr. Mage…” I hesitate. “Do you know anything about where she came from? She was much more deadly than a normal criminal.”

He doesn’t answer, just starts walking again, this time to stand by the window and look out across the square. “I’m concerned about the upcoming election.”

“The election?”

“This all hasn’t been very good for my image,” he says. “People are losing faith, and if Grimm wins, everything I’ve accomplished in office will be reversed.”

“Isn’t it more important to keep the city safe?” I ask.

“Yes,” Mage agrees. “Which is why I’ve consulted with my security team. We think maybe we were mistaken with the superhero angle for you…”

My lungs feel like they’ve dropped to my shoes. “What?”

“We think the reason Watford has seen an increase in crime lately might be in part due to you, Simon.” He folds his arms. “You said it yourself a few weeks ago. You present an easy target.”

Penny prepared me for something like this, but it still hurts to hear—it feels like I’ve failed, even though I know this is unfair. Even though he’s twisting my words and shoving them back at me.

“We’ve decided,” he says slowly, “that Watford would be safer if you retired.”

I clench my jaw. I want to scream at him, or worse. Maybe I should have brought my sword. The manipulation in this situation stings. He’s been hiring the villains, but will convince everyone to cast the blame on me. 

I’m being framed for his offenses, and I’m powerless to fight against it. I can’t very well reveal that I know all about his secret evil plans.

“Sir… retire?” I say.

“I’m thankful for everything you’ve done,” he says. “But I think it’s time.”

“But--” I take a deep breath and try to organise my thoughts. “Mayor Mage, you must have seen on the news. Watford has two superheroes now, so it’ll be more protected than ever. Vampire’s decided to work together with me.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. A flicker of thunder passes across his face. “I have very little respect for that petty delinquent,” he says. “I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”

And that’s the moment I lose whatever shred of respect I had remaining for Mayor Mage.

Every muscle in my body locks. “I would,” I say. “I’d trust him with my life.”

Wrong thing to say again. 

“Quite a sudden change of heart,” he comments darkly.

“It’s true,” I say.

“I think you may have misplaced your faith, Simon.” His face is hard. “In my books, Vampire is about as trustworthy as that snake Grimm.”

I have to close my eyes for a moment to steady myself. (And try not to laugh at the irony of Vampire being a Grimm himself.) I know, logically, that Mage has no idea it’s Baz in there, that he’s talking about Vampire, not Baz, but I feel my temper rising. “I haven’t,” I say. 

“Regardless,” he says sternly, “this isn’t a suggestion. The citizens’ lives are at stake. And even if you are to be believed, two superheroes would cause further security issues.”

You’re causing the security issues! I want to shout. 

“And if there’s another attack? Then what?”

Mage frowns at me like I’m a misbehaving child. “I have reason to believe there won’t be one.”

I grind my teeth. He’s crafting the attacks—he’s doing this. He won’t get a rise out of me. He won’t. I ball my fists up behind my back. “I just think--” I start, trying to keep my voice even.

He cuts me off. “Watford’s safety is no longer your responsibility, Simon,” he says. “Understood?”

I shake my head. “I’m not attracting the villains,” I insist.

He wants me to stop defending the city. So that when he orchestrates another attack, people will be sent into a panic. They’ll support his new laws, even if those laws are outrageous.

“This is what my security team has decided,” he says sternly. “Need I remind you that many vigilante actions are illegal under U.K. law?”

“Not when you have a backing authority,” I shoot back. They’re his words, from the first time we met.

“Well.” His chin jerks downwards in a show of finality. “You no longer have it.”

Our eyes meet.

I’m not going to stop and he knows it. This is my city, and I intend to protect it from all threats. 

That includes Mage.

I don’t nod. I don’t agree. I don’t say anything. I just turn around and leave.

Chapter Text

Bane of my existence

6:12 pm

hey vampy you up?

Simon, why are you texting me at this number?

Did you seriously just send me a “you up” text? It’s 6pm.

who’s simon???

Ha ha, very funny.

You have my real phone number now.

no this is vampire’s phone number? im confused

Love, this phone is bright pink and I’m in public.
Please spare me the humiliation.

love? so the rumours are true? I had no idea 👀

Sigh.

What do you want, Snow?

i still don’t know this ‘simon snow’ you speak of

I am about three seconds away from hurling this phone off the bridge.

Three.

Two.

i just wanted to let you know i’ve been plotting :)

Plotting what?

well a little birdie told me you’ve never seen the avengers

I told you that.

I’m the little birdie.

my evil plot is called ‘netflix and chill’

well, actually it’s disney+, so… what’s the equivalent

im googling it

uh, disney+ and thrust?

yikes

Christ, that’s vulgar.

Is this your plan of seduction, because it’s failing.

seduce you? Never ;)

I resent that.

listen vamp, since you’re always stalking me you know where i live

Or maybe I know where you live because I live there.

what?!?!?! my nemesis has been under my nose this whole time?

This is getting old, Simon.

so are you in? 7pm. my couch

Our couch.

whatever

i got curry and im making mini apple pies :)

I’m almost home. I can hear you watching Beauty and the Beast.

uhh no? must have the wrong flat

Put a sock in it, Si.

I know you just like to rewatch the scene with all the food.

Off-Brand Justice League

golden 🍆

so mage told me to retire

Edward Cullen

That’s unexpected.

Edward Cullen

Wasn’t he supposed to want to use you?

pennywise 🤡

Keep up Baz that’s what we thought 2 weeks ago

pennywise 🤡

He wants mass hysteria, so no blade = no protection

golden 🍆

ppl would never believe that i just abandoned them

golden 🍆

dont plan to stop anyway. its just less legal now

pennywise 🤡

“Less legal” is not a thing, but whatever

pennywise 🤡

Doesn’t bother me. Shep will keep a lookout so we
can beat the next villain to the chase

golden 🍆

👍

pennywise 🤡

But seriously don’t take your fucking masks off next time

Edward Cullen

He was KIDNAPPED.

golden 🍆

it was DARK

pennywise 🤡

Dumbasses

pennywise 🤡

KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS UNTIL YOU GET HOME

golden 🍆

fine

Edward Cullen

Who named this chat?

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch changed the group name to: Vampire & My Minions

pennywise 🤡

We are not your minions Basil

wannabe sex pistol

basilton i am literally your aunt

annoying american

Oh hellllll no

Shepard changed the group name to: #Goldenvamp Fan Club 💘

golden 🍆

oh please god no

golden 🍆

that hashtag gives me war flashbacks

golden 🍆

help how do you change the group name???

pennywise 🤡

HA

Edward Cullen

I, too, abhor this name.

Edward Cullen

But I like to watch Snow suffer. It can stay.

golden 🍆

whats my nickname rn

Edward Cullen

It’s a fitting one.

golden 🍆

tell me baz i swear to god

pennywise 🤡

Simon I’m at the door let me in

golden 🍆

coming

Penelope Bunce changed Simon Snow’s nickname to covered in obnoxiously placed hickeys

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch changed Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch’s nickname to giver of obnoxiously placed hickeys

Baz

Simon is nervous. He’s wearing a turtleneck. My turtleneck, because he doesn’t own one. It’s black, and he looks—well, he looks gorgeous, as he always does in black. (He never wears it, but I maintain that it works on him.) All his colours stand out brilliantly; his flushed cheeks, blue eyes, pink lips. I can’t look at him for more than a few seconds without my composure threatening to crack completely.

Penny’s setting up a slide deck on our television, Simon is busy being himself and being distracting, and I’m arranging a hummus platter. The buzzer sounds.

“I’ve got it,” Simon says. 

He opens the door to Fiona, who thrusts a black package at him. “Surprise,” she says.

Simon regards it suspiciously. “What is it?”

Fiona arches an eyebrow. “Open it and find out.” She clomps over to the couch and throws herself onto it.

Simon casts a panicked look back at me. “It’s not going to like, explode on me or something, is it?”

I carry the platter out to the living room and set it down on the coffee table. I arrange some napkins beside it, fanning them out. “How should I know?”

“I’m sure you know what it is,” he insists.

He’s so frustrated and he looks so fucking delectable that it gives me an idea. I gesture to my room. “Actually, yes. And we might want to open it in privacy.”

Fiona snorts. “I’m expecting a demonstration.”

Bunce finally turns around from where she’s fiddling with some wires. “I’m sorry, what?”

I push Simon into my bedroom. “Right, will do, be right back!” I bump the door closed with my hip and lock it.

Simon’s still holding the parcel, looking stunned. “Baz, what is going on? What’s in this?” He shakes the box, holding an ear to it. 

I pry it from his hands. “Strip,” I say.

Is this plan just so I have an excuse to see Simon undressed in the middle of the evening before he catches on to what’s actually happening?

Maybe.

He frowns at me. “What?”

“Strip. You know, take your clothes off.” Or I’ll do it for you, because you’re driving me to utter distraction in that shirt.

“Baz, we have guests--”

“It’ll be quick.”

His mouth is hanging open. “Does this have anything at all to do with the package? Can’t it wait until tonight?”

He brushes himself off self-consciously, and my eyes linger on his hips. 

“It has to do with a package…” 

“Basilton.”

I chuckle. “Yes, it’s related to this.” I shake the box again and raise an eyebrow. “So? Do you need my help?”

Simon scowls at me. “Fine.” He crosses his arms in front of him and pulls the turtleneck off, throwing it at me. He makes eye contact with me as he unbuttons his jeans, gnawing at his bottom lip. My brain short-circuits into an endless loop of skin moles lips hair thighs skin moles— I probably look like a lovesick fool.

I let out a little sigh, and he laughs. “Like the view?”

“No, I was just admiring the hospital corners on my bed.”

“I hate you.” He tries to tug the box from my hands, and I take the opportunity to step up to him and tilt my head down. Our lips meet, slotting together perfectly. He leans into me, crushing the box between us.

Simon in his pants is always sexy—and the world agrees with me on this one. But there’s something undeniably even sexier about being fully dressed when Simon is in his pants, in my room. I have the sight of him all to myself, and I drink in his expanse of soft skin dotted with freckles. I run a hand over the muscles of his stomach, but he bats me away.

“Is there a reason for this, or do you just like being a tease?”

I open my mouth to respond, but someone raps on my door, and we freeze. “Shep’s here,” Penny says. “Are you two done with… whatever you’re doing?”

“Two minutes,” I call. I hand Simon the package. “Okay, now you can open it.”

He tears at the wrapping, then pulls apart the cardboard box easily. “I still don’t understand why I had to be half-naked for this-- Oh.”

He drops the box on my bed and unfolds a brilliant golden suit. 

“Surprise,” I say, grinning at the look of shock on his face.

He peers at the fabric, rubbing a bit of it between his fingers. “Is this the… the magic stuff?”

“Yes. Same as my suit.”

The design is nearly the same as his old suit, gold with white detailing. It has additional padding and armor. And we’ve toned down the gold colour a bit, deepened it so it’s less brassy and garish—that was my contribution. 

“It’s… I don’t know what to say,” he says, still staring at it. “You didn’t have to do this. I’ll, um, I’ll pay you back--”

“No,” I cut in. “It’s for my peace of mind, too. You’ll be a bit more protected.” I didn’t mean to get so soft, but I need him to know how much I care about him. Even if I can’t say that outright all the time.

Simon turns to look at me so fondly I might crumple. “Thank you. Really.”

“Are you going to put it on?”

“Right now?” he says.

“Of course. What do you think Fiona meant by demonstration?”

“You’re terrible,” Simon grumbles as he pulls on the suit. He reaches around the back. “Hey, it has velcro!”

I roll my eyes. “I told the designer about your obsession.” It was humiliating. Velcro is for three-year olds who can’t tie their shoelaces, not superheroes. But it makes him happy, so I dealt with the judgemental comments from Fiona’s friend.

Simon pulls everything snug, and I’m riveted again. He gives a dramatic spin. “How does it look?”

The suit clings to him in all the right spots, and he’s shining—even unarmed, even in my bedroom, he exudes superhero . I didn’t think Blade’s look could be improved upon, but here it is. I might not have been able to fight him if he looked this good all those months ago.

My brain clicks into a new cycle, something like: jaw moles arms hips THIGHS arse moles shoulders hair-- and I take a steadying breath.

“It highlights your… er, assets,” I say. 

He raises his eyebrows. “Assets.”

“Oh, grow up.”

“Right, because I’m sure you meant assets--”

I hook my fingers in the crease of his elbow and drag him out of the room. “Time for your model walk, Simon.”

He grounds his heels. “Wait, no--”

I laugh and frog-march him down the hallway towards Bunce, Fiona, and Shepard. “Presenting The Golden Blade, 2.0,” I announce.

“Baz, no--”

I settle down on the couch next to Fiona and wave him in. “Strut for us, Goldy.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

The Golden Blade steps into the living room, scowling, and throws his arms up in a sign of defeat. Shepard wolf-whistles, Bunce claps, and Simon blushes so deeply that I nearly leap up and kiss him again.

My boyfriend’s the hottest idiot in Watford City. I could get used to that.

Penny

I’m happy for them and all, but did Simon and Baz really have to get into a relationship while we’re trying to save the world? They couldn’t wait until after?

Baz looks hopelessly besotted as Simon pads across the living room and sinks to the floor between his legs. He absently cards a hand through Simon’s hair, and I groan. At this rate, nobody is going to pay attention to my very important PowerPoint.

I clear my throat and Shep stops mid-pita chip crunch to look up. Fiona looks bored, twirling an unlit cigarette in her hands. 

I pull up the first slide: THE ASSASSINATION.

“We’re assassinating someone?” Simon says.

“What?” Baz asks, finally looking up from his intense study of Simon’s curls. “Who?”

Fiona leans forward. “Is it Mage? I hope it’s Mage.”

“Nobody is assassinating anyone!” I nearly yell. I might tear my hair out at this rate. I take a seat on the floor facing them. “We’re stopping an assassination, remember?”

“Why can’t we just assassinate Mage?” Fiona asks.

“Because that’s illegal,” I say.

“All of this is illegal,” Baz says. “I’m illegal. And, might I add, so is Simon now.”

“I’m not illegal,” Shepard offers unhelpfully.

“Mage’s plan,” I say, “I think, is to use that supercomputer to hack into the central government’s security system.”

“Is he expecting to become Prime Minister himself?” Fiona asks. “That’ll never happen.”

“I don’t think so…” I click to the next slide. It’s titled PRE-DOOMSDAY. “He wants an excuse to lock Watford down—to close the borders and enforce new policies. That’s why he’s hiring the villains, too.”

I glance out the window. It’s starting to get dark. I’ve felt a sense of looming dread for the past few days. It’s been nearly a week since Kim Era, and we don’t know when the next attack will come.

“So how do we stop the computer?” Baz asks.

“Shouldn’t we warn the government somehow?” Simon says.

“They won’t listen,” Fiona mutters.

I click to the next slide, titled EMBEZZLEMENT (SHEP).

“Your turn,” I say to Shep.

“Oh, right,” he says around a mouthful of grapes. He swallows and clears his throat. “So I leaked the embezzlement to a few big news sources. As predicted, uh… no one cared. Did y’all even see it?”

“No,” Simon says.

“Did Mage’s office address it?” Baz asks, leaning on one elbow.

“No,” Shep says. “It didn’t really ‘catch,’ so to speak. I think they’re hoping it blows over as a rumour. Even though Penny has actual proof, well. Yeah. At this point, it’s going to get lost among other news no matter what.”

“We should try again,” Simon says.

I sigh. “Honestly, at this point we have bigger things to worry about.” I click to the next slide: DEFEATING HUMDRUM. “So, here’s the plan so far. Mage will be out of town for some meeting on November 25th, in a little under two weeks. That will give us time to—” 

Shep’s phone starts ringing with the Star Wars theme, and I glare at him. “Sorry,” he says, hastily rising to his feet. “It’s work, I have to take this.” He jogs down the hallway, ducking into Simon’s open doorway. I remember a split second later that I left my bra on the bed. Then I decide I don’t care.

“I guess we’ll wait,” I say. “Pass me a cracker.”

Simon and Baz are making lovey eyes at each other and Fiona’s on her phone. No one passes me a cracker.

Simon

Penny’s been sleeping over for the entire week since Kim Era’s attack. Unfairly, she’s taken my bed and makes me sleep in Baz’s bed. (I only complain for show—his bed is much more comfortable than mine. He has a memory foam mattress.) She says it’s so what happens on Sunday doesn’t happen again; so they can keep an eye on me. 

After Sunday, it’s like all the barriers went down between Baz and me. Not that we had much hesitation about touching each other—it was more about the “couple” things, the domestic things… like sitting together, or eating off each others’ plates, or sleeping in the same bed.

Baz will murder me in cold blood if I ever tell anyone, but he’s an excellent cuddler. He’s taller than me, but he likes to be the little spoon. And when I have strange nightmares about wind and rooftops and silver swords, he’s there.

He hasn’t stopped playing with my hair this whole time, and it feels so nice. 

I seem to recall Penny asking for a cracker at some point, so I grab one and offer it to her. “I got it myself already,” she grumbles. I shrug and eat it instead.

Shep emerges from my room, holding his phone to his ear with one shoulder. His glasses are askew. “The Wavering Gardens are on fire,” he says.

“What?!” Penny nearly yells. “Is it a villain? An arsonist?”

“It could be a regular fire,” Baz says.

“Yeah, I’ll cover it. Tell Zia I’ll meet him in ten minutes,” Shep says into his phone, then hangs up. He crosses the room in three strides and swings his coat onto his shoulders. 

“Well?” Penny says.

Shep shakes his head. “No idea. Meet me there. Better get suited up,” he says to Baz and me. He dashes out the door and down the stairs, already answering another phone call.

I stare after him for a minute before being jolted into reality by Penny. “Well, you heard him, get dressed!”

I follow Baz into his room, rifling through the box to find gloves and a new mask. Baz gets suited up, and somehow we match— the golden and black tones complement each other. The new suit fits snugly, clinging protectively to my torso. It has built-in padding and new armored bits. I flex my fingers—the knuckles of my gloves are tipped with metal now.

“We look good together,” Baz says, echoing my thoughts. He’s pulling on his cape. He looks handsome without the mask on; he looks oddly natural in his outfit. I hope everything goes right tonight. (A big part of me hopes it’s just a forest fire. Just so I won’t have to see Baz get hurt.)

We emerge into the living room, where Penny and Fiona are hunched over a phone. I see images of fire on the screen.

“Let’s go,” Penny says. Baz holds the door open for everyone, and we all dash outside.

I no longer have protection from the law, but people don’t know that. To them, I can still be a hero of the city. The police are already after Baz, anyway. The chances that Mage has given him a pardon are in the negative numbers.

We have a loose plan for if this kind of thing should happen, and it involves Baz’s specialty: being absurdly dramatic. Penny and Fiona take their cars, and I hold onto Baz’s hand. We take a running start before he shoots into the air, trailing me behind him.

This time, I can actually enjoy the feeling of flight. The rush in my stomach, the wind pushing against me, the city lights smearing below us. It’s more like being dragged through the air than anything, and my arm might pop out of its socket, but it’s still a giddy rush. 

We speed toward the Gardens, and I see four fire trucks pulled up around the entrance, along with a Watford News 4 car. I catch a glimpse of Shepard, who appears to be physically restraining his photographer. 

Baz drops me as we near the ground and touches down lightly. “Where’s the arsonist?” he says.

Heads turn.

Someone gasps.

Shepard hastily wrestles his coat over his photographer’s camera lens.

Baz crosses his arms, managing to come off as condescending. “Well?”

My heart drops as I take in the scene behind the garden’s gates. It’s a gorgeous botanical garden, filled with a rainbow of flowers and trees. I’ve spent plenty of idle Sundays here walking around and keeping birds away from my sandwiches. It’s organised by region, with native plants from all over the world. Australia’s on fire. (Ironic, considering.)

Who sets fire to a botanic garden?  

I’m expecting the firefighter who answers to lead us into the Gardens, or tell us which way the arsonist ran. But instead, she points a finger toward the sky.

Baz

This is my time to shine.

I’ve never felt excited for a battle before, but I think this will be a worthy opponent.

I follow everyone’s gaze upwards and see a formidable silhouette gliding between the burning trees. Arms outstretched, pulling taut a leathery wingsuit. The wings themselves are red, illuminated from below by the glow of the fire.

Simon and I exchange a look. I hook an arm around his waist, then shoot upwards to meet the new villain.

He’s crouched on the branch of a tree barely wider than his foot, yet his stance is steady. I hover in the air in front of him. “Who are you?” Simon asks.

The man is dressed in red: a scaled, almost armored-looking, spiked material. His hair is pulled into a long black plait; it swings like a tail when he turns to look at us. His face would be handsome if it weren’t crisscrossed by burns and scars. (He looks a bit like Khal Drogo, if Khal Drogo could fly.) When he sees us, balls of fire materialise in his hands, but he doesn’t attack.

I shouldn’t be scared of him. He’s a flying, fire-throwing villain—a cheap knock-off of me, basically. But he’s nearly twice my size, even bulkier than Simon, so I cautiously float backwards a bit.

“You can call me Dragon,” he says, eyes simmering.

“Nice to meet you,” I say cheerily.

Dragon sweeps his eyes over us. “So it’s true, then. You’ve teamed up.”

Simon’s grip is so tight around my waist I can barely breathe. I don’t even know how he’s staying up. (Fucking superhero core muscles.)

“What’s your game?” he growls. 

Dragon grins, and I swear his teeth are sharpened.

Where does Mage find these people?

He crouches as if ready to pounce, then throws himself off the tree. As he dives, he suddenly throws his arms out and glides horizontally as the wingsuit catches him.

He flies downwards through a mess of bushes, heading towards the back of the gardens—and into the dense woods. “Hold on,” I tell Simon. He swings onto my back again, and, not without some difficulty, I flip us over and we plummet.

We shoot into the forest, and I say, “Two against one. We have an advantage… and he can’t fly upwards, only glide downwards.”

Dragon is standing in the glade, and his arms are two streaks of flames. This whole forest is about to go down.

Not on my watch. This is our place—Simon’s and mine—the place where it all began.

Simon murmurs to me, “You can’t fight fire with fire.”

I’m well aware. I’m hoping he’ll take the lead on this one. I don’t even bother to turn on my flamethrowers; they’ll make this infinitely worse.

I drop Simon on the ground and prepare to hover above him and defend him. The instant his feet touch the floor, he draws his sword and charges forward with a yell.

Dragon is gone in a flash, halfway up a tree before my eyes catch up. He sets the branches ablaze, and I watch the fire quickly catch and travel upwards through the leaves. Then he jumps off the tree, gliding in a straight line towards Simon.

“Si-- Blade!” I yell.

He rolls out of the way just in time, and I rush forward to meet Dragon head-on. It’s a stupid move and sends us both tumbling to the ground roughly. His suit is covered in wickedly sharpened metal spikes, and they dig into the fabric of my outfit—it will only hold for so long. I grunt and scramble for purchase, trying to flip him over, but it’s like trying to move a boulder.

A large spike on his elbow raises up, nearing my chest, and I flinch away.

“No!” 

Suddenly Dragon is yanked off me forcibly, and I look up to make quick eye contact with Simon. He hauls Dragon to his feet in a godlike display of strength and has his golden sword at the man’s neck in a flash.

I stumble to my feet next to Simon, trying to regain my breath. The fire is all around us, reflecting in Dragon’s dark eyes. Grey smoke curls toward us and upwards, choking off the air.

Dragon makes a sound that can only be described as a roar and dives sideways, setting fire to another section of bushes. Then he rushes at Simon again, hands ablaze. His armored suit blocks all of Simon’s blows, and I can only hope Simon finds a chink.

I stand there uselessly, trying to think, trying to strategise. We might not be able to defeat him with brute force. 

Dragon doesn’t seem much like the talking type. But maybe I can try.

Simon

I’m not afraid of this clown.

He’s just a scare tactic from Mage. This is what happens when you challenge me. Will he keep sending them, I wonder? 

I’ll fight every last one of them. I’ll show them—I’ll show the people that they can still believe in me. Us. (Baz and me, together. What a thought.)

Dragon roars and hurls himself at me, and I breathe out in a huff, trying to keep my limbs loose, as he makes contact. (He’s so large I think I might break a bone if I’m tense.) He topples me over, his solid mass bearing down on me. The wind is knocked aggressively from my lungs, and I grunt as my back hits the floor. I feel the damp dirt beneath me, sticks and rocks jabbing into my back. I gasp for breath and shove him away, scrambling back up to my feet.

Dragon is muscular, well-trained, and angry. 

We wrestle for a moment, each trying to gain the upper hand, and my sword falls out of my grip and to the ground. He’s slow but incredibly strong, and my torso is already aching from the hits I’ve taken. I give him an almighty push, sending both of us slipping back. He growls, coiling his entire body once again. I brace for impact.

But the next moment, my sword is at his chest. Baz is holding it.

Baz is wielding my sword.

Suddenly I understand why Vampire always flirted with me.

The sight is mind-boggling.

Baz looks fucking deadly, like a fallen angel back for revenge. His stance is poised but steady, his legs apart, his cape billowing behind him. Hellfire and intensity in his eyes. The golden sword glimmering in his grasp. My breath catches, just for a half-second, at the sight.

But I can’t let myself get distracted; I face Dragon, looking him in the eyes. He’s breathing hard, his stance feral and crouched like a wild animal. His eyes dart around; he knows he’s cornered. And he must have guessed by now that we’re both fireproof.

Baz’s arm is unwavering. “You were hired,” he says. It’s not a question.

Dragon finally straightens and stares him down. He’s no less intimidating standing like this. His hands are full of fire again, and it casts shadows on his scarred face. His shoulders are so muscular that they strain against the fabric of his suit. ’“What’s it to you?” 

“Does he know your identity?”

Dragon sneers. “What is this, a trick?”

“No one has seen your face except us,” Baz continues calmly. I’m not really sure what he’s doing, but I stand beside him like a bodyguard, ready to support whatever plan he’s come up with. “And you’ve been paid in advance.”

I don’t know how Baz can sound so confident when everything he’s saying is pure guesswork.

Dragon fixes him with a hard look.

Is Baz seriously trying to reason with this guy?

I fall into a fighting stance beside him, just in case. This plan seems a bit foolhardy to me, and Dragon looks ready to explode. The fire is closing in around us, working its way up the tree branches.

“You have two options,” Baz says, and there’s a new steel in his tone, a resolve. “Try to fight us, and end up in prison. Or in the hospital.”

It’s a threat, but he makes it sound casual. His Vampire voice always infuriated me; I can’t imagine how Dragon is feeling now. He’s still looming, nearly simmering with fury.

“Or,” Baz says, “get out. Fly away home. And leave Watford alone.”

“How do I know you won’t come after me?” Dragon says, eyes narrowing.

It’s… working.

Baz, you lunatic. You genius. This insanity might work.

His arm starts trembling, the one holding my sword. I put my hand on his shoulder, and it seems to strengthen his resolve. His arm steadies again.

“Trust me,” Baz says. “It’s in our best interests to keep this quiet.”

Dragon glares at us for a moment, weighing his options. Eventually he seems to come to the right conclusion: that we all want the same thing. “You two play a strange game,” he says.

Then he turns around, whipping his arms out to the sides. He leaps up onto a tree, then pushes off into a glide, disappearing into the woods.

The fire crackles around us. We stare into the forest for a moment, then Baz finally lowers his arm and turns to face me. 

I’m still reeling from what just happened, unsure if it was even the right thing to do.

“You let him go,” I say, feeling hollow. Like I lost the fight, even though we won, I think.

Baz pries his mask off; his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. “We did.”

“He was attacking Watford.” 

“Not because he wanted to.”

“Still… he could be dangerous,” I say. “To other places.”

Baz turns his gaze back to the forest. The fire dances in his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he says. Then he shakes his head. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

My wild-running thoughts are finally catching up to me, and this is—this is good. We can pass it off like an accidental forest fire on the news… Mage won’t get what he wants.

Baz is still holding my sword. He looks like a nightmare—if my nightmares were bloody gorgeous. 

I’d never have thought of talking to Dragon. In a way, what he did was so much braver than any hacking and slashing I could have done.

There’s more than one way to win a fight.

“Baz,” I say, and he turns back. Our eyes meet. “That was brilliant.”

He raises an eyebrow, half a smile gracing his face. “Words can have a lot of power,” he says.

I could probably take a leaf from that book once in a while. He takes a graceful step towards me, leaning his forehead against mine, and it’s like a circuit’s been completed. My hand trails up to cover his, resting on the hilt of my sword. I’m still wearing my mask, but this moment feels just as intimate as anything else we’ve done. “I’m glad to have you by my side,” I tell him.

He runs a thumb across the fabric over my mouth. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

“You said something once,” I tell him. “As Vampire. I mean, you couldn’t have known, you didn’t mean it like that, but— do you remember? You said you were my match.”

He smiles softly. “You are my match, Simon Snow.”

Baz hands me my sword and pulls his mask back on, and I follow him out of the woods.

Chapter Text

Simon

It’s mid-November, which is when the bakery always starts getting really busy. Requests pour in for fancy cakes and pastries and iced Christmas cookies for parties. We all work overtime and often hire temporary help for the last six weeks of the year.

Ebb clomps down the stairs from her office with a stack of papers in her hands, and an impending sense of horror comes over me as I realise what they are.

It’s time for interviews.

“Simon!” she says cheerily.

“Absolutely not,” I say.

“Si--”

“I’m a terrible judge of character,” I interrupt. “I can’t speak to people, have you heard me talk? I’m always, you know, I’m bad at that. So bad. Just, absolutely terrible.” I’m rambling, I’m blathering, but I would rather fight the bloody fucking Goblin Gang from last year all over again than conduct these interviews. “And I like everyone! How am I supposed to decide?”

“Simon,” Ebb says again, gently. “I’m not trying to punish you.”

“Seems like it,” I mutter.

“I want you to do this because I trust you. Plus, you’ll be the one spending the most time with the new person.”

“So will you.”

Ebb shrugs. “I actually like everyone.” She hands me the stack of files. “These are all the applications. Just pick someone.”

I rifle through the pages. “There aren’t any vegans, right?”

She snorts. “I hope not.” 

After the lunchtime rush, I always retreat to the kitchen to bake the afternoon desserts while Ebb handles the register and buses tables. We could actually use a new pastry chef, if any of these people are good enough to stay on full-time.

Ebb is an absolute natural with bread. It’s like she has some primal connection to the dough and the gluten and whatever chemical reactions are happening in there. She knows, without looking, all the ratios and timings. Bread making is a careful science, calibrated to the weather, humidity, and probably whether Venus is in the seventh house. Ebb can tell with one glance how long something has been proofing and whether I forgot the salt.

She taught me everything I know about bread.

Which is great, but it also means we’re both pants at making pastry. Ebb and I both have big, warm, callused hands; hers from growing up on a farm, mine from training and punching things. Trixie coming on a few years back, with her cold, nimble hands, was a blessing. (Maybe I’ll ask her to move to the afternoon and take over the morning shift again. Pastry problem solved.) (Never mind. Baz would set me on fire if I tromped around the flat at three in the morning.)

“Did I tell you my parents are moving back to England?” Ebb says. She’s trying to keep her tone light, but her voice gives a telltale waver.

“No,” I call from the kitchen. “From where?”

“Switzerland,” she says. She sighs heavily. “They have this charming goat farm there… I’ve always loved it. And they want to sell it.”

Ebb walks into the kitchen with an empty tray. 

“Sold out of sourdough?” I ask. She nods, and I peer into the bread racks for a replacement. “So they’re getting rid of the farm?”

We have a rustic country bread with a lovely leaf pattern on top. I pull a few loaves out and arrange them on the tray.

“I s’pose,” she says.

Ebb looks conflicted and weepy. “Do you… do you want the farm?” I ask carefully, hoping this doesn’t unleash the waterworks.

She pretends to think about it, staring at the tops of the bread loaves, but I think she’s known about this for a while. I remember our conversation from last month, and the mural on the wall—Ebb with the goats. And another conversation we had after that: that I’m busy with Golden Blade stuff, and I’m not even certain about living in Watford long-term, and it’s too soon.

I’m not scared of criminals and fire and fighting on rooftops. But I was afraid of that far-off adult thing that I didn’t think I’d have to think about for a long time. Settling down. After so long bouncing around as a kid, it’s almost a relief. But it also sends my gut spiraling into a churning mass.

Ebb said it was fine. That she’s barely turned forty, so of course it’s too soon for her to retire. It’s too soon to think about all of this.

She smiles sadly. “If things were different, maybe.” She looks up, and I understand the silent question in her eyes. But she won’t push, and she won’t make the decision for me.

Ebb walks back to the counter, and I’m staring at the swinging wooden doors, scarcely breathing.

The aftermath of the encounter with Dragon two days ago went surprisingly well. (Or, as Penny said, “According to plan, for once.”) Shepard kept the cameras away, Fiona and Penny somehow coerced the firefighters into keeping their sightings of the mysterious flying figure hush-hush, and by the time an investigation started, we had managed to pass the entire incident off as an accidental fire.

I dare to believe that Penny’s plan against Mage might work. And that once he’s gone… well, the superhero stuff might quiet down a bit.

There’s the daydream that sometimes tickles at my brain while I’m working. Wood paneling and the aroma of baking bread and spun sugar. Trixie’s rainbow flags everywhere and Baz’s absurd mocha breve drink on the menu.

Sometimes it seems like everything I love is right here. And yeah, I suppose—this bakery is like the home I never had.

In a moment of sudden clarity, I know what I want.

“Ebb,” I call, scurrying out of the kitchen. I brush my apron off and run a hand over my hair by habit, but it’s in a net. I whip the net off.

She’s staring at the mural, with the goats.

“You should take the farm,” I say a bit breathlessly. “If you want it, that is-- you should go, you should take it.”

She shakes her head, her short hair whipping about. “We talked about this, Simon. I’d have to shut down the bakery.”

“No,” I press, “you wouldn’t.” It takes me a moment to realise I’m wearing a serious, almost combative expression.

“Are you saying…”

“I’ll do it,” I say. It sounds like a concession, so I amend it. “I want to. Ebb, I love this bakery. And I’ll hire someone new, someone good… not that anyone can replace you, but…”

I hear Penny’s voice in my mind telling me that I rush into things without thinking.

A customer walks in, and Ebb distractedly rings him up before turning back to where I’m still standing, waiting for her answer. My pulse pounds in my throat.

“You want to,” she echoes.

“And I want you to be happy. And if the farm is going to make you happier, well.” I shrug. “Will it?”

She nods. “I think so. This place—well, it has a lot of memories.” Her blue eyes are watery again, and she scrubs at her face. “What changed your mind?”

I can’t bear the thought of parting with Ebb, who spent a thousand mornings teaching me how to bake. Who trusted me without question. But she seems to get mopier by the day, tired and weary.

“My, er, night job might be slowing down soon,” I say. “And I just, I don’t know, I thought about it. This bakery, it’s like a home to me.”

Ebb swallows hard, then claps me on the shoulder. “Alright, Si,” she says softly. “I’ll start the paperwork, yeah?”

I grin, and she smiles back, and I feel immense, like the ground has stretched out in front of me to form an infinite path.

Plus, if I’m the owner, I can make Trixie do the interviews.

Baz

When I get home from class, Simon is seated at the kitchen table, staring intently at a document in his hands. He looks toward the door as I enter, and leans into me when I come up behind him to wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“Do you have any lawyer friends?” he says.

I run a hand absently through his soft curls, and bits of flour fly everywhere. “Why?”

He shifts, gesturing to the paper, and I see the word LEASE stamped in large print. “I’m s’posed to move in January.”

I had forgotten that he was just subleasing. Or maybe just pushed it aside, lost in the lovely temporary domesticity we had here. I stare at the date January 1st on the page and it feels like someone’s punched the air out of me.

“Isn’t that through Mage? He didn’t cancel it?”

Simon shrugs. “I think he’s got other things on his mind.”

“Do you-- do you want to move?” My hand stills on top of his head.

He shakes me off and turns around in the chair. “No, of course not. I mean, unless you want me to,” he says, brow furrowing.

“No,” I say, too quickly. “I mean, the bakery is right here.”

What a stupid thing to say.

He grins. “Is that the only reason?”

“Yes.” I lean down to brush my lips against his cheek. “You’re an absolute nightmare of a flatmate, you know. Stretching out all my jumpers and fattening me up with delicious scones.”

Simon tilts his head and our lips meet. He murmurs, “You’re not perfect either… you leave all your jumpers in my room and eat all my food.”

I laugh against his mouth, and he tugs me down to sit beside him. We kiss in a warm, comfortable sort of way for ages—that soft kind of kiss I could never tire of. His leg curls around mine, his hands warm on my knees. He pulls back after a while and says, “Baz? D’you think this is just, like, the honeymoon phase?”

It might be. But I don’t say that. I just raise an eyebrow. “Well, we lived together while we were nemeses hell-bent on murdering each other. Anything else that might happen will pale in comparison.”

“Nemeses is not a word.”

I dart forward and kiss his forehead. “Nemeses.”

“It’s just not.”

I kiss a mole on his cheek. “Nemmmmeses,” I hum against his ear. I move down his jaw, nosing at another mole. “Nemeses.”

I know I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t help it. Simon bats me away. “You won’t convince me,” he says. He turns back to the lease. “I’ll get this cancelled,” he says, and I smile. 

Because despite the messy kitchen and the way he leaves his sword out on the couch for an unsuspecting victim to sit on, I do love living with him.

I love having him in casual proximity. I love being in each others’ periphery. I love coming home to him.

That night, Simon tells Penny and me the news about the bakery, and we celebrate with leftover cupcakes and a bottle of champagne. I’m proud of him. And something settles within me; the idea that Simon is charging forward, a superhero and a business owner now. I’ll catch up eventually. But for now he’s like the sun, and I’m just in his orbit, being tugged along for the ride.

Simon

When I walk into the bakery at six in the morning, Trixie hands me a thick envelope.

“It’s addressed to you,” she says. “I came in and it was just sitting in the middle of the counter. At three in the morning.”

I turn it over in my hands. It’s a thick, cream-colored stationery. My name is printed clearly on the back, along with the address of the bakery. The design on the wax seal looks familiar…

My stomach drops. It’s the Mayor’s seal—I see it on the manhole cover every time I take my car out. (Is my car still there, I wonder? Maybe he took it away.)

“Was there anyone here?” I ask.

Trixie’s standing more still than I’ve ever seen her in this kitchen. She toys with her sleeves nervously, exposing her colourful tattoos. “No. But… the front door was unlocked. Open, actually. I thought maybe Ebb had forgotten.”

“She didn’t.” I glance around, even though it’s only us in the kitchen. “How…”

I stare at the seal on the envelope, then pop it open. Two items are folded together inside.

I recognise Mage’s handwriting on the first sheet of paper. Just one line, in slightly smeared golden ink:
Cf. our meeting last week. 

The second item is an official-looking packet with several sheets stapled together, and the heading on the first page says DEMOLITION NOTICE. 

I scan the page, my heart beating hard. Building deemed unsafe by city ordinance… 15 day notice… 

My eyes catch on the bakery’s address. It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room. I freeze. It’s-- it’s… fuck.

 “Trixie,” I say.

She’s returned to the table to brush the tops of the poppy seed buns with egg wash. I scan the document again, but still don’t understand why he’s sent this to me or what it has to do with our meeting last week—the one where he told me to retire.

The one where he told me to retire.

“Trixie,” I say again, turning over the pages as if it’ll reveal invisible ink. I hold the document to the light, but everything remains the same. She finally comes back over to look at it. 

“That’s…” Trixie finally says. “They want to… what? Why? Can they do that?”

I swallow. “This isn’t-- these aren’t real,” I say, because they can’t be. “Our building’s perfectly safe. They’re not-- it’s just. No.” 

I want to tear these pages up and burn them. I want to storm over to Town Hall and run Mage through with my sword. 

He can threaten me. Fine. He can ‘suggest’ all he wants, he can make me retire, he can take my fancy car and my sword. He can strip me of the title of Golden Blade for all I care.

But no one fucking touches this bakery.

“They have the official seal,” Trixie points out helpfully.

“I know,” I snap. She steps back. “Sorry. I just-- this is my fault, I-- fuck.”

I throw the papers off to the side and they violently slide across the counter, upsetting a pile of napkins. I stop Trixie before she can clean it up and bend down to do it myself.

“How’s it your fault?”

My stomach is curling in on itself; I think I might be sick.

I hate Mage. I hate how he can abuse his power like this, how he can make me feel so helpless with one printed document.

Maybe I should have listened to him. If I’d stopped, if I hadn’t fought Dragon…

I can’t stop imagining Ebb’s look of fear and disappointment when she finds out about this. She trusted me with this bakery and now it’s going to be leveled because of me--

That hurts to think about. It pierces sharp in my chest. I’m crouched on the floor, surrounded by the spilled napkins, and I try to school my breathing.

I always thought the bakery would be safe.

But by being who I am, I’ve put it in jeopardy. 

I should quit right now and hand in my apron and keys… 

He couldn’t hurt me directly. So he’s come after what I love the most. My second home (or maybe my first). My place.  

Trixie’s still watching me, wide-eyed. 

I feel like I might cry. I clench my jaw and my fists. “Because,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “I might have pissed Mayor Mage off a little bit.”

“Simon…”

“I know. I--” I open my eyes and stare at the wall. “Fuck, I just--” I press my palms into the cold metal of the table. 

I’ve really fucked this up.

And I’ve let them all down. This is my fault, my fault--

“I, um, I need some air.” I push past Trixie, through the double doors to the bakery. The clock ticks towards seven o’clock. Not that a walk will solve any of this. What the fuck do I do?

I leave the bakery and turn to stare at it. My throat still feels uncomfortably tight.

I can’t lose this bakery. I can lose everything else—I already have. I’ve never known my family, never had a real home. But things were finally coming together for me, with this apartment and Baz and Penny and this--

The bakery was it. My first love and my deepest.

It starts raining as I circle the block. I hurry back to work. I shouldn’t, I’m endangering everyone just by being there, but I don’t have any better ideas. I swallow and swallow around the lump in my throat and the bursting in my chest and let the rain scrub my face clean before I go back inside, dripping water everywhere.

He can’t take the bakery. He can’t.

Baz

Something’s… off.

I step up to the door of my flat and slide my key into the lock. But it’s turned the wrong way—it’s already unlocked. 

That’s impossible. I triple-checked that I locked it this morning. I hesitate a moment before stepping inside. The doormat has been vacuumed clean.

At first glance, the flat looks nice. And then I realise it looks too nice—everything is dusted and polished. The hardwood floors have been swept and waxed; I can practically see my reflection in them. My eyes linger on the coffee table, where I left some notes from class last night. They’ve been gathered into a neat pile. The books are stacked and alphabetised.

I turn to examine the kitchen. The counter is clear of crumbs and shining up at me. The dishes in the sink have been washed, dried, and put away. 

Everything smells of lemons. 

What the hell?

Did a bloody cleaning company break into our flat? Did my ex-boyfriend return to exact his lemony revenge?

The door to my room is ajar.

It’s the middle of the afternoon but I still check all the corners. Hiding places. The air is so still.

I enter my room with some trepidation and see a package perched on the bed. It’s wrapped in golden paper. I take a panicked step backwards and accidentally bump into the door, slamming it closed.

I attempt to school my breathing. It’s just a box. Just a box. Innocent enough.

Nothing about this screams innocent. My heartbeat floods into my ears.

My bed is perfectly made; the covers smoothed, the pillows fluffed. Hospital corners better than I could ever hope to achieve. 

Someone was here. They got that message across, at least. I feel trapped and jumpy. 

I sit down and pick up the package. It’s not too heavy. It feels like a book, maybe.

A note is attached with writing scribbled in gold ink: Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. I turn over the paper to find the Mayor’s seal printed on it. 

My heart stops.

I carefully tear open the wrapping… and nearly snort in disbelief. No. This must be a joke.

It’s fucking Twilight.

Is someone having me on? I stare around the room again. My clean laundry I’d left in the hamper has been folded. The room smells of lemon-- Christ. I’d think this was Simon’s idea of a prank if I didn’t know that he’s incapable of cleaning this thoroughly.

But that seal is unmistakable. This is unsettling enough that it seems plausible at this point. 

The book cracks open as if it’s never been touched. I carefully leaf through the pages, most of which are unmarked. 

On page 133, there’s one word alone in a paragraph. It’s underlined: Vampire. And a note with three scribbled words that send my stomach plummeting to the floor.

It has to be Mage.

My heart’s beating an erratic rhythm, and the book falls sideways onto the bed as my hands fumble. He knows-- How does he know?

I would run to the bakery right now but I’m almost afraid to leave with the flat in this state. My neck feels like something is creeping up the back of it.

The pieces click together suddenly. This place is spotless, which means every centimetre of this place has been searched. Thoroughly. 

I skirt around my bed to find the hidden catch. I pull, and a drawer slides free. I hold my breath as I undo the lock— please be there— and release it when I spot the pile of black clothing inside. Thank fuck they didn’t find it. I unfold my Vampire suit and lay it out on the bed where I can see it.

It reminds me of my mission, of my drive. The reason I’m here in the first place, the reason Mage is after me. I can’t think about Mage without twin fires burning within me, reminding me what I’ve lost—my mother, all those years ago. And what I have to lose—Watford, our home, her legacy. 

Mage has revealed his true colours, and I’m beginning to think Fiona was right about him all along. Maybe he really did… 

I shudder a breath and press my palms hard into my eye sockets.

I won’t give him what he wants. I won’t be scared off by his threats.

I pick up Twilight again and a piece of paper flutters out from between the pages. It’s a drawing; gorgeous, really. Sweeping lines and rich colours. Scaly red wings and a bloom of fire across the page. An artist’s rendering of a dragon.

A dragon… 

I pace, stare and stare at the book, and text Bunce: Any way Mage could have found out about my identity? I have to retype it three times because my hands are shaking. She asks if anyone saw my face during the fight with Dragon.

Right. It’s not hard to parse this code Mage has left me. 

I took off my mask… after Dragon was gone.

Fuck.

I let him go, didn’t I? Even though I didn’t know where his loyalties were. He could have been hiding in the darkness of the trees—he could have seen it all. He could have reported back to Mage. He did, if I’m to believe this cryptic message. 

(I didn’t listen to Bunce—I should have. She’s condescending but it’s because she’s always right.)

I feel like the world’s largest imbecile.

I can’t believe how idiotic I’ve been. (That’s meant to be Snow’s specialty.) We’re all in danger now. This was never meant to become so all-encompassing. 

This is all my fault.

Mage knows who I am. He knows where I live… and who I live with. And the more I stare at the clues he’s left me, the clearer his message becomes: Stay out of my way, or the world will know.

Simon

I’m so distracted the rest of the morning that I fuck up two entire batches of scones and have to throw them in the bin. I don’t think I’ve ever made such unsalvageable scones before—even the very first time I tried to make them.

I think about just leaving a few times, but, well, I don’t. Because I don’t do that. And if I can face down flying villains, I can talk to Ebb about this…

Trixie didn’t pry when I got back. But she also didn’t assure me that it isn’t my fault. (Because it is my fault, fuck.) She just told me that I’d better fix it.

I intend to. Somehow.

But it’s ten o’clock and I decided to make crème brûlées of all blasted things today—because they’re easy, I suppose—but I keep fucking spilling them because I’m shaking. I feel cold-- I’m almost never cold. And I’m standing in front of an oven, for god’s sake.

The bell tinkles as I close the oven. I blow out a breath and steel myself before picking up the letter from Mage and stepping out to the counter.

“Hey, Simon,” Ebb says brightly. Her smile falls when she sees the look on my face. “Something wrong?”

“I, um. Yeah, it’s just--” The words never come when I want them to. I thrust the pages at her instead. “Mayor Mage, um.” The words feel cottony in my mouth.

Ebb takes the papers from me and flicks through, looking increasingly concerned. “Let’s get some privacy, yeah?” she says softly. I nod and place a little sign on the counter that says Back Soon!

I follow Ebb upstairs to her office, gnawing furiously on my bottom lip. She shrugs off her coat and gestures to a squashy armchair. I feel too nervous to sit down, but I perch on the edge anyway. Ebb takes a seat behind her desk, spreading out the papers in front of her.

The room looks more like a den than an office. The windows are draped in soft curtains, the walls paneled with the same warm dark wood as the bakery. A fluffy rug lies underfoot and several soft furniture pieces are scattered about. The only remotely office-like thing is Ebb’s desk, which is littered with goat figurines and empty mugs. (That’s something we have in common—never cleaning up our mugs.)

I take a deep breath and speak before Ebb can say anything. “They’re not real plans,” I say. “Well, they’re-- more like a threat, actually.”

Ebb runs her fingers over the Mayor’s seal on the first page. (Her hands are soft and squared all at once—bread-making hands.) “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Mage is just trying to get at me,” I explain. I shift and sit on my hands to quell some of the panicked feelings rising in my chest. “He’s coming after the bakery because-- he knows I care about it. Jesus fuck, I’m sorry, Ebb.”

“What does he want from you?” she says.

“What?”

“You said it’s a threat,” she says, surprisingly calm for someone who’s leafing through plans to demolish her life’s work. “What does he want?”

I shift in the chair. “He wants me to stop being Blade.”

Ebb looks up, then, brow furrowed. “What?”

“He thinks I’m attracting the villains.”

She shakes her head. “That’s a load of goat shit if I’ve ever heard it. Watford needs you, don’t we? More than ever.”

Not like this. Not at the expense of the bakery.

“I just--” I scrub at my cheek with an unsteady hand. “If I call him and say that-- that I won’t, that I’ll stop, maybe he’ll leave the bakery alone.”

“Simon,” Ebb says. “I believe in you. In Blade.”

I shake my head.

“This is a scare tactic,” she says, waving the papers at me. “I don’t know the full story, but if you think you need to keep being Blade, then you should.”

I groan into my palm. “I won’t put you guys in danger like that. I’ll quit--”

“You’re not quitting.” Something hardens in Ebb’s ice-blue eyes. “Mayor Mage can pry this bakery from my cold, dead hands. We will fight for you, Simon. We all have each others’ backs around here, yeah?”

I know Ebb loves me—she’s said as much. But I’m still shocked at how fiercely she cares. I’m overwhelmed by how she’s willing to support me, no questions asked, at the expense of everything.

I swallow around the lump in my throat, but my voice still comes out as a whisper. “I wouldn’t ask that of you…”

“You’re not.” She sets the papers down with a smack. “But it’s just what we do around here.”

“Baz?”

The flat is so clean. Like, I could lick crumbs off the floor and I’d be fine. Not that there are any crumbs to lick. The kitchen looks like a bloody IKEA catalog.

“In here.” 

I toe off my shoes and walk down the hallway, nearly slipping on the freshly-mopped floors. Everything’s so tidy—I’m starting to wonder if Baz had a mental breakdown… or hired a cleaning service?

I peek into his room. He’s seated on the edge of his bed, his face obscured by his dark hair. “Hey, I need to talk to you about--”

And then I notice what he’s clutching in a death grip. “Is that… are you reading Twilight?”

“I’m shocked you think so poorly of me,” he says with a dry smirk, looking up at me. 

I attempt a smile, but he seems on edge, and I’ve noticed other things now—the gold wrapping paper strewn across the floor, for one. His Vampire outfit spread out on top of the covers.

“So…”

Baz tilts his head, and I join him on the edge of his bed. He opens the book carefully, and I see the word Vampire underlined and, in Mage’s handwriting, a note in the margins.

I know everything.

I suck in a breath. “Mage,” I breathe.

He clears his throat. “It was with this.” He hands me a painting of a red dragon. “You were right,” he says. He won’t meet my eyes. “I’ve been incredibly stupid.”

“You’ve not--”

“Mage knows. He knows, and it’s my fault. I let Dragon go…”

Baz can’t be feeling bad about Dragon. What he did was incredibly smart and noble and it was… well, it was right, wasn’t it? It showed me that things aren’t black and white. And that Baz is an ex-villain but he’s more heroic than I’ll ever be.

“It’s not your fault,” I press. “Mage… he’s well corrupt, isn’t he?”

“Understatement of the century, Snow.”

I almost tell him about the bakery—I’ve been bursting to talk to him, actually—but he looks so fucking crestfallen right now that I think it’ll make it worse. I can tell he’s beating himself up on the inside. 

“We still need to stop him,” Baz says quietly, finally looking up. His grey eyes are serious, his mouth drawn tightly. His hair’s twisted into knots—he ties and reties it when he gets stressed. 

I glance back at the words written in the book. I know everything. Shards of panic poke at my stomach. Our plan isn’t foolproof. If he ends up in prison, or worse… I’ll never forgive myself.

I mean, at this point we could both end up in jail. We all could. I suppose it should be a small concern compared to Watford becoming some sort of dystopian hellzone run by a madman, but my thoughts keep flashing to the bakery and Baz and the autumn leaves on our street.

“No,” I insist. “Not like this. Not at the expense of your safety, Baz--”

“If Watford goes under the way he plans, nobody will be safe,” Baz snarls. “And it’s no more danger than I’ve been in before.”

“But--” The book. The painting. The bakery. The way my stomach is turning over and over at the mere thought of standing up to Mage. “This is blackmail. He’s playing dirty. There’s got to be another way.”

“The plan is fine, Simon.”

“Mage will out you as Vampire before we even get a chance to go through with the plan!”

“And who does that matter to?” Baz says. “My uncle? I couldn’t care less about the election at this point.”

Doesn’t he see? Mage will bring the walls crashing down—or rather, rising up. There has to be something else. 

I can’t stand the thought of Baz’s secret being known. 

“You’d be… I don’t know.” I don’t think I can say it aloud. “Locked up.”

I stare at Baz’s hands clenched in his lap.

He’d be locked up somewhere and I’d have to go see him on weekends and speak to him on the phone with the plexiglass between us, like in the films. He’d have to wear one of those garish yellow and green prison suits. (He’d throw a fit about that.)

If I’m found out… well, that’s fine, isn’t it? I have good ratings. People like me.

But the truth is that I’d rather disappear and be a nobody and a bakery owner than remain Blade and lose it. Even though every cell in my body is screaming fight.

“Maybe you should get your priorities straight,” Baz says. He’s got a strange set to his jaw just now; quivering and solid all at once. (It reminds me of Kylo Ren a bit. Bloke always looks like he’s about to burst into tears.)

“What priorities?” I sputter. “Who the hell do you think has been protecting Watford this entire time--”

“And now you want to abandon it? When it needs you most?” He still has that angry-crying face on and I want to reach out and smooth over the corners of his mouth.

I don’t know why he’s twisting my words like this. I’m used to fighting with Baz. I mean, it’s all we used to do. But this feels like something else… something sharp and sour.

Of course I don’t want to abandon Watford. But this is bigger than us, and maybe it wasn’t our fight to begin with. 

I thought I’d taken the right lesson from Baz: that sometimes, hacking and slashing isn’t the answer. And that you can’t do everything yourself. Sometimes you have to ask for help. Sometimes you’re not the right person for the job, and that’s okay.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” I growl. “Just that there’s another way.”

“Mage took my mother from me,” Baz snarls. “He took everything. He’s not taking Watford, too.”

His mother?

“He won’t--”

“He will,” Baz says, eyes flashing, “unless we do something.”

Mage has the higher ground. And we have everything to lose. 

But we’re in this together. We’re a team. Baz believes in us. 

And if Baz is willing to risk it, then, well… so am I.

I slip my fingers between his and give his hand a squeeze. I meet his gaze with a piercing stare of my own (it’s my superhero stare—I used to practise in the mirror). “Okay,” I say. “We will. Together.”

He closes his eyes and tips forward to press our foreheads together, and I breathe him in and think, This is it. This is everything.

Penny

It’s too soon.

It’s the day after the dual threats from Mage; plans for demolition, cryptic notes in bad YA novels. November 21. Our plan was for Monday, and we’re still waiting on a shipment of new clothes from Fiona’s contact. 

I wish I could be surprised by this, but I knew Mage wouldn’t play by any of the rules, even his own.

I’m scrolling through the news alerts on my phone as I run towards the bakery—it’s faster than driving, there’s never parking—and I nearly body-slam someone on the corner. “Sorry,” I say, not looking up as I hurry down the street.

“Penny?”

I turn to see a familiar face. “Shepard, what--” 

Blessedly, he falls into step with me, and I keep walking. I have to take two or three steps for every one of his.

“Thank god I ran into you, I was getting lost,” he says. 

“What are you doing here?” My phone is still buzzing like mad, but I clutch it in one fist and try not to look. 

“Saw the news,” he says. “BBC—you saw it, right? I would’ve called but I was already in the area…”

“Yeah. Come on.” I lead him around another corner to Watford Bakery. “Be discreet,” I say, and push the door open.

Simon’s not at the register, but Ebb is. I stride right up to it, nearly elbowing a customer in the process. I wait half a second for the girl to finish giving her order before I lose patience and gesture frantically at Ebb.

“Just a moment,” she tells the girl. “Penny? Something wrong?”

“Where’s Simon?” I hiss.

Her blonde eyebrows shoot up. “He’s in my office doing interviews. Don’t--”

I turn around, knocking Shepard with my hip in the process, and storm towards the staircase.

“...interrupt them,” Ebb finishes with a sigh. I hear her apologising to the customer as I walk upstairs.

“So much for discreet,” Shepard says from behind me.

“Shut up.”

I rap loudly on the door, then open it without waiting for an answer. “Simon.”

He’s seated at Ebb’s desk, wearing his glasses and smiling at a dark-haired guy with a septum piercing. He holds up a finger in my direction as he finishes scribbling notes, but this can’t wait.

“Simon,” I say again. “We have to go. Right now.”

He finally looks up. “Penny, I’m working--”

“Now,” I say, pushing as much urgency into my tone as I possibly can.

“Please,” Shepard says.

Simon stares at me for another second, then pushes his chair out and stands up. He turns back to his interviewee. “Sorry, Dev. Let’s reschedule, yeah?”

I yank his sleeve and nearly drag him out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. As soon as we’re outside, he says, “This had better be serious, Pen.”

Shep and I exchange a glance. I pull up the BBC article and hand Simon my phone. “There was just a major security breach at 10 Downing Street. Power outage, phone lines down. London’s about to go on full lockdown.”

Simon’s sharp intake of breath is audible. “It’s early,” he says.

“I know we were supposed to have more time,” I say, “but this is it.”

We reach the flat and Simon fumbles with the lock. Baz is folding laundry on the couch, and he looks up curiously at the sight of all three of us at the door, flushed from our speed-walk here. 

“It’s time,” Simon says grimly. 

Baz doesn’t look shocked or rushed. He just stands up, looking determined.

Shepard actually grins. “Suit the fuck up, buckos.”

Chapter Text

credit: subpar-selkie

Fiona

Penelope Bunce figured it out first. I wasn’t surprised. She didn’t act like it was a big deal, either; just called me in the middle of the afternoon on Tuesday. 

“Come to the flat and bring your suit,” she says when I pick up the phone.

“What happened?”

“Mage,” she says. “He started early.”

Fucking hell.

I’m already drafting up an email for the boss and closing down my laptop. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Fiona?”

“Yeah.”

“Baz mentioned his mother to Simon yesterday,” she begins carefully. I’m sure she did some digging. I’d not be surprised if she’s written up a seven-volume family history by now.

“And?”

“I know you’re just in this for revenge,” she says. “Maybe you and Baz both…”

I’m almost afraid of what she’ll say next. (Almost.)

“But that’s fine with me.” 

I laugh. “I didn’t expect that from you, Bunce.”

“I mean. You’re doing the right thing. The reasons don’t matter so much.”

I sling my purse over my shoulder and walk out of the office. “Fair enough.”

“Did the new clothes arrive, by any chance?”

“Yeah. I’ll swing by my place and get them.” 

“Thanks. See you soon,” she says, and hangs up.

The stakes are high, and I’m serious about taking out Mage—whatever it takes. 

Baz once told me I have a fire under my ass for no reason. But after yesterday’s events, I think he’s lit a flame of his own. I can’t say I’m not proud.

Simon

Baz’s face is pinched with nerves as he faces the long mirror that hangs on the wall. I follow him into his room and shut the door behind me.

“You’re done already?” he says.

I nod; I got fully dressed in under five minutes. (A year of superhero quick changes has prepared me for this moment.) I lean casually against his door and wink. “Just came to watch the show.”

“You’re relentless,” he says, but he lets me stay.

The un-making of Baz Pitch starts like this:

He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off fluidly. I watch the muscles of his back move and contract. His skin is a smooth expanse (I have enough moles for the both of us) as he steps out of his trousers. He pulls off his socks and goes back to the mirror in just his pants.

Everything about Baz’s body is perfect. His wiry, taut muscles, coiled under the surface of his tanned skin. His narrow shoulders and hips. The way he’s all legs, and those thighs— his thighs should be illegal. (Technically, they are. He is.) He’s got a dusting of black hair across his chest, and my eyes cling to it, following the trail all the way down his stomach. 

Even when Baz is mostly-naked, he holds himself with complete confidence. Like everyone else is doing something wrong by being clothed.

I want to tell him he’s gorgeous. I want every bit of his skin pressed against me. But instead I say, “We’re in a rush, you know.”

His eyes cut over to me, teasing. “Shut up, Blade. You’re enjoying this.”

Baz calling me Blade sends a little swoop through my stomach, and I send a cheeky grin his way.

He ruffles his hair in the mirror, then grabs a comb and makes a perfect little knot at the base of his neck. (He has a scar on the side of his neck. I wonder how he got it; was it me? God knows he’s given me my fair share of burn marks.)

Baz is drawn in bold, graceful lines; he’s all darkness and sharp edges.

Then he taps something on his phone, and “Changes” by David Bowie comes on. He gives me a little wink. He stares in the mirror and takes a deep breath. His face moves, his features settling, his composure rising up like a wall.

The making of Vampire goes like this:

Thin, tight long pants. Even tighter undershirt. They’re both made of that fancy material. Magic socks.

He pulls on a high-collared top—it’s leather and something else armoured, and he somehow zips it deftly up the back. (I can barely do my own velcro.) With his hair pulled back like that, his jawline cuts sharply against the black material.

His signature leather trousers. (I send up a silent thanks to the god of arses and leather. I’m sure it’s the same god, right?) He snaps out a black belt and loops it around his waist. 

“Like what you see?”

“Your arse is a crime in those trousers,” I deadpan, voicing my thoughts from earlier.

Baz raises an eyebrow. “My arse is always a crime. Literally. Remember—supervillain? Wanted by multiple authorities--”

“You’re ruining it. Shut up and let me flirt with you.”

Surprisingly, he does.

The cape is next. He swings it around dramatically and fastens it to two loops built into his shoulder pads. 

He slips his gloves on and flexes his fingers.

I’ve literally seen Baz naked, but for some reason watching him get dressed is one of the most erotic things I’ve ever witnessed. Watching him put himself together, put on his persona. It’s like Vampire is coming together, puzzle piece by puzzle piece.

He’s nearly done.

His shoes are larger than I expected. Do they have platforms? He lifts each one up and checks something, pulling long wires from each. He carefully threads the wires up his trouser legs and through his shirt, pulling them out at his wrists. A strangely shaped piece of metal dangles from each end.

He tucks his shirt in, refastens his belt, then steps into the boots.

“Your shoes--”

He huffs a laugh. “You’ve always wondered how I fly.”

I stare at the clunky boots. “Really?”

Baz grasps the triggers at his wrists and pulls. Then he starts to levitate, and now that it’s not the middle of the night I can see the puffs of exhaust pouring out from the bottoms of the shoes. I don’t even know how he’s balancing— superior core strength? Sheer stubbornness? 

I gape for a moment. I can’t believe I hadn’t figured it out after all this time.

“It’s like Iron Man.”

Baz puts a finger to his lips. “Our secret, Simon.”

I have so many questions.

When he walks past me again to get his mask from the bed, I reach for his wrist and hold fast. “Yes?”

“C’mere,” I say, and pull him into me. I kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re the hottest superhero I’ve ever seen,” I murmur into his lips.

He kisses me back, then pulls back. “I’m not a superhero,” he says.

“What are you, then?”

“A bloke in a fancy suit.”

I look up into his grey eyes. They’re darker today, serious. And he may look like this on the outside, but I know he’s nervous as hell. “Then so am I. The superhero part is all in here.” I tap my head.

Baz rolls his eyes. “That’s the most stereotypical hero thing you’ve ever said.”

“Well, it’s true. You’re a superhero,” I insist. I kiss him again, hard. “And a damn sexy one at that.”

I fist his collar and mess up his perfect bun and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until Penny shouts at us from the other side of the door.

Penny

Everyone looks good in a domino mask.

I mean, they’re inherently badass, right? So it’s not that Shepard looks particularly good in a domino mask—it’s just that everyone looks good in a domino mask.

Still. 

It’s gold, and it looks stunning against his dark skin. And I’m staring at us in the mirror and thinking yeah, it’s great to match, to look like a team. Except Simon went and got a new costume that matches Baz’s… so now Shepard and I just look like a couple.

I’ve the purple shirt and skirt on again, with my new cloak. I like it even better than a cape. It’s functional and cool. (Shepard got us these special anti-choking clasps.) Makes me feel like Stevie Nicks. I’m grateful for it, because in typical Watford fashion, it’s started raining while we were getting dressed. I’m wearing another layer underneath everything, made of the protective fabric Fiona ordered for us.

Shep looks like my complement. He somehow matches me, Simon, and Baz all at once; black clothing on the inside and a deep purple, flowy cape. With that, his tall, confident stature, and the gold mask, he almost looks like royalty. 

The effect is somewhat ruined by the dozen or so colourful pins he’s stuck to the cape, but he claimed it needed a bit of personality.

He winks into the mirror and runs a hand across his hair. “I’ve never felt cooler in my entire life. Like, not even when I stormed Area 51 in September.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You actually went to that?”

“Duh. What if they actually found something and I missed out? I would’ve never forgiven myself.”

I fix my hair and fit my mask to my face, pulling the strap around my head. “You know this is serious, right?”

He meets my eyes in the mirror. “Completely. Are you worried?”

“A bit.”

“About being arrested?”

“No,” I say. “My mother’s the chairwoman of city council. We’ll be fine, I think.”

“Well, in that case.” He grins. “We can take a sec to admire how awesome we look like this, right?”

“I suppose that’s part of the job description,” I say, grinning back.

Shep’s face suddenly falls. “I just realised-- we forgot to come up with a superhero name for me.”

I almost laugh at how distressed he looks about it, and I pat his arm sarcastically. “That’s easy. Captain Chatterbox.”

“Hey!”

“Would you prefer something a little more posh? Perhaps The Wordslinger?”

“That has a ring to it, but I think I need to go back to my roots.”

I roll my eyes. Americans. “Yes, please remind us where you’re from again. We all keep forgetting.”

“Omaha Outlaw,” he says excitedly. He looks as if he’s discovered sliced bread, not a stupid alliterary nickname.

“Right, and while we’re at it I’ll just refer to you as… Buckaroo.” I grimace. 

“Buckaroo?”

“The Lone Ranger. Yeehaw Cowboy.”

“Hearing the word ‘yeehaw’ in your accent is a whole new level,” Shepard says seriously. “Anyway, I think Omaha Outlaw sounds good. It’s cool, right?”

“It’s a bit on the nose, I think. You might as well put a sign over your head that says, ‘NOT SHEPARD.’”

“Now there’s an idea…” He grins at me as he snaps his gloves on, then jerks his head toward the hall. “Come on, let’s get the guys.”

Simon and Baz tumble out of Baz’s bedroom fully dressed, thankfully, but a little flushed. (They need to learn timing, truly.) 

Fiona emerges from the kitchen and presses a protein bar into each of our hands. “Keep your energy up, kiddos.”

Simon glares at me and Shepard. “Am I the only one without a cape now?”

I unwrap my bar and reach for the TV remote, tuning in to Watford Local News 4. Agatha’s face appears on the screen, and I roll my eyes—ever since she said she wants nothing to do with our “insane plan,” she’s been ignoring all of my attempts to contact her. 

“...my last day here at Watford News,” she says with a soft smile. “But it is shaping up to be quite an eventful day, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t know the half of it.

Agatha covers what they know of the security breach so far. “Sources from Town Hall state that Watford is highly considering a temporary city-wide lockdown,” she says.

Shepard pulls out his work mobile, mutters, “Seventeen missed calls,” and chucks it across the room. “Kobe,” he adds as it slots neatly between the couch cushions.

“Okay, people. Does everyone know the plan?” I point at Baz. “Go.”

He fusses with his hair. “Fiona and I fly into Mage’s office and restrain him.”

“If he’s not there,” Fiona adds, “we search the secret lair, then the rest of Town Hall.”

“Right,” I say. “Meanwhile, Shep and Simon will guard the exits and I’ll turn off any cameras and alarms, then head to the lair to start dismantling the supercomputer .”

“And we’ll get some answers out of Mage about how to shut down HUMDRUM,” Fiona says. She grins in a feral way. “However we need to.”

I close my eyes. “No torture, Fiona.”

“We’ll stick to normal interrogation methods,” Baz promises.

Simon tilts his head. “Why don’t we just… bash it?”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Really, this again?”

“Because the building’s set on top of a natural gas line,” I explain impatiently. It’s a recent revelation, one I discovered through a set of blueprints in Mage’s emails. I told everyone about it a few days back. “So if sparks fly, the building might explode.”

“Oh, right.” 

“Bashing it is a last resort,” I say. “Which reminds me.” I turn to Baz. “You have an alternate weapon, right? No fire.”

He nods grimly. “I’ve my flamethrowers on in case I need to use them elsewhere. But Fiona lent me some knives as well.”

“You’re bollocks with them, though,” Simon mutters.

“Shut up, Snow.”

“Anyway,” I cut in, “Mage may or may not be clued in on our activities. Primarily, you guys need to buy me time while I shut down HUMDRUM.”

“And gather evidence, don’t forget,” Shep adds. He’s since dug his phone out of the couch and holds it up now. “Once the coast is clear, I’ll call my detective friends from Watford PD.”

“And what if Mage is clued in?” Baz says. “He said he knows everything.”

I blow out a breath. “Well. I’m not expecting a big fight. But prepare for one anyway.”

Baz

We zoom through the tunnel towards downtown in Simon’s Tesla. (Model S, 2018. Custom chrome-gold.)

Whoever Mage hired searched our flat, but didn’t take Simon’s sword or car keys. It’s part of how I convinced him the threat might be empty. In reality, I just think Mage doesn’t truly believe Simon would turn against him.

He’s letting me drive. He’s put on more Bowie—“Heroes”, which is fitting, considering—and I’m thinking about everything that’s led to this moment. Somehow. Coincidences lining up, timing gotten right and wrong. All the fighting and the plotting and the mysteries being revealed.

I had been sure The Golden Blade would be the end of me, the end of Vampire, at least. Now I’m almost sure I want a future with the man sitting next to me. 

But today determines if that future is cut short or not.

This is better than fighting each other. It’s also much, much scarier.

I dart a glance over at Simon, and he’s already looking over at me with something soft in his expression. He looks like he might reach over, but the tender moment is cut short by the bickering in the backseat.

“Outlaw? Seriously?” Fiona is saying to Shepard. “You work in a news studio.”

“Yeah, but I still live dangerously,” he defends.

Penny snorts. “Didn’t you almost cry when you got a parking ticket--”

“We don’t talk about that.”

“Honestly, have you ever broken a law?” Fiona says. 

“I, uh… I pirated a movie once.”

“That doesn’t count,” Fiona and Penny say in unison.

“I swear I’m rebellious,” he says. “I even jaywalk sometimes.”

“We’re almost there,” I interrupt, tilting my head. “Are you all ready?”

“Park under the chapel,” Simon says, pointing ahead.

Except as we approach the parking garage underneath the White Chapel, I see flashing multicoloured lights bouncing off the walls. I slow down, then slam the brakes when I see the cars waiting for us.

We’ve driven straight into an ambush.

Simon

“Baz,” I say in a low, urgent voice, “switch with me.”

“What?”

I clamber over the center console and halfway into his lap. “Go on.” He scoots over and lifts himself into the passenger seat. I steady my hands on the wheel and turn around. “What’s happening?”

“Mage knows about the tunnel. I didn’t even think of it,” Penny says. She’s twisting her hands together like she does when she’s nervous.

I try to keep composed and think. “Okay. They’re only expecting me. You lot: get out.”

“What? No,” Baz says.

“Out,” I insist. “At least you and Fiona-- you can fly back down the tunnel and go to Town Hall.”

“If they know you’re here, then Mage has definitely been warned,” Fiona says. “He won’t be in his office.”

“He’ll be somewhere,” I say. This is the only good option, and they have a chance right now to go; why won’t they listen?

“Yeah, in an apocalypse bunker,” Baz snaps. He leans his head back. “Fuck.”

An engine revs up loudly from the direction of the police cars, and we have approximately ten seconds before they’re on us. “Out, now!” I shout, and three car doors open and close as everyone scrambles out of their seats. 

“I’m staying,” Shepard says. He slides down from his spot in the middle seat and crouches on the floor.

“What? No--”

“I don’t need to be at Town Hall until later,” he says quickly. “And you might need a getaway driver.”

We don’t have time to argue. If he wants to drive into this trap with me, he can. “Fine.”

“Be careful,” Penny says. She’s holding onto Baz’s hand, and for some reason that image calms my nerves.

As soon as they disappear in the opposite direction, I creep forward. Tires screech and in a matter of seconds I’m surrounded by cars. Except they’re not standard police cars—they’re painted deep green and stamped with the Mayor’s seal. 

A voice blares at me through a megaphone: “Golden Blade, you are under arrest for unlawful vigilante activities. Please step out of the car unarmed with your hands in the air.” 

These aren’t even real police. I roll my window down and give a charming, superhero-worthy smile. “Hello. I see you’ve caught me on my casual evening drive.”

Shepard snorts behind me.

I try to affect my speech, but I’m too nervous to keep up my Blade voice, so I just lapse into my normal tone. They’ve already seen my face, anyway—my mask is sitting crumpled in the passenger seat. 

“Don’t play games with us, Blade.” The man with the megaphone is also outfitted in green, the same seal embroidered in gold on his breast pocket. 

I wrap my fingers around the door handle, but don’t open it. 

“Step out of the car,” the man says. “You have the right to remain silent.”

There are eight men in total, two in each car. Several of them form a ring around my car. They seem to have batons, not guns, but could easily be concealing small pistols. They all wear the Mayor’s seal.

These aren’t police. They’re Mage’s men. They might not even have the actual authority to arrest me, and they don’t have evidence about Dragon either—he’s the only one I’ve fought since losing my protected status.

I glance in my rear-view mirror. They’ve blocked off the exits—I won’t be able to reverse out easily. “Let me go,” I say. “I’ll not bother Mage or anyone. I’ll just go home.”

They all take a step closer at once.

“Out of the car, Blade,” megaphone man says.

It’s pretty clear I’ll have to fight my way out of this.

So I lean over, grab my sword, and step out of the car. I hear it lock quietly behind me—that must be Shep. I stand slowly, stretching. “Come on then,” I say, and spin my sword. It flashes in the dim garage light. “We’ll do this the hard way.”

Baz

Fiona and I soar through the air and crash through the window feet-first.

It shatters magnificently, sending glass and water scattering everywhere. I squeeze my eyes shut as we shoot roughly through. 

I’ve never felt more like a movie superhero. 

I slow my thrusters and land in Mage’s office, the glass crunching underneath my feet. Fiona rolls away from my grip and stops in a crouch on the floor. Distantly, an intruder alarm sounds. I hear yelling down below. 

The alarm stops almost as soon as it started—that would be Bunce working her magic. I watch the security camera in the corner power down, the little red light blinking off.

Rain and wind sweep into the room, ruffling all the papers.

Mage isn’t here, of course.

Fiona prowls towards the hidden lift. She spots Mage’s open laptop on the desk and says, “Tell Bunce to pick that up on her way down.”

I hear fire truck sirens already. Christ.

Simon.

He’ll be fine. Won’t he?

I follow Fiona into the lift.

Simon

I don’t know who these guys are, but they certainly aren’t like any normal law enforcement. For one thing, they all seem to be highly trained martial arts specialists.

The second I step out of the car, the eight men fall into a tight circular formation. They expand their batons as one, the clicks echoing through the garage in sync. They all fall back on one foot, each giving a short shout and holding his baton out like a bo staff.

Fuck.

I grip my sword, my hands already sweating inside my gloves.

I take a quick survey of the situation—no sharp weapons as far as I can see, but those things can easily break my bones, even with my new suit. There are eight of them, and if I’m not careful they can easily overwhelm me.

The leader lowers his megaphone. He has unruly brown hair and a face like a goat’s—all pinched, squinty-eyed, with an underbite and buck teeth all at once, somehow. “Where are your friends?” he says.

“They’re not here,” I say.

He glares at me for a moment, his face gruff. “We have reinforcements waiting for them at Town Hall,” he says. My stomach drops. Mage was expecting us—or at least me and Baz. He was expecting everything.

They’ll be okay. Baz can fly. These guys don’t stand a chance.

The man twirls his baton so swiftly I barely see it cut through the air.

A weaselly guy turns his head to look at the leader. “On your signal, Terry.”

Terry pauses, then his baton swooshes down in a deliberate motion to level straight at me.

And all eight men surge forward at once.

Baz

The lift clicks down to the Lower Basement. A feeling of dread grows in my stomach. I think we might be heading into another trap, and I’ve never felt less prepared.

Fiona has risen to the occasion with new weapons: dual curving knives. (She thought Kim Era was cool and decided to steal her aesthetic. I can’t complain.) She draws them now, and I hook my fingers around my flight thrusters.

We pass the basement, and my heartbeat is in my throat.

I hear the ding! and I close my eyes, steeling myself.

I open them to see the lair exactly as it was before. Diagrams, hidden sheets and plans, long shining tables. Fiona and I exchange a glance, then walk in step down to the room at the back that Penelope described. I tug at my collar; it’s getting hotter and hotter as we walk.

“Ready, boyo?” She reaches back and pulls her knives free.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I lay a hand on the door handle. It’s unlocked. I take another steadying breath before pushing it open. 

The room is gigantic and thrumming and almost shimmering with heat. Towards the back are several rows of tall black cabinets, lined up like aisles in a grocery shop. I can make out the word embossed on the their backs: HUMDRUM.

The computer is almost pulsing with energy, the fans whirring loudly enough to drown out other sounds. The corners are shrouded in darkness.

In the middle of the room, right in front of the supercomputer, stands Mayor Mage. He’s wearing a green suit and a smug expression. The dim lighting casts sinister shadows on his face.

“Vampire,” he says. “Nice of you to turn yourself in. How terribly convenient.”

Chapter Text

Simon

My sword meets the first baton with a crack, and I duck as another one comes swinging towards my head. I try to dodge, but they’ve formed a tight circle around me. The batons come from all angles, and I shout in pain as I absorb a blow to the back.

Okay. Think. 

There are eight men. I need to keep them occupied so Shep can manoeuvre the car out. I need to not get any of my bones broken. I need to end this quickly, so we can get to Town Hall.

I swing my sword out in an arc, then feint left and dive to the right. With my free arm, I lunge for the edge of the circle and bowl over one man. I sweep his legs out from underneath him as he doubles over—one down—then back myself against the wall. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than being surrounded.

Terry, the goat-faced man, seems to be the most skilled, so I spar with him first as he charges forward. My suit absorbs some blows from another man on the side, but I’ll be left with bruises for weeks after this. 

His expression is feral, almost hungry. I’ve never killed anyone—I try to avoid it—but with the way he’s spinning his baton at me, my blows might be fatal if I manage to connect. Two more men rush towards me to attack from the sides. I dart back and forth, trying to stay light on my feet, make myself a moving target.

Terry strikes swiftly at my head, and a jolt of fear shoots through me as my body reacts reflexively, ducking just in time. That would have killed me— my mind reels at the thought as I jump forward on instinct. My sword pierces his stomach, and he falls to the floor.

I feel a little sick, but I face the six men left and say, “Who’s next?”

Baz

The elevator dings faintly behind us. I stare at Mage, frozen, unsure of his plan. If we rush him… I scan the dark corners of the room, but I can’t make anything out. There’s no way he’s unarmed. 

This is a trap.

Penelope busts through the door a moment later, stopping short when she sees Mage. 

“We’re here to stop you,” I say. With much more confidence than I actually have.

I reach instinctively for my flamethrowers, then stop myself again. No fire. I slide a knife into my grip instead. It feels almost wrong to hold something sharp; I’m not used to it. Simon taught me some technique, but it doesn’t feel like enough now.

Mage is unfazed. He steps closer to HUMDRUM, and Fiona tenses next to me. “You’re too late,” he says.

“No,” Penelope says, nearly shaking with fury. She looks dashing in her cape. She takes a brave step forward, and I watch the shadows shift. Just barely. “Turn it off,” she says. “Put an end to this.”

“Aren’t you darling,” Mage says, his face twisting cruelly.

Fiona’s knives swish, and faster than I can blink, we’re surrounded by bodyguards. My arms are pinned painfully behind my back a second later, bringing tears into my eyes. Fiona and Penelope are similarly restrained. I kick and twist to no avail. Our weapons clatter to the floor.

Mage’s eyes narrow, and he steps forward and flicks open a cabinet. A screen glares up at us, a large keyboard. The mainframe of the supercomputer. “You’ve already lost,” he says. 

“No!” Penelope yells, kicking fiercely. Her feet dangle off the floor, her arms squeezed in the bodyguard’s grip.

“It’s over!” Mage snarls. His eyes flash dangerously. “I won’t be unseated by your ignorance and your swords,” he says. He gestures to the computer. “You’ve met HUMDRUM. I didn’t want to resort to this, but seeing as Simon is on his way…”

Penelope stops flailing and glares at him. “Shut it down, Mage. We have all the evidence we need against you. Watford PD is already clued in and on their way.”

Mage grins wickedly. “It’s a supercomputer for a reason, Ms. Bunce,” he says. Her eyes widen at the use of her name. “I won’t be necessary for this phase of my plan.”

He presses a red button as Penelope shouts again, and the screen flashes: PANIC MODE ACTIVATED.

Words start scrolling across the screen endlessly, and all I can process is a sea of green: PLAN APPROVED. PLAN APPROVED. PLAN APPROVED.

AUTO-ENACTING…

And a countdown begins.

Simon

Six men left.

I spare a look at the car. The engine is running. Shep has managed to quietly get it into a position where we can speed out backwards if needed.

I don’t have to fight them all. I can trick them, if I’m clever enough. (God, I wish Penny was in my ear right now. Her battle strategy is unrivaled.)

A pair of men swing at me from the sides. I spin, blocking one blow with my sword and the other with a closed fist. I grunt in pain again, but the metal on my knuckles absorbs the brunt of it. I manage to disarm the weasel-faced guy as I slice towards his wrist. I kick blindly at him, my foot connecting hard as I spin around again, stopping the other man’s baton just in time.

Three down.

I inch my way towards my car’s passenger side, trying to keep my back to the wall. I’m starting to tire out already, and five on one are not good odds. I grip my sword, springing back as if I’m going to pounce. 

I’m next to the car now… the door is just a few steps to my right. It’s hanging open, and Shep is ducked down in the driver’s seat, his cape pulled around him.

Two more men rush at me, and I parry their hits for a moment. Then, I pull back as if I’m going to stab my sword forward. The guy on the right flinches momentarily, and I take the opportunity to dive with all the energy I’ve got toward the car door.

I yank it open, slam it shut, and yell, “Go go go go go!” With an almighty screech and a rev of the engine, we speed backwards down the tunnel. I watch Mage’s Men pursue, then fall behind and fade into specks.

Shepard’s eyes are wide, trained on the rear-view camera as he carefully navigates the car. “We did it,” he says.

I’m gripping my sword by the sharp part of the blade, and my hands are bleeding through my gloves. I wipe them on my thighs and try to catch my breath. “You’re a good getaway driver.”

He spares a grin. “Told ya. Maybe that should be my hero name,” he says distractedly, keeping his eyes on the tunnel. “Getaway… Gremlin.”

“That’s your worst one yet.” I listen for any telltale sounds of a chase. “We have less than a minute before they get here.”

“We’ll be gone before then,” Shep says. A moment later, he slams the brakes, and both of our bodies jolt forward. We hop out of the car together and scramble up the ladder. “Let’s get the fuck to Town Hall.”

Penelope

My dagger got pushed up my sleeve when I was first restrained, and I’ve been struggling to slip it into my hand this whole time. It’s dragging, catching on the fabric, nicking into my forearm.

“Now!” Fiona shouts, and the bodyguard holding me startles. The dagger finally falls into my hand, and I grip it and stab it backwards with all I’ve got.

I don’t know how Simon does this all the time. Piercing skin is nothing like cutting fruit, nothing like anything I’ve felt before. Resistance and tension. His body jerks where my hand makes contact as the dagger sinks in to the hilt, and a visceral shudder makes its way up my arm. I pull the knife out and stumble forward, forcing myself not to vomit.

Fiona looks like a whirlwind. Where did she learn to fight like that? She rushes Mage, faster than I could have expected, and has him restrained in seconds.

I run towards the unguarded mainframe of the supercomputer. Fiona tosses Baz one of her longer knives. His arm is shaking, but he turns his back to mine and yells, “I’ll hold them off! Shut that thing down.”

He’s taken a leaf from Simon’s book. He charges forward into the melee, yelling. He looks dark and powerful and ruthless.

It’s going to be a fucking bloodbath.

I wish Simon were here. I hope he’s okay. And Shep—they must be on their way by now.

I dart a look over my shoulder, and Baz has disappeared into the sea of bodyguards. Fuck. Does he stand a chance without Simon or Fiona to help him?

He’s got to.

I turn my attention to the computer and start typing, drawing on all the research I’ve done the past few weeks. Kill codes. Override commands. 

Nothing takes.

INITIATING LOCKDOWN, the screen says. ALL EXITS LOCKED.

The lift. And the emergency stairs.

Now Simon can’t get down. Then again, neither can any reinforcements.

I read the scrolling text on the screen. 

HUMDRUM is capable of concocting the most ruthless plans. The most efficient way to reach the end goal. 

The panic button has allowed it to auto-approve its most efficient plans.

And what’s the most efficient way to get the people in power out of power?

In eight minutes, this thing is going to blow up Parliament. 

And then it’s going to initiate a domino effect of plans. Everything Mage outlined. Everything he wanted. It’s all here, in black and green, in numbers, in logistics, in figures, in math. It’s here.

I don’t even stop to let myself think about the incomprehensible atrocity of all this. I just hunker down. I pull out the flashdrive I bought with the hacking program I created that will search for bugs, unprotected pathways, anything to get into the system. It starts to run, but errors keep flashing—it’s not finding anything.

I pull Mage’s laptop out of my bag and start searching for something, anything that can help.

Seven minutes.

Simon

Shepard and I take his car to Town Hall. It’s an inconspicuous red Volkswagen, and blessedly the rain serves as a shroud and no one follows us. He speeds down the streets. I drink some water and try to craft a plan in my head.

We pull up directly into the plaza with a squeal of tires. Shep says, “Go to the lair. I’ll stay down here, make some calls… try to get backup if you need it. Call me.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Good luck, Blade.”

I jump out and charge straight into Town Hall. I rush to Mage’s office—it’s empty. The bookcase has been slid out of the way to reveal the lift. I slam the button, but it doesn’t come.

I wait. And wait.

And wait.

I pound the button again.

It still doesn’t come.

I glance out the window, where I can see four green cars pulling up. Shep is nowhere to be seen. Good.

“Fucking-- !” I wedge my sword and fingers in between the doors and pry them open. It’s surprisingly easy to do. I stare down the dark shaft—the secret lair is five floors down. I can see the elevator stuck down there, thick wires leading to the top of it.

I won’t make the jump. Or I will, but I’ll get electrocuted. 

I can’t make it down there.

Fiona

I pat Mage down, then remove my blade from his neck and turn to face him. He’s unarmed. Maybe he trusted that he wouldn’t have to fight, that his bodyguards would take care of it. Maybe he thought we’d run away when he told us that we’d lost.

I don’t believe him.

We’re in the corner, protected from the fighting by the wall-like structures of the supercomputer. Baz has lured the bodyguards down the hallway and to the other room. Behind me, Bunce is typing up a storm and cursing like a sailor.

“Hello, Davy,” I say, and his green eyes widen. “What, don’t recognise me?”

“I remember you, Fiona,” he says. He still has the same disgusting mustache he grew in our last year of school. 

I back him into the wall. “You know what you’ve done. You know why I’m here,” I say evenly. “Now. How do we shut this thing down?”

“You can’t,” he spits. “Even if I wanted to, HUMDRUM will prevent me from stopping it now. It’s beyond us-- beyond all of us.”

“You’re lying,” I growl. I level my remaining blade at him. It takes most of my willpower to not just stab him. “Tell me!”

“It’s done,” he says, straightening up. Staring at the point of the blade. “I’ve won. Give. Up.”

I suck in a breath. “Bunce, I’ve not gotten anything,” I call back. 

Then I stare down Mage again. His eyes are darting around like he’s a cornered animal; he’s searching for an escape. His eyes fall onto Bunce, then to his bodyguards. Baz has knocked several of them out, somehow.

“Last words?” I say.

“You wouldn’t.” 

I cock my head. “A lot can change in 25 years, Davy.”

“Killing me won’t change anything. I’ve already won,” he says again.

“You haven’t won,” I tell him. “Not yet. Not in my books.”

Mage squares up, falling back into a fighting stance. And then, crazy bastard, he launches himself at me. 

This is my fucking chance.

I drop the sword—I won’t need it for this—and channel all my rage into two singular points. 

My fists. 

I dodge his attack and land a punch to his chest. “That’s for threatening my nephew,” I say. 

I spin around and roundhouse kick him in the side, sending him stumbling. “And that’s for threatening his boyfriend and his delicious fucking bakery.”

Mage growls and swings at me again, and I catch his arm, twisting. “That’s--” I send an elbow into his shoulder. “--for being an evil bastard.”

“It’s for the greater good--” he gasps out.

“Yeah, dystopian hell sounds great to me,” I say.

He squirms free, and I absorb a punch to the side. “It can’t be stopped now.”

“We will stop it.” I step back, then kick directly at his groin as hard as I can, prompting a satisfying shout of pain from him . It sends him sprawling back, and he slams against the wall. “That’s for what you’ve done to Watford.”

He takes in a rough breath, still staring me down. He doesn’t move when I pull my fist back. “And this is for my sister, you bitch.”

And Mage is out cold.

Penny

T-minus six minutes to the explosion. I’ve gotten nowhere. Hysterical tears are leaking their way down my face. If I don’t stop this…

If I don’t stop this…

Six minutes.

I call Shep. “You need to evacuate the building,” I say. My mind reels with plan B, plan B-- I take another shuddering breath. “Get everyone out.”

“Consider it done,” he says. “How long do we have?”

“Five minutes and 49 seconds.”

“Fuck. Okay, and should I send Watford PD down there?”

“The lift is locked, I don’t think they can. I’ll work on it.” My code runs; I can override that one thing, at least.

Baz cries out in pain from the other room. I start, itching to do something, anything… I can’t see anything but the group of bodyguards surrounding him. I don’t think he’ll be able to hold them off much longer.

The elevator’s still locked on this floor.

Simon’s still not here.

Shepard

I grab my phone and dash into Town Hall, but the security guard at the entrance stops me immediately. He looks bewildered at my appearance. I guess that’s fair, considering I’m wearing a purple cape. “Can I see your pass?”

“I, uh--” Don’t have one. “Gimme a sec.”

I back out and catch sight of Agatha Wellbelove to the left. She’s reporting with Zia’s camera and a news car trained on her. 

“...investigating the broken window as I speak,” she says. “The alarm systems were not triggered, which has raised suspicions from the security staff. We’ll be back in a minute with more.”

“Agatha!”

She hands the microphone off and turns to me as I rush forward. “Shepard?”

“Omaha Outlaw, when I’m wearing this.”

Her face crinkles with distaste. “What are you doing? That window better not have been Simon--”

“It wasn’t. C’mon.” I start walking toward the entrance to Town Hall, and thankfully she follows. “We need to evacuate the building in the next five minutes.”

Agatha’s expression flattens out. “I swear to God. I told Penny already, I will not be involved in any of your plots.”

I raise my hands in surrender. “You don’t have to help if you don’t want to. But this building literally might blow up, so.”

She huffs, rolling her eyes as if this is a minor inconvenience rather than the lives of a few hundred at stake. “I don’t think I can help you with that.”

“We just need to distract the guard.”

“With what? Flirting?” she says, tossing her long, luscious blond hair over a shoulder.

“Hey, that’s an idea.”

“Great,” she says brightly. “You flirt with him, and I’ll go make the evacuation announcement.”

“I, uh-- fine.” Agatha flirting might be more effective, but I don’t have time to argue.

I swagger into the building with my best Simon impersonation. “Hey, are you from Tennessee?” I ask the guard.

“What?” 

In my peripheral vision, I watch Agatha slip towards the secretary’s desk. 

“Because you’re the only ten I see.”

He’s a hulking, terrifying man, and he looks utterly unimpressed. “What the hell is a Tennessee?”

England. Ugh.

“Nevermind. Let’s start over.” Why are all the pickup lines running through my head right now America-themed? I feel like a wealth of patriotic nonsense. “So… I’m a superhero, if you didn’t notice. The Omaha Outlaw.”

“What’s Omaha?”

“It’s a city.” I just have to keep talking. Agatha’s chatting with the secretary. I glance at my watch—four minutes. “Well, not as big as Watford. It’s in Nebraska, which is where I’m from. Do you know Nebraska? It’s a state in the U.S. Right in the middle. It’s beautiful, there’s lots of fields, and the sky is--”

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Aren’t you Shepard, the newscaster?”

The audacity.  

The disrespect. The slander!

“Dude. I’m flattered you recognize me, but I only get to be a superhero once. At least use the name,” I complain.

“Fine. Omaha Menace, was it? What are you doing here?”

“Seriously, man, Omaha Outlaw, ” I groan. “It even has alliteration.”

At that moment, I hear Agatha’s voice over the intercom system. “Attention, there is an emergency. Everyone must evacuate immediately. This is not a drill. I repeat, please evacuate the building immediately. This is a compulsory action. Evacuate immediately.” 

“Well, nice chatting with you!” I hear doors slamming and footsteps on the stairs, and I dash out of the building, leaving the guard looking slightly dazed.

A minute later, Agatha joins me outside. She pulls off her Watford News 4 lanyard and hands it to me. “Nice knowing you, Shepard. Now I’m getting the hell out of here.”

Baz

I’m losing, and badly.

Fighting multiple enemies isn’t as tough as I thought it would be. No more than three men can surround me at once, and I’m quick and nimble. They’re all hulking mass, slower-moving than Simon. I’ve been hovering, twisting in the air, slipping and dancing out of their grips.

But I’m getting tired, and they keep coming in a never-ending stream.

Fiona’s beating up Mage, and Penelope doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. The countdown is at four and a half minutes, and I’ve never felt so desperate. HUMDRUM can’t be reasoned with. 

It will enact its plan.

It might not be the end of the world but it feels like it.

I risk a glance toward the countdown again, and it was a bad decision. Suddenly, someone gets a lucky hit. Pain shoots up my leg like lightning striking, and it buckles out from under me. A scream of pain rips itself from my throat as I crumple to the floor.

“Baz!” I hear Penelope shout above the din.

A knife comes flying at me, and I barely deflect with the gauntlet on my forearm. My leg feels numb and on fire all at once, and I push to my feet, leaning on my left leg. Not half a second passes before I’m knocked over again by a body. Bodies.

I struggle uselessly. It’s futile. I can’t fight like this, and the pain is washing over me in waves. I could fly, but I’m surrounded--

Simon

There’s got to be another way down… an emergency exit. A staircase. Something.

I can hear sounds of fighting. Grunts and metal on metal.

And then I hear a loud, gut-wrenching wail of pain that shoots directly to my heart. My brain fuzzes out, narrowing to one singular thought: Baz.

Baz is hurt.

Fuck it all.

I leap forward desperately, grab onto the cables, and slide down. My gloves are nearly torn to shreds before I reach the bottom, my already-bleeding hands smarting. 

I land hard on the top of the lift, causing the entire thing to shake. I grip onto the cable with one hand, find the emergency hatch in the top, and pry it off. I jump down into the lift, ripping off my torn gloves as I go, and charge into battle.

Baz

“Oi, knobheads!”

I look up to see a flash of gold, and I could cry.

Simon.

Simon Snow is fury personified.

He crashes into the fray like some kind of avenging angel, scattering the group of bodyguards easily. He swings his sword in a wide arc, spinning, ducking, dodging.

He never stops; he’s constantly in motion. He’s not wearing his mask for some reason, and his blue eyes are blazing. His face is twisted in a snarl. He looks like he was meant to do this, and this only.

They don’t stand a chance.

With their attention on him, I crawl across the floor and finally push to my feet, propping myself against the wall. My leg is bleeding and prickling with both numbness and pain, somehow, but I don’t think it’s broken.

The countdown is still going. Three minutes.

The bodyguards are taken care of within moments. Simon stares at the bodies lying in a morbid circle around him, then turns to me. His eyes flip immediately from anger to fear and worry. “Baz,” he breathes. He peels off my mask, running his fingers over a line of dried blood on the side of my face. “Fuck. Are you okay?” 

“I’m…” I lift my head, and the room spins. “Simon. You made it.” 

You’re here. You saved the day, you courageous fuck. 

“You were hurt. It was like a siren call,” he says. His gaze sticks on my bad leg. It’s leaking blood onto the floor, and I feel woozy. “You need to get out of here, you need medical attention--”

“Lift’s working!” Penny suddenly yells from the other side of the room.

“And HUMDRUM?” Fiona asks her.

“Nothing,” Penny groans. “Is Mage awake?”

“He’s coming to.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Simon says, his eyes not wavering from mine. I can hear Fiona stomping toward us down the hallway.

“Blade,” I say. My voice comes out weak, and I try to push more force into it. “Simon. Don’t bash it. Promise me.”

He picks me up easily, pulls me close. 

Just for an instant, just for a breath, he’s everything that surrounds me, and the world stops.

Simon leans forward to gently touch his lips to mine. He doesn’t promise anything. “Baz,” he says. His hands come up to hold my face, and he whispers it against my lips. “I love you.”

I’m stunned silent for one second, and all I can process is Simon Snow loves me on loop; and in that same moment, he’s passing me to Fiona, slinging my arm over her shoulder. He steps backwards and holds my eyes as the lift doors slam shut. 

Penny

Two minutes.

Nothing is working.

Simon charges over, his suit and sword stained with blood. “What’s going on?”

Hysteria bubbles in my throat. “It’s just-- nothing’s working! And--” I hiccup, not breaking away from the screen, typing all the while. “This thing’s going to take over.”

Simon leans over. “Did you try, um…” He presses the keys: ctrl + alt + delete.

I swat his hand away. “You’re fucking joking.”

“Worth a shot.”

I point behind me to where Mage is bound and gagged. “Get the answers, now.”

“Penny.”

I turn.

“You should get out.”

“What? Why?”

Simon’s face is knitted, his cheeks flushed. His eyes are more serious than I’ve ever seen them, too big in his face like this. “In case of Plan B. In case there are no answers.”

One minute thirty seconds.

“No,” I say, my voice thick. Simon looks on the brink of tears, and I can’t stand it. “You’re not doing that. No.”

“I’m fireproof,” he says.

“You’re not explosion-proof.” I turn back to the computer. I can’t even think-- he can’t. He won’t. “Just talk to Mage.”

A second later, I’m being pulled into the air, forced out out of my chair. “Simon, what the fuck!”

“I’m sorry, Pen.” He tosses me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

“Simon!” I kick at him, try to wriggle free, but he just sighs and holds me tighter. “Please.” 

I sob into his shoulder. I don’t know what to do, I’ve never felt so helpless— what happens now? Do we have another option? My brain hasn’t ever short-circuited like this.

Fuck, maybe this wasn’t our fight. Not if I lose Simon.

He runs us to the lift and practically throws me in—I land hard on my bottom, and before I can blink he’s pressed the buttons for me. He sweeps folders off the table and throws them in after me. “It’s just in case. Last resort, yeah?”

“Don’t.”

He’s crying, too. “I’ll try, Pen, I will.”

“But--”

“It’s not goodbye,” he says. “It’s see you later.”

My best friend gives me a sad grin as he echoes words I said long ago.

And then the doors close, and I can’t breathe.

Simon

I run back to HUMDRUM’s room and find Mage in the corner. The countdown flashes at me: one minute. 59 seconds. 58. 57.

I ungag Mage. “Tell me how to stop it.”

Fear and determination are painted on his face, clear as day. “You can’t,” he says.

“An override, a command, something!” I demand. There has to be something. He knows.

He just shakes his head. “Simon. It’s futile. Just let it happen.”

“I’m not going to stand here while fucking Parliament blows up!”

“You’re out of options,” he snarls. 

40.

39.

I swivel and stare at the floor below the mainframe. The blueprint I memorised, just in case. The natural gas line Penny talked about. The exposed piping, there. Where to hit the computer to make sparks—where it’ll catch.

It’ll explode if you hit it hard enough. If you get the angle right, she said.

35.

34.

I pick up my sword and dig it into the soft hollow of Mage’s neck, drawing blood. “There’s no other option?” I say softly. He doesn’t answer, and I push the sword further. He coughs. “Tell me!”

“Nothing,” he says.

He’s lying, he’s lying--

My arm is shaking. I keep the sword at his neck. “Really? Your life for this?”

He gazes at me remarkably levelly for someone bleeding out of his neck. “A thousand times over.”

Okay.

Plan B it is, then.

I cut Mage free swiftly and shove him towards the door. “Get out.”

He doesn’t argue. He just runs.

I wait until I hear the lift doors close and then turn back to HUMDRUM.

20 seconds.

19.

18.

I stab a gash into the exposed metal pipe, and the room starts to smell of gasoline.

I grip my sword in both hands and approach the mainframe.

I think I’ll survive this because I don’t want to consider the alternative. I’ll hit it, then run up the stairs. I’ll run outside.

I’ve gotten out of worse.

If I don’t do this…

I don’t think that’s an option for me. Watford’s worth it.

If I do this…

One way or another, I’m about to find out. 

15 seconds.

I’ve never been religious or anything, but I suddenly need a moment.

14.

I think about what’s at stake here. What I’m about to save.

13.

Baz. Penny. The bakery.

12.

Watford. Thousands of people.

11.

I send up a little prayer to the god of leather and arses, just in case.

10.

And then I raise my sword above my head, and bring it down on the precise spot with all the strength I’ve got.

Penelope

“Where the fuck is Simon!” Baz shouts at me as soon as I’m outside Town Hall. It’s stopped raining.

I drop the evidence in my arms on the floor. “He’s still in there, he made me leave--”

There’s a crowd on the lawn again, around the perimeter. Everyone who was evacuated and people who came to see what the commotion was. Every news camera in Watford showed up once they got wind that The Golden Blade and Vampire were here.

“What do you mean he made you leave?” Baz’s leg is wrapped properly, and he’s limping, but at least he’s standing. His mask is gone, but he still has his Vampire boots on.

“He said he’d talk to Mage and then--” I hiccup, wiping at my eyes. “I told him not to bash, he said he wouldn’t bash it.”

Baz’s eyes widen as he looks up at the building. “He wouldn’t.”

On my watch, there are forty seconds until HUMDRUM’s countdown ends.

Baz’s face crumples. “Where is he--”

And then Mayor Mage stumbles out of the building. He’s immediately swarmed by security. 

Baz and I exchange a look, and he grips my shoulder so tightly it feels like it might shatter.

If Mage is out here, that can only mean one thing. Because Simon is noble, and good, and he would only send Mage out, to spare his life, if--

If…

Thirty seconds.

“Fucking idiot,” Baz says, and then he disappears.

I’m disoriented for a moment before I see him in the air, a black figure streaking towards the building.

Fiona

I only have time to process my brilliant, lovesick fool of a nephew flying towards the building before the entire thing starts to shudder on its foundation. 

“Baz!” I scream, but it’s too late. He won’t hear me.

I can’t do anything but stand there as the building shudders again.

He’ll be okay. He has to be. I don’t think I’d ever recover if I lost him, too.

Baz

Simon Snow is not going to die today.

If he dies, it’ll be in my arms… in about a million years, when we’re old and grey and big-eared and have moved out to the countryside after a lifetime of baked goods and great sex.

Not right now. Not on my watch.

He’s alive-- He’s alive now, and he’s in there.

He loves me. He told me. He’s always had a few extra drops of bravery than me. 

He’s also a dramatic fuck. Christ, you don’t do that in real life—make a confession like that as the lift doors slam shut. Except he did, because he’s Simon Snow, and he think’s he’s in a fucking Marvel film. 

Did he just say it because he thought he might die?

My vision’s blurring up. (I’d say it’s the wind, but it’s not.)

He wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. If he didn’t mean it--

I love him, but I never told him. He doesn’t know, and he’s in there.

Did he think one injury would keep me away from him?

He’s in there.

My leg is forgotten, the city drops away, everything else is left behind as my entire being narrows in on my converging point. 

Simon Snow.

I speed toward the building.

As long as I’m here, loving you, Simon Snow, you’ll be fine.

We’ll be fine.

I’ve got him. I’ve always got him.

Penelope

The BOOM shakes the very air, reverberating through my chest.

Town Hall trembles.

And then all the windows shatter. 

Heat rolls over us, hitting me like a wall. I stumble backward in horror and shock, covering my ears.

I can’t see Baz anymore. He’s flown through a window--

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m still going backwards, I think I’m falling, and I bump into a body.

“Hey, it’s okay--” It’s Shepard. He wraps his arms tightly around me.

I push him off; I need space right now, or I won’t be able to breathe. “It’s not.”

“They’ll be fine. They’re superheroes.”

I shake my head, sniffling. “They’re just Simon and Baz…”

It’s almost magnificent to watch; the building collapsing in on itself, layer by layer. The floors fall straight down and crush into the ground, one after another. Like a shuffled deck of cards dropping together. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

Where are they? They have to make it out, they have to. Baz can fly--

All around me, people are shielding their faces, taking out their phones, shouting over each other. Shut up, I want to tell them. Simon and Baz are in there.

The world seems to stop, and nothing seems to matter except for this: searching the sky for a sign, a body, anything.

Simon

Controlled demolition: the demolition of a building or structure by means of explosives. Explosives on the lower floors then initiate a controlled collapse and the building fails under its own weight, succumbing to gravity.

I used to watch YouTube compilations of stuff like this. (They’re oddly satisfying.)

It’s not as satisfying when I’m about to be inside one.

The spark takes, igniting the gas, and I stumble out of the room housing HUMDRUM. The fire rises up, licking at all available surfaces. A chain reaction of sorts begins, and the entire room quakes, the computer cabinets rattling, and--

BOOM.

I’m thrown back by the force of the explosion, landing flat on my back. I scramble up and run to the closest doorway as the walls begin to cave. The ceiling crumbles in on itself, crushed like a meringue in someone’s fist. 

Stairs-- I run to the emergency exit door. The stairs are gone.

Fuck. 

There goes my escape plan.

I can see light up above. 

Chunks of the ceiling are falling, causing a storm of dust and drywall. Taking cover will be futile. Five storeys of this building are about to collapse onto me, one after another. 

I watch in a horrified kind of awe, uselessly using my arms as a shield, as the room housing HUMDRUM comes crashing down. Concrete, wood, metal, plastic. I can smell it all burning.

My room is next. The doorway won’t hold up.

An avalanche of building crashes down onto HUMDRUM, and a rushed sense of pleasure runs through me. I feel it stop buzzing in the air, feel HUMDRUM finally die.

The computer is crushed. 

I’ve saved Watford. I’ve saved lives. My friends are safe. Watford is safe.

I cast my eyes up to the quaking ceiling. 

There’s no way out.

Baz

Simon Snow.

Weeks ago, I said to him:

Trust me. If you’re ever in danger, I’m not far behind. I’d have torn apart this city to find you.

I love him.

He trusts me.

I’ll rip every block of this building from its foundation. I’ll blast through concrete. 

He’s in there. I’ll find him.

BOOM.

For a moment I can’t believe he actually did it. Courageous, selfless nightmare.

Then the ground shakes, the air quivering. The building starts to collapse like a column of sand. I crash through a shattering window on the ground floor, shielding my face. The air whips at me from all angles, dust clouding my vision.

The ground opens up, threatening to swallow the building whole, and there—my opening. The basement. I tuck my limbs in and shoot downwards. 

I don’t see him. Where is he?

I fly through the wreckage, the ceiling rapidly falling apart above my head. Panicked tears carve hot tracks down the dust on my face-- it can’t be too late. 

It can’t be. 

“Simon!” I scream, my voice ragged.

But I can’t see him anywhere. All I see is destruction.

Simon

I have to get out of here.

I told Baz I love him but I’m nearly regretting it now. Because if I die—if I die— well. He’ll have to know, won’t he? And live with that, and live on knowing that, and… I know I wouldn’t be able to.

And I told him I love him but it’s not enough, like-- what’s the use in saying that if I don’t get to-- 

To be with him. To hold him. To show him, not just shout it at him like a fucking numpty in some sort of dramatic confession. 

Fuck.

If our roles were reversed, well.

I have to get out.

I dive out of the way of another piece of the building, landing hard on my shoulder and rolling. Dust and debris is pummeling me from every angle, and my suit’s torn up and tattered at the joints. Everything is still shaking—I think this is the part where the building flumps down, all at once. My heart’s beating so erratically I feel like I’m barely inside my body. 

Out, out, out--

This is fucking hopeless. I can’t very well fly myself out.

“Simon!” 

But Baz can.

Holy shit.

“Simon!” he shouts again, raw and loud and desperate. 

“Here, here!” I yell. I run towards the sound best as I can, my feet stumbling, my shoulders crashing into debris, my vision obscured by dust. “Baz!”

My heart leaps at the sight of him. There!

A black figure stark against the grey-white of the dust, hovering like a guardian angel. Hope rises in my stomach, in my chest.

What was it he said? Trust me. If you’re ever in danger, I’m not far behind.

He’s here, he’s here. I will my legs to move faster--

And then the ceiling crumbles down, all in one go.

Penelope

One layer after another, the building falls. The sides crumble, the fourth storey falls into the third, the third into the second. I stare at the basement. I stare at the dust.

Come on.

I’m gripping Shepard’s hand so hard I feel his knuckles pop. Fiona has appeared next to me, her usual careless demeanor nowhere to be seen. The tips of her fingernails have dug into her palms, drawing blood.

Come on.

I’ve always had so much faith in Simon. But maybe he can’t get out of this one. And now Baz has gone in, too--

See you later, Simon said. I’ll be furious if he doesn’t follow through on that, I’ll tell him--

Well, I won’t tell him. 

I don’t know what I’ll do.

Simon’s always seemed larger than life. A superhero, a figure.

But he’s just a boy. He’s just my best friend… (I only have two and a half friends. I’ll be down to a pathetic level, if they don’t make it out of this.)

My body refuses to move, refuses to breathe, and I’m transfixed. The building is flattened under its own weight, a gigantic mushroom cloud of dust rising. Please, please--

Suddenly, I see a dark figure shoot straight upwards, emerging from the smoke. It’s Baz, flying out of the explosion like some kind of risen phoenix. He’s a bold, sleek figure, cutting a dark line into the sky.

And he has Simon in his arms. The tears spill over. 

Baz

Simon Snow is in my arms.

I don’t think I’ll ever let go. I don’t think I can ever let go.

I’d expected him to be hurt, or woozy, but he’s as vibrant as ever, and he’s gripping onto me for dear life. His blue eyes are locked on mine. He’s so alive.

“Hold on,” I say, and then I give my thrusters an almighty yank, and we’re jetting up, up, out of the wreckage. Toward the promise of fresh air and freedom.

I got to him just in time—knocked him over with the force of how fast I flew to him, then grabbed him by the collar (it was the first thing I could get a hold on) and hauled him bodily out of there. The building crashes down around us. Another second and we’d have been crushed.

“Baz,” he says, looking like he’s been electrocuted. I feel him at every point we’re touching, warm and quivering against me. 

I keep flying, and then we’re away from everything, the sounds muffled. I look down and see the building, reduced to rubble and dust. I breathe in deeply.

Simon reaches a hand up and swipes at my face. And then he’s smiling, for some reason, and a harsh breath leaves him but turns into a laugh halfway. And then he’s laughing and he’s crying and he’s alive and we’re kissing messily.

I’m laughing into his mouth. Alive, alive alive--

“I love you too, Simon.”

Simon

We touch down in front of Town Hall.

Suddenly everything is rushing at once, a contrast from the quietness of the sky just now:

Cameras clicking. Flash bulbs going off in my eyes. People shouting. The whine of an ambulance in the distance. People running--

“Simon! Baz!” Penny tackles me out of nowhere, sobbing, and I hug her back tightly. Fiona’s here, too, and Shepard—against all odds, we all made it out, we’re safe, and… and we did it.

“I can’t believe you,” Penny says, her face buried in my shoulder. “You’re so stupid.”

“I know, I know.” I pull her tighter. “But I made it, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

She pulls away. The cameras are still going off. I wonder what happens next.

Baz is pressed to my side, and I turn to face him. We’re standing too close to each other—the camera flashes are going wild. I realise suddenly that neither of us are wearing masks.

Well, fuck it all. If we lived through all that there’s no use hiding anymore, is there?

I wrap my arms around Baz’s neck and he dips me backwards when he kisses me full on the lips.

This. This is what happens next.

Chapter Text

20 December 

***

Simon

“This’d better be an emergency,” Baz says groggily.

I’m crushing the phone to my ear with one shoulder as I attempt to remedy the disaster of a situation I’m in. “I know it’s early, but can you come?”

He yawns widely into the phone. “Early is an understatement. It’s the middle of the night by my count.”

“I’ve been up for two hours dealing with this.”

“I know. You woke me on your way out.”

“Please?”

“If anyone’s owed a favour between us, it’s me. I’ve saved your life twice now.”

“Baz, love. I need your help,” I plead.

He laughs softly into the phone. “Fine, I’ll be there soon. But this had better not become a pattern.”

I hang up and turn back to the urgent situation at hand.

It’s Friday Pie Day, and Trixie has called in sick. I had to come in for the early morning shift, and I’ve ruined at least twelve pie crusts with my hot hands by this point. It would have been acceptable a few months ago, but nowadays we almost always have some food critic, blogger, or reporter stopping by.

I need Baz. 

I need his frigid hands, his gift of bad circulation.

He is the only one who can save the day. The only one who can give the good people of Watford Bakery the flaky crusts they deserve.

I set the pie dough ingredients aside until he gets here and try to focus on finishing up the Yule Logs. They’re a specialty for Christmastime, of course, and they’ve been selling out every day this week. I quickly whisk together the filling, then get started on the chocolate buttercream for the outside before sliding the jelly roll pans out of the oven.

I hear the bell tinkle just as I’m rolling up the first log, and I grimace as Baz walks in. I shush him before he can say anything, keeping a laser focus on the cake. Finally, I set it down in a pan and turn to him. 

He’s looking at me with that mixture of exasperation and amusement I’ve grown to love. He leans over and pecks my cheek.

“Morning,” I say.

“More like night.”

“It’s half past four, that’s firmly morning.”

Baz fixes me with a skeptical look. He looks soft, his edges still frayed from sleep. He’s wearing a Watford Uni sweatshirt and pair of my joggers, and they’re too short on him. The sight makes me want to melt and climb back into bed instead of baking pies. (It’s a struggle every morning.) “I only slept for three hours.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“My final exams’.”

“Exactly, now get to work.”

He grins tiredly and wiggles his fingers. “How can I help, then?”

I point to the opposite counter. “Mince pies, fast as you can. Butter’s in the fridge.”

The next couple of hours pass quickly; I guide Baz through mince pies, apple pies, lemon meringue pies, and even some blackcurrant-spice hand pies. (I could never make hand pies—they’d turn to mush before I even folded them.) 

I finish rolling the Yule Logs and leave the buttercream in the fridge for Dev. He has a great eye for detail, so he’ll decorate the outsides later. I get most of the bread baked and test out a recipe for new Christmas Scones—vanilla bean, nutmeg, rosemary, and tiny bits of cranberry. 

After I drizzle on a glaze, I hand one to Baz. He takes a bite, his expression thoughtful, and then declares, “These have ruined all future scones for me.”

“Really?”

He feeds me a bite, and I nod my agreement. They’re mind-blowing and have probably tainted my tastebuds against all other forms of scone. (Besides sour cherry, of course.)

“They taste like how Christmas feels. Are these on your blog?”

“Not yet. I only just came up with the recipe.”

Baz dusts the flour off his hands, then picks up the entire tray of scones, along with a few sprigs of rosemary and, after careful consideration, a handful of star anise. He walks out to the bakery, and I follow him curiously. 

“Natural light,” he says, setting up a shot by the window.

Earlier this month, I started a baking blog called Scones & Superheroes. It’s wildly popular, mostly with mums and longtime fans of Watford Bakery. And with the Golden Blade fanclub Facebook group, which I only recently found out was a real thing.  

Baz and I make a good team; no surprise there. I do the baking, and he has a great eye for photography and flatlays. Penny designed my website, Shepard helped with advertising, and we were up and running in no time. Trixie and Ebb often make guest posts about pastries and bread. Along with scones, I post about Blade stuff as well: stories from the past year, self-defense tips. The posts about Baz get the most likes. (No surprise there, either.)

We end up eating half the scones before the photo shoot is over.

“You’ll have to bake another batch,” Baz says as he picks up the near-empty sheet.

“Or four,” I say. 

I stop short when I push open the double doors to the kitchen. I seem to recall Trixie on a ladder a few days ago…

Baz bumps into my back. “What is it?”

I look up. Baz follows my gaze.

I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re such a cliché, Snow.”