Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

BAZ

“Pitch Perfect Nutrition, can I help you?”

“Hey, is this Baz?”

“Pardon?”

“This is Baz, right?”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“No, um…just, Penny said I should call.”

Ah yes. I knew this was coming. Penelope talked my ear off about her friend when I bumped into her at the hospital the other day. What did she say his name was? Seymour? Cyrus? Of course this oaf hasn’t bothered to mention it himself…

I typically don’t even consider taking cases like his (run-of-the-mill high cholesterol, boring human problem, how dull). I prefer a bit more of a challenge – a secret to unravel, a battle to undertake. I’ve built my reputation on literally turning people’s lives around. Helping them in ways that nobody ever bothered to help me.

Penelope begged me to at least speak to her friend. Apparently he’s at the end of his rope. She said he’s a real do-gooder with a heart of gold. She also assured me he was plenty challenging. I assume she was talking about his personality, not his medical history. Terrific. Just what I needed, another problematic client to make my life miserable.

I roll my eyes and encourage him to get to the point.

“What seems to be the issue Mr…?”

“Oh. You can just call me Simon…it’s…Simon Snow. I went to school with Penny…she said she knows you from work? We live together, me and Penny – but we’re not together, together! She’s like my sister, or… sometimes it’s more like she’s my mum. That sounds weird. Um. You know what I mean…”

Penelope’s going to pay dearly for this. I’m never getting these minutes of my life back. I am sorely tempted to put this idiot on speaker and fold my laundry while I wait for him to spit it out (one of the many benefits of being self-employed). But, I have a feeling all that blustering would be even more grating through the tinny phone speaker. I take a calming breath and try once more to nudge him in the direction of forming actual, relevant sentences.

“Right. Mr. Snow, why don’t you start by telling me what you need help with?”

SIMON

You ever call someone to help you out of a tight spot, like a plumber, or a customer service agent, or something? Like, you’re really panicked and you need help right away and you’re frantic to get hold of somebody who knows what they’re doing? And when the person picks up, their phone voice is like, surprisingly sexy? And when they repeat your name and your problem back to you like they were really listening, you just feel flooded with relief that you’re in good hands? That this person has a killer bedside manner and they’re gonna take care of you and everything is going to be ok?

Well, maybe not. But, I’m telling you – it’s a thing.

Anyway, I’m getting that vibe right now. From Baz (I guess I should call him ‘Mr. Pitch’ but I hate all that formal bullshit). He seems like a real stuck-up git, to be honest. But I can tell he’s being patient with me and his voice is like water, each syllable dancing perfectly off his tongue.

He probably looks like some fitness god too (not like I care or anything) (I notice when a man is attractive…but I only ever date women).

Anyway, it’s not as easy as it sounds, being patient with me. I’m pretty shit with words most of the time. But he’s right. We have to start somewhere. And I have a good feeling about him.

“Well, see, I’ve always wanted to be a firefighter,” I begin. “I like helping people, and I wanted to do that for my job. I’m pretty shit with words, but –– ”

Did Baz just scoff at me? Maybe he just had a tickle in his throat.

“But I’m good at using my body, right? –- Oi! I can hear you scoffing! Listen, I’m telling you -– I know I’m no good at talking, but I’m great in action.”

Baz makes a vague humming noise but doesn’t say anything. So I keep trying to explain.

“When I was a kid, I needed all the help I could get and I want to give back somehow. And I know I would be really good at it. Being a firefighter just makes sense for me. I've dreamed about it ever since I was little. It’s like, my destiny!”

I break for a second and let out a heavy sigh. Talking about this always gets me so worked up.

“I don’t have a Plan B,” I add in a quieter voice.

“I see,” Baz says. He couldn’t sound more bored if he tried. I hear him drawing in a deep breath. I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. No wonder he and Penny are friends.

“Mr. Snow, do you have a nutrition-related problem? Did Penelope tell you anything about the services I provide?”

He’s trying again to get me to get to the point (really, the man deserves a medal for being this patient).

“It’s the fucking medical exam!” I sputter.

My free hand is raking through my hair and I’m pacing back and forth in front of the couch. I’m a bloody mess, and this guy is so infuriatingly proper.

“I passed all the fitness tests and I’ve even gone to some of the optional training clinics. I’m in really good physical shape! I played rugby all through school. And I’m wicked fierce with a sword--”

“Excuse me?” Baz interrupts. “When was the last time you had cause to wield a sword?”

“Oh. Um. Well…I’m pretty active in the LARP scene. You know…live action role play?”

“Right…”

Yup, I bet Baz is face-palming right now. He thinks I’m a total numpty. Perfect.

“I’ll have to take your word on that, Snow. I think Penelope mentioned something about high cholesterol?”

“Yeah. I mean, that’s what they say…I don’t know what they expect. You have to eat a lot to do the things I do. I’m always fucking hungry…”

“Snow, it’s not ‘something they say’. If it’s in your bloodwork, it’s pretty much a fact.”

“Well, I need it off my record. Can you help me?”

There’s a long silence.

Shit, did I mess this up somehow? (Of course I did.) Baz is the only lead I have and I really need his help. He probably only ever has clients that are posh like him. Penny said he’s pretentious and hard to read but that he takes his work dead serious. She said I need someone scary like her if I want to have any hope of actually succeeding.

“Baz? I’m sorry. I know I’m a right mess. I’ll work hard. I promise.”

Did he hang up on me? I check my phone and the seconds on the call are still ticking. What the hell?

“Baz! Come on. You have to help me! You’re my only hope.”

“Snow, what I have to do is check my schedule and my client roster to see if I have the time to take you on. I’ll get back to you this evening.”

BAZ

I know I seem like a cold-hearted prick. Honestly, no one would fight you on that. I’m extremely picky about my clientele. There is no shortage of people looking to make good on promises to turn their lives around.

I studied nutrition under some of the best names in the field and I work hard for my clients. I’ve earned the right to be choosy. The Instagram for my business is chock full of inspirational stories, smiling faces and gorgeous food shots.

A fire fighter could make for an exceptionally moving profile piece. Or…he could be an aggressive, homophobic nightmare. I don’t like to stereotype, but I have to be careful about stuff like that because I work alone, often meeting clients in their homes. Also, it’s not worth it to me to pour my time and energy into someone who doesn’t respect who I am (I get enough of that with my father).

I’ll just check Penelope’s Instagram, confirm my worst suspicions about Snow and send him a polite note of apology and a referral to one of my colleagues.

Or…

Maybe I’ll just bang my head against the kitchen counter until I can knock loose the image of him that just seared itself onto my brain. Shit.

Meddling know-it-all (16:51):
Simon says he called you. He’s worried you’re blowing him off.

Me (16:53):
I run a business Bunce, not a charity.

Meddling know-it-all (16:53):
Basilton, please. He’s like my brother. He hasn’t caught a lot of breaks in life and he really needs one now.

Me (16:58):
Fine. I’ll meet with him *once* and we’ll see how it goes. No promises.

“Fuck!”

I hurl my phone across the flat onto the couch and run my hands through my hair, letting them come to rest at the base of my neck.

Penelope Bunce is a thorn in my side. She knows I’m a highly successful professional with a refined clientele. I never agree to work with friends (or friends of friends) because the boundaries get too blurry. It’s easy for them to take advantage, or for you to overstep. She knows very well what she’s asking of me.

I retrieve my phone and go back to scrolling through Penelope’s Instagram. I can see exactly what I’m up against and it’s not good.

Snow is literally swinging a sword in one photo. Eyes flashing, skin glowing, bronze curls billowing. For some inexplicable reason his costume seems to include a pair of red dragony wings and a tail. Heaven knows why, but I can’t stop tracing the contours of them with my eyes. They’re astoundingly realistic; they seem as full of life as he does.

From what I can see, Snow doesn’t strike me as a laddish prick, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. On the contrary, Simon Snow is a disaster waiting to happen.

I am incredibly weak for rakish young men. Rakish young men with disarming grins who stutter through phone calls and blatantly inform me they’re ‘good with their bodies’. Bodies that apparently include wings at times. Christ.

Nope. I’d rather drown myself in the Thames than endure the torture of maintaining a professional demeanor with someone like this. He’s infuriatingly attractive and seems likely to test my limits at every turn. I will meet with him once to get a better sense of his case and then I will foist him off on one of my colleagues. Perhaps someone who specialises in athletes. That would be better suited to his situation anyhow.

Me (18:17):
I can meet you for an introductory consultation. Breakfast at your favourite cafe at your earliest convenience.

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:18):
thank god!! didn’t think u were gonna do it

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:18):
i work mornings this week but i could do saturday?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:47):
or i could try 2 switch shifts with someone

Me (18:51):
No. That’s alright. I don’t usually meet with clients on the week-end but I can do it just this once.

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:51):
great!!

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:51):
do u know the wandernig gota?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:51):
they have the best scones

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:53):
*wandering goat*

Me (18:54):
Yes. I believe I’ve been there before. 9am?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:57):
uh… any chance we can meet at 8?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:57):
i wake up early

Simon “nightmare” Snow (18:58):
and hungry

Me (19:03):
Fine. 8am it is.

Chapter Text

“Simon! Nice to see you, love.”

“Hey, Ebb. Beautiful morning, innit?”

“It sure is. A perfect morning for a plate of scones, I reckon.”

Ebb winks at me and I wander over to my usual table. I’m so glad Baz suggested meeting somewhere comfortable. I’m pretty nervous about this whole thing.

I was devastated when I didn’t pass my medical exam. It came as a real shock. I know I have a healthy appetite but I always figured I burned most of it off running around like I do. My doctor gave me this huge stack of handouts that were supposed to help me make ‘better lifestyle choices’. But they just gave me a headache.

I’m already doing all the fitness things they suggest. So that just leaves eating better. All the recipes look like rabbit food and I don’t really have any cooking skills or equipment. It feels hopeless, all the things I’d have to learn to take even the smallest step. That’s where Baz comes in, I guess.

I’m all kinds of nervous about Baz. I’m pretty sure I’m going to look like a total tit compared to him. He was smooth as fuck on the phone and I was a blathering idiot. I’m not at all convinced that what I need to help me find my way through this intimidating pile of handouts, is an equally intimidating bloke.

I forgot to ask Baz how I would recognize him when we set up our meeting and I was too embarrassed to text him again later to ask what he looks like. So I called Penny to ask her. When I joked about my whole fitness god with a clipboard theory, she cackled and said that actually, he looked more like a stern fashion model. And didn’t that just make it all worse. She said I should wear something nice because Baz certainly would and it would demonstrate that I’m taking this seriously.

Ebb brings my scones over along with a cup of tea. She smooths my rowdy hair down a bit and gives me a curious smile.

“Don’t you look nice today. You meeting someone special?”

“No…I mean, I am meeting someone…but it’s not like that!” (It’s not a date, for Christ’s sake). “Penny’s friend is helping me with my cholesterol.”

“Oh, Simon. I’m so glad to hear that.”

There’s absolutely no reason for me to be embarrassed. It was just a misunderstanding on Ebb’s part. But I can feel a flush spread all up my neck and across my cheeks anyway. Of course, that’s the moment the bell at the door tinkles.

I sneak a look and there’s no doubt in my mind that this is the infamous Baz Pitch. I swallow the lump in my throat and shoot Ebb a pleading ‘help me’ look. She just chuckles and strolls back towards the counter. I busy myself with eating my scones. This man looks like he might be capable of smiting me dead with his disapproving sneer and I don’t want to die with an empty stomach.

I always try to meet clients for the first time on their own turf. You can learn a lot about someone by observing them going about their regular routine, especially in places where they seek comfort.

The Wandering Goat is a prime example of this. It has worn wooden floors and a motley collection of couches, armchairs and farm tables. The dark walls are cool in summer when the light filters in through the trees and cosy in winter when the lamps cast a warm glow. The pastry case is a tempting abundance of oversized, high-calorie buns, scones and tea cakes. Ebb, the owner, exudes a sympathetic warmth and is on a first-name basis with most of her regulars. She’s ridiculously indulgent with her favourites and she’s just the sort to fall for Snow’s brand of bumbling charm. They were chatting conspiratorially when I came in the door. Of course.

I knew it was him the moment I laid eyes on him. He’s every bit as impossibly good looking in person. For a brief moment, I’m unreasonably disappointed that he’s not wearing his wings (what is wrong with me?) Good thing I have a plan to cut him loose and get myself out of here as quickly as possible.

“What can I get you, dear?” Ebb wants to know.

“Pumpkin mocha breve, if you please.”

“Extra whipped cream today?”

Ebb is a tease and a bloody bad influence. I make a show of giving her an eye roll and a little huff, and then I give in, just like I always do.

“Yes, I suppose I will.”

I tilt my head in the direction of Simon’s table and ask under my breath so just Ebb can hear me, “Simon?” She smiles and nods knowingly.

“You go on and have a seat. I’ll bring your drink over when it’s ready.”

Right. Face blank. Hands in pockets. Saunter casually. Do your best to remain unaffected by the gorgeous man who is currently flashing you a shy smile and waving you over to his table.

Is this guy for real? I mean, seriously, he just walks around looking like that? I’ve never met anyone who looked this fit in real life. It’s bloody distracting is what it is. He’s coming over here and in a second I’m going to have to open my mouth and speak. He’s so smooth and I’m so…

“Snow. Pleasure to meet you.”

Wait, should I stand up? That’s what you do when you meet someone, innit? I should stand up -- Oh, shit! – There goes my chair. OK, shake his hand first and then pick up the chair.

“Baz!” I manage to squeak out. “Uh…Thanks for coming,” I add as I thrust out my hand.

“Of course,” Baz replies, his voice steady (how is he so calm?) He takes my hand warily and gives it one decisive pump before releasing it quickly and gesturing to the table. “Shall we sit?”

Baz swings his messenger bag gracefully off his shoulder and arranges himself effortlessly in the chair opposite me while I scrabble around recovering my seat from the floor. Ebb brings his drink over and lays a sympathetic hand on my shoulder before returning to the counter.

When I’m finally settled and chance another look across the table, Baz is regarding me with a blank expression (totally unreadable, just like Penny said).

“I saved you a scone,” I mumble and nudge the plate towards him.

“That was thoughtful of you Snow, but I ate at home.”

I give a little shrug. (Penny says I shrug too much).

“S’fine. Go ahead and take it. I had a few already.”

“A few?” He sounds surprised.

“Yeah. Ebb gave me the last ones. I came a little early – you have to, to get the cherry ones before they run out...”

I can tell that’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave my mouth. I can’t take it back now but I sort of trail off at the end.

“Snow, given the nature of our appointment today, I’d have thought you would have shown a little restraint. You are capable of restraint, aren’t you?”

Wow. He really doesn’t hold back does he? I thought maybe we’d make it more than a few seconds into this before I got the disapproving sneer (glad I ate those scones while I had the chance). It’d be easier to take the criticism if he weren’t so fucking perfect. The man probably hasn’t struggled with a damn thing in his life.

“Save it Baz. I don’t need to be lectured by you,” I grumble.

“You do know that’s precisely why we’re here?”

What the hell?! He’s cocking his fucking eyebrow at me! It’s arching up like an arrow, forcing me to notice his widow’s peak and follow the line of his silky black hair as it trails along his cheek. Bloody posh wanker! His cool grey eyes are scanning my face, reading me like a book. I narrow mine at him. So what if I need his help? He can’t just push me around!

Well, that was fast. Professional me usually tries to keep the eyebrow in check until at least the second meeting. Snow, on the other hand, is a real live wire. He’s positively glowering at me, jaw set, head cocked provocatively, sparks flying from his eyes. The air is practically shimmering around him.

This is not how I planned for this to go. But I’m not really surprised either. We’ve likely streaked right past the point where de-escalation was possible, but I’m nothing if not ruthless in my ability to control a conversation. I let my expression go blank and drop my attention to my bag, from which I draw my leather portfolio.

“I brought some information for you about LDL cholesterol, its dietary sources and its impacts on your health. I also thought we could go over what you might expect when working with a nutritionist.”

When I raise my gaze to meet Snow’s, the anger has gone out of his face but the stubborn set of his jaw remains. There’s a new look of playful challenge in his eyes (they’re the bluest of blues). He looks pointedly down at the plate with the scone on it and then back up at me. I ignore him and forge ahead.

“Your doctor may have given you some similar handouts, but I find most of my clients have trouble making sense of them. This is my own take on the important points. It’s critical to understand and believe the science behind the issues before attempting to make major changes to your lifestyle.”

“Baz…”

He’s nudging at the plate again. It’s work not to roll my eyes. If he brings this level of dogged determination to overhauling his eating habits, he actually stands a chance of lowering his cholesterol before his next physical.

I can be equally resolute when the need arises. I continue speaking.

“The most important thing for us to discuss today is the process of working with a nutritionist to identify problem areas, establish goals, and troubleshoot the behaviours that stand between you and a successful outcome.”

Christ almighty. He’s not listening to me at all. He’s leaning back in his chair now with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing an expression that I’m very familiar with from my little sister’s pre-teen years. Those were trying times; I still get flashbacks. I stop to gaze at him placidly while I wait for his next move. Sometimes Mordelia would lose interest if I didn’t rise to her bait.

“Baz…” he whines. “Just try it. Ebb’s scones are the best in all of London.”

“I told you I’m not hungry, Snow.”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten one,” he insists.

“Maybe I’m half-dead already,” I intone, meeting his eyes with a level stare.

Snow emits a low frustrated growl from the back of his throat (help me).

“Just eat the damn scone, Pitch!”

This time I can’t hide the icy tone that creeps into my voice. Snow doesn’t realise what a major button he’s pushing, but I’m furious that he won’t back off.

“No,” I snarl at him.

Snow throws his hands up in exasperation. He lets one of them fall hard upon the table while the other goes to his head and starts tugging at his hair.

“Jesus Christ, Baz! Are you one of those health freaks who doesn’t even like food? I can’t work with someone who doesn’t care about eating, Baz. Who doesn’t enjoy eating.”

Snow’s leaning into the table now, giving me this pleading look. He wants (probably needs) me to make this gesture in order to win his trust. But he doesn’t know what he’s asking. He couldn’t possibly realise. No one knows the truth about me and why I feel so passionate about my career. It’s not like I could post a profile of my story on Instagram:

Young professional struggles with malnutrition because he’s a vampire and needs to drink blood to survive. Shame and anxiety over fangs dropping while eating regular food keeps him from relaxing in social settings and forming close personal relationships. Empathy for others in similar situations fuels compulsive desire to nurture and obsess over other people’s food-related issues.

No. He doesn’t have any idea what it’s like. He’s an idiot and he’s throwing down the gauntlet, putting me through a trial by fire. The nerve! Who’s in charge here anyway? Obviously, this is a recipe for disaster (he’s a disaster).

Any self-respecting professional would walk away right now. I should just leave. Normally, I would just pack up and leave. I’ve had enough nightmare clients for a lifetime. I know the damage they can wreak, even when kept at a professional distance. ‘Professional distance’ – Hah! – a laughable concept where Snow is concerned. He’s a brute and a gravitational force. He’s drawing me into his madness and the worst of it is that I’m not sure I mind.

In emergencies, I do have a strategy I can fall back on for eating in public. Rational me knows I shouldn’t do it now. Not for a complete stranger (much less a client). I’ve never allowed a stranger to get away with putting me on the spot like this; allowed myself to feel accountable for pleasing someone I barely know. But I can tell Snow is serious. He’s fucking stubborn and he will walk away if I don’t prove myself. Bloody hell.

The truth is I no longer want him to walk away. My plan to foist him off on someone else already went out the window (probably the moment this blustering fool offered me the damn scone in the first place) (oh, the irony!) I’m sorely tempted to eat this scone for him. I shouldn’t risk it. But I’m going to. Because, well, look at him. He’s too pigheaded to back down, but I can tell he’s worried that this is going to blow up. He’s an appalling mess of fiery determination and blushing insecurity. He’s lovely (I hate him).

I sort-of wish I hadn’t made such a big deal about this scone thing. It was probably a mistake. I’m worried Baz is just going to pack up and leave. I know I’m being childish and rude. It just feels important somehow. These scones are my most favourite food in the world and I want to share that with him. And I meant what I said – I could never respect someone who doesn’t enjoy eating.

“Snow,” Baz is saying now, “if I take a bite of this scone, will that enable you to get your head in the game? We have a lot to cover.”

That gets my attention. I let the grin break slowly across my face until I’m flashing Baz my most infectious smile.

“Go on then. I know you’re gonna love it.”

Baz rolls his eyes so dramatically that his head rolls with them and he leans forward onto one elbow, propping his chin on his thumb with his fist in front of his mouth. He stares into my eyes with another one of his unreadable expressions.

His eyes aren’t really grey after all. Looking at them now, I can see that they’re made up of a million shades of green and blue. The colours are shifting around even as I try to take them all in. I’ve never seen eyes like his and I can’t seem to look away. I’m vaguely aware that Baz has slipped a piece of scone into his mouth and is chewing it behind his fist. I realise I’m holding my breath.

“Well?” I can’t help asking.

The corners of Baz’s eyes crinkle the slightest amount. He takes his sweet time responding. I’m on the edge of my seat.

“I’ll admit, this is really good, Snow. Now, do you mind if I save the rest for later?”

Baz is smirking and cocking his eyebrow again. He’s totally infuriating (all that fuss over nothing!) But I can’t help grinning at him. I’m well chuffed.

Chapter Text

BAZ

I’ve been resisting the urge to reach out to Snow to see how things are going. If he were any other client, I would have done so by this point in the week, as a matter of course.

With Snow, this standard courtesy feels like an indulgence. An indulgence I can’t allow myself. But at this point, avoiding the issue is verging on negligence. So I take out my phone. Not to call (who knows what would happen then?) Just a simple text.

Me (10:34):
How’s the food journal coming?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (12:17):
im getting tikka masala and samosas for lunch

Me (12:19):
Enjoy.

Me (12:22):
Let me know if you have any questions about how to fill in the journal pages.

Simon “nightmare” Snow (12:41):
i got more samosas

Simon “nightmare” Snow (12:41):
i was still hungry

Me (12:47):
That seems a bit excessive. But that is the point of the food journal. We’ll discuss on Friday.

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:33):
someone left a box of doughnuts in the break room!

Me (15:35):
Congrats?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:42):
i ate 5 and a cup of tea

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:42):
does tea count as food?

Me (15:53):
Yes. Tea is food. Especially if you add milk and/or sugar.

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:53):
just milk

Me (15:56):
Snow. Are you using this text conversation as your food journal?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:58):
yes?

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:58):
don’t get mad

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:58):
i keep losing it

Simon “nightmare” Snow (15:58):
and then i forget what I ate

Me (15:59):
I’m headed into a meeting. I can’t deal with this right now. We’ll talk later.

SIMON

Shit. Baz is mad. I knew he wouldn’t like this plan of texting him, but I figured it was better than nothing, right? He gave me these stupid worksheets to keep track of what I eat for a week. But they have all these columns and shit to fill out. It’s like doing homework on my lunch break. Yesterday, I even spilled curry sauce on them at the chippy. I feel like I’m back in school and Baz is my demanding teacher. Plus, half the time I don’t have them on me (like when I found those doughnuts…that was ace!)

I thought at least this way Baz would know I was keeping up with it. I mean, I’m always thinking of him when I’m eating now, I just don’t have the bloody sheets with me. Penny lets me text her during the day about stuff I need to remember. You know, instead of writing it down? She doesn’t mind. She always asks me about whatever it was when I get home, then I remember and it works out great. I don’t know why Baz has to be such a git about it.

BAZ

I’m on a phone call with a client of mine who’s in a bit of a panic about hosting their extended family for their mother’s 75th birthday. It’s one thing to follow through on self-care on an average day, it’s a whole different game when you’re stressed and your home is overrun by judgemental busybodies. I’m full of sympathy, really I am, who couldn’t relate? (Well, my mother died when I was five, so it’s a bit of a stretch for me...)

But, right now I have more pressing problems. Right now, I can’t get the image of Simon Snow stuffing his face with doughnuts out of my mind. It’s forcing all rational thoughts from my brain.

I’m going to have to stall and suggest that I call this client back tomorrow with some helpful suggestions. I’m mortified that I’m not prepared to handle this promptly, as I typically do during weekly client check-ins. But I would embarrass myself even further if I attempted to strategize in my current frame of mind (what mind?)

Snow has not only failed to respect boundaries in our own dealings, now he’s sabotaging my relationships with my other clients. Terrific. I’m going to murder him. As soon as I take a long hot shower and have a drink.

Simon “nightmare” Snow (19:23):
im having pizza for dinner

Me (19:31):
Snow. Call me.

Simon “nightmare” Snow (19:32):
baz…come on!

Simon “nightmare” Snow (19:32):
im shit at this journal thing

Simon “nightmare” Snow (19:32):
i’ll do it all wrong and you’ll still be mad

Simon “nightmare” Snow (19:35):
ud do it so much better than me

Simon “nightmare” Snow (19:42):
please!

Simon “nightmare” Snow (21:37):
BAZZZZZZZ…

Me (21:46):
You’re impossible. But also probably right.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:47):
😀

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:48):
you can reply right away with all your shitty commentary

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:48):
so we don’t waste time when we meet up next

Me (21:51):
Excellent idea.

Me (21:51):
I *usually* try to stay impartial at this stage in the process.

Me (21:51):
But since you’ve dragged me into this against my will…and I don’t expect you’ll listen to a word I say anyhow…I won’t bother to censor myself.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:52):
ok…that’s…good?

Me (21:52):
Tell me about this pizza. How many slices? What toppings?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:52):
ALL the slices

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:53):
ur not one of those people who has 1 little slice of leftover pizza for lunch are u?

Me (21:54):
This isn’t about me. Toppings?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:54):
diavolo is the only pizza worth eating

Me (21:55):
I don’t see why you’re taking such a strong position on this. Obviously you’d never *share* a pizza with someone.

Me (21:56):
Please tell me you’re at least drinking water instead of beer.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:56):
i prefer cider actually

Me (21:56):
Good lord. You’re revolting. One can or seven?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (21:57):
just 1! i’m not a sot!

Me (21:59):
Thank the stars for small mercies.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:17):
penny stopped for chips on her way home.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:17):
she stayed late at the hospital working on her research

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:19):
shit are you sleeping?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:19):
sorry

Me (01:22):
I am awake. I’m a bit of a night owl.

Me (01:22):
What do you like on your chips then?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:24):
idk baz

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:25):
thats a serious question

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:26):
the sort of thing that can make or break a friendship

Me (01:26):
You’re stalling.

Me (01:26):
Also, we’re not friends. I’m your doctor.

Me (01:29):
Either you’ll eat anything anyone puts in front of you. Or it’s the mushy peas…

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:29):
NOT the mushy peas

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:29):
too much of that shit growing up

Me (01:31):
There’s hope for you yet.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:33):
i like most anything else

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:35):
penny gets cheese

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:39):
bet you secretly like to make a meal of it…cheese and beans?

Me (01:40):
I’m a traditionalist. Just salt and vinegar.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:41):
figures

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:42):
shit its late

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:42):
should let you go to bed

Me (01:43):
I thought you were a morning person.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:47):
i like to wait up for penny

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:47):
i sleep better when she’s here

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (01:56):
g’night baz

Me (01:58):
Goodnight, Snow.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (07:47):
four scones

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (07:47):
english breakfast

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (07:47):
sorry running late

Me (09:13):
‘English Breakfast’ the tea? Or the multi-course breakfast concept?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (09:22):
lol the tea

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (09:22):
i fucking love a full english though

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (09:23):
no time for that on a work day 😠

Me (09:23):
Of course you do.

Me (09:23):
Milk in the tea, right?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (09:48):
yeah milk

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (10:13):
can’t stop thinking about the english breakfast 😭😭😭

Me (10:43):
Poor thing. Did you find a snack?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:02):
nah been too busy this morning

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:03):
lunch soon though

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:16):
hold up! someone just donated a bunch of expired crisps

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:17):
fuck theyre all prawn coctail flavor

Me (11:19):
You don’t have to eat them, you know.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:24):
beggars cant be choosers

Me (11:25):
I take it you ate the whole packet. Do you know the size?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:25):
baz i ate like 5 packets they were so tiny

Me (11:25):
Can you try to be a bit more precise for the sake of the food journal?

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:26):
sorry they’re gone now

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:27):
i'll look at the label next time

Me (11:28):
It’s fine. For now, I guess I’ll assume the worst.

Simon “stubborn cur” Snow (11:28):
always a good bet 🤪

Me (15:47):
The crisps weren’t your lunch, were they?

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:33):
oops

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:33):
i grabbed a sandwich at pret

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:34):
things were hectic at work today but i’m off now

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:34):
chicken parm hot wrap

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:39):
having tea at ebbs she says hi

Me (16:47):
I see you didn’t starve.

Me (16:48):
I guess I needn’t have worried. Your ability to sniff out food is unrivalled.

Me (16:49):
You probably ate enough calories at breakfast to last you the entire day anyhow.

Me (16:50):
I would recommend a vegetable or two. You have heard about vegetables, right?

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:51):
jesus lay off will you?

Me (16:51):
I know I walk on water. But you can just call me Baz.

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:52):
wtf???

Me (16:56):
Sorry.

Me (16:56):
I just got off the phone with my father. It always leaves me in a foul mood.

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:58):
that bad huh?

Simon “glutton” Snow (16:58):
should i save you a scone? Ebb gave me 5

Me (16:59):
You go ahead and enjoy them. I think my situation calls for something stronger.

Me (17:01):
But tell Ebb that a typical serving of scones is two at most.

Simon “glutton” Snow (17:03):
i can’t baz

Simon “glutton” Snow (17:03):
it wud hurt her feelings

Me (17:06):
Ebb cares about you. She would want to help.

Me (17:06):
I can be the bad guy if it’s easier for you. Next time I’m there, I’ll have a chat with her.

Simon “glutton” Snow (17:07):
don’t you dare!

Me (17:12):
Ahh. Not as altruistic as you’d like me to believe…

Simon “glutton” Snow (17:13):
c'mon baz…anything but the scones

Me (17:14):
Fine. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a monster.

Me (17:14):
We’ll put the scones on the back burner.

Simon “glutton” Snow (17:15):
😀

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Simon “glutton” Snow (07:35):
two sausage rolls

Simon “glutton” Snow (07:35):
one hash browns

Simon “glutton” Snow (08:22):
omg cadbury mini rolls in break room

Simon “glutton” Snow (08:22):
im taking three packs

Me (09:14):
I believe congratulations are in order.

Me (09:14):
You managed to consume an entire day’s worth of sustenance before I even got out of bed.

Me (09:15):
Still not a vegetable in sight however…

Simon “glutton” Snow (09:16):
i can’t handle vegetables at breakfast baz

Simon “glutton” Snow (09:16):
you can’t make me

Simon “glutton” Snow (13:09):
you’ll be proud

Me (13:12):
I’m notoriously difficult to please.

Simon “glutton” Snow (13:13):
i went for curry again and i tried something new

Simon “glutton” Snow (13:13):
i got something called saag paneer

Simon “glutton” Snow (13:13):
it was green

Simon “glutton” Snow (13:13):
and shockingly good

Me (13:15):
Colour me impressed.

Simon “glutton” Snow (13:15):
it was made of vegetables

Me (13:17):
Yes, Snow. I am aware.

Me (13:17):
You did well.

Ridiculous numpty (16:36):
stopped at ebbs after work

Ridiculous numpty (16:36):
she gave me four scones and you promised not to say anything

Me (16:41):
I did. And I keep my promises.

Ridiculous numpty (16:42):
have i mentioned i like to eat them with loads of butter?

Me (16:45):
I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I’m afraid. I try not to let it keep me up at night.

Ridiculous numpty (16:45):
did someone say something?

Ridiculous numpty (16:48):
jk

Ridiculous numpty (16:50):
trying to be up front about everything

Me (16:56):
It is important to be honest if you want to get something out of this process.

Ridiculous numpty (20:15):
larp ran late

Ridiculous numpty (20:15):
ordering pizza

Ridiculous numpty (20:16):
and drinking lots of water

Me (20:47):
Twice in one week?

Ridiculous numpty (20:48):
sod off

Ridiculous numpty (20:48):
you prolly don’t even like pizza

Me (20:52):
For your information, I would gladly share a diavolo with you, IF you ever stop eating like a rabid hyena.

Ridiculous numpty (20:52):
is that a dare?

Ridiculous numpty (20:53):
cuz i never back down from dares

Me (21:14):
Whatever motivates you, Snow.

Ridiculous numpty (21:15):
oh i’m very motivated to see you eat pizza baz 😉

BAZ

Snow is going to be the death of me (and my professional reputation). Allowing him to text me has been a colossal mistake. I opened the floodgates when I should have been jamming my finger in the crack (or something like that) (bloody idioms).

We haven’t even made it to the first actual session and he’s already sending me winking emojis. And I just promised I’d eat half a pizza in front of him. What the actual fuck was I thinking? (I wasn’t, obviously) (I practically rolled over and showed him where to sink the stake).

I need to retrench. Tomorrow’s meeting has to be 100% business. We’re supposed to meet at Ebb’s again, but maybe I should book a room at the co-working space. Force Snow out of his comfort zone so I can regain the upper hand.

Oh, who am I kidding? He’ll be even more of a bumbling catastrophe there, which just means more of a headache for me. He’ll be alarmingly endearing in any environment I encounter him in. There’s no reason to pay for the privilege. I simply have to get a grip.

Chapter Text

SIMON

My stomach is a bundle of nerves and not even Ebb’s scones are helping. I’m really worked up about seeing Baz again. Today we’re supposed to talk about my food journal.

Even though I basically told him to get all his shitty comments out of his system before we met, I’m still scared he’s going to tell me I’m hopeless and cut things off. I mean, I know I’m a mess and I eat like a wild animal (Baz’s words not mine) (actually Penny says so too, but that’s different). But I can work hard when I have a goal. Like with Baz and the pizza (it’d be brill to go out for pizza with Baz).

One thing I am relieved about is not having to dress up for these meetings anymore. I’m sure Baz will still look amazing but I don’t really see the point. It’s just not me. Now that we spent all week texting, I think I can get away with just being myself. I showered after work and threw on some joggers and my old rugby jumper before heading to Ebb’s.

It just started drizzling outside and it’s the perfect sort of afternoon to cosy up with a mug of tea at The Goat. Or it would be if I weren’t so worked up about seeing Baz.

BAZ

I jog from my car to Ebb’s since it’s started raining and I slip quickly inside. I take a second by the door to slick my wet hair back before turning to face Snow. When I see him it’s work to not huff like a toddler, stomp my foot and throw my head back in exasperation.

He’s sitting there in all his recently-showered, faded-jumper glory. And he’s staring at me slack-jawed because, fool that I am, I chose to fortify myself with a protective shell of impeccably-tailored clothing (as if that could save me from Simon Snow).

My undead heart briefly sputters to life at the thought that Snow might actually find me attractive. But that’s ridiculous. A gay firefighter? That’s the stuff of fantasies. What are the chances in real life? He’s probably just thrown off by my flagrant display of wealth.

I let my eyes drift away from him for a moment while I count down from five in my head and then I make my way purposefully to his table.

“Good afternoon, Snow.” I nod at him curtly.

“Hey, Baz,” he says, a bit breathlessly.

I take my time setting down my bag, removing my damp jacket and folding it over the back of my chair. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Snow’s mouth tighten into a line and his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Good. He’s intimidated. Maybe he’ll behave himself (as if that were even a remote possibility). I pull some materials out of my bag and turn to him.

“As you requested, I completed your food diary based on the information you provided. Why don’t you look it over while I get myself something to drink?” I suggest in the most disinterested voice I can manage. Before he can stutter out a reply, I breeze off to place my order.

SIMON

I was worried that Baz would be mean, or angry, but this is so much worse. He’s acting like he doesn’t care at all. Like we didn’t spend all week talking and joking at all hours. Like I’m just another one of his clients. Which, I mean, of course I am…I just thought we were starting to be friends or something too.

I was obviously wrong.

When he said I was forcing him to text with me I thought he was just being a dramatic git. But maybe he really didn’t want to. Maybe he thinks I’m a pain in the arse and a waste of his time.

BAZ

When I turn back to the table, Simon is clearing his dishes and it looks like he’s about to leave. Shit. I think I overdid it.

“Snow? What’s going on?”

He stops and looks at me guiltily. I think he was planning to leave without saying anything. Unbelievable.

“Look, Baz. I’m just gonna go. This isn’t going to work. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Snow…don’t be silly.” Is he going to cry? Fuck.

“Snow...” He’s still making for the door.

“Simon! Please. We’re already here. Let’s just sit for a minute.”

He’s considering it. He still looks vulnerable with his eyebrows pulled tight and his mouth pressed into a tense line that betrays how he’s struggling to hold back the tears. How could I have screwed this up so royally? I’m such a prick.

I’m going to have to own it if I want to turn this around (I do) (I want to take it all back) (I’m positively frantic to make nice).

“I apologise if I seemed abrupt before. It’s been a long day. But, it’s nice to see you.” I look him straight in the eye as I say this and gesture towards his empty seat.

“I guess I can stay for a minute,” Snow mutters.

He makes his way back to the table. His jaw is still set and he’s forcing the words out between gritted teeth, but the threat of tears seems to have passed. He’s sullen now and ready to fight (God, he’s beautiful).

“Just tell me what I have to do,” he grunts.

“Are you sure you want to know?” I ask him in a teasing tone, eyebrow lifted for emphasis.

“Argh! I’ve just said so, you tosser!”

SIMON

Bloody hell! I really can’t believe him. He runs so hot and cold all the time. It makes me crazy!

But he’s good like this, right now. Even with that fucking eyebrow…I’ll take teasing over that aloof professional act any day.

“Tosser?” he scoffs, laying a hand over his heart. “Is that any way to address someone who’s offered you their assistance?”

Like I said, dramatic bloody git…

“YOU,” I say louder than I mean to, while poking my finger into his chest, “have to be nice if I’m going to listen to you.” I punctuate this statement with one more jab.

Baz’s eyes go a bit wide when I touch him. I’m certainly crossing some lines right now. But I have to keep him off kilter. I have to keep him here with me. Not looking bored, leaning back in his chair, going through the motions.

“Well…” Baz pauses and looks down at my finger. I pull my hand back so he’ll keep talking.

“I can’t really promise to be nice.” He winces apologetically. “It’s not in my nature,” he explains in a grim tone. “What I can promise is to speak hard truths, be a good listener and to have your back. Does that work for you?”

I consider his words and his whole person. He looks fucking perfect as usual. But his hands are laced together in front of him and his head is slightly bowed. He knows he messed up. “Yeah. That’ll do,” I tell him.

“Good. Now, are you ready to hear some hard truths?”

I actually am. For some reason I trust Baz because he can be a real prick sometimes. I don’t like it when people sugarcoat stuff. And I hate it when they pity me. My life is pretty much a disaster most of the time…no use in denying it, or feeling bad about it.

“Just…Baz?”

“Yes, Snow?”

“Don’t go ghosting me again, getting all cold and professional on me…I can’t take it.”

Baz is rolling his eyes at me again (I sort-of love it). I think our conversations are probably just one continuous eye roll for him. Yesterday I would have sworn he liked it that way (I still think maybe he does).

“Only a barbarian such as yourself would actually demand poor customer service,” he sneers.

Yeah, he likes it.

BAZ

Because I’m a constant disappointment to myself, I’ve just agreed to treat Snow ‘unprofessionally’ (whatever that means). I tell myself it’s just a courtesy – whatever Snow needs to build trust and focus on the work ahead. But I’ve never encouraged this sort of casual behaviour with clients. I know very well it’s not simply a matter of style. It’s about boundaries and Snow’s plans to trample all over them. I can really be such a masochist sometimes.

“I’m going to start with the good news,” I inform Simon in a decisive but friendly tone.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask if I want the good news first or the bad?” he counters.

“No. We’re saving the bad news for last.“

“But why? I always start with the bad…” Simon whines.

“Because, I said so. Stop sulking.” I snap.

I’m starting to understand Simon’s friendship with Penelope. Is he always this petulant? (I hope I don’t remind him of her.) (Didn’t he compare her to his sister? That’s a horrifying thought.)

“Because the bad news is bad, and hard, and we need to work up to it,” I add, hoping to have the last word.

“Great.” Simon rolls his eyes and settles back in his chair. “Good to know it could get worse. And it will… Because you already said it will…”

I smirk at him. This is actually the perfect mood for him to be in when I deliver my ‘good’ news.

“The good news is…your diet is atrocious. There’s nothing redeemable about it.”

“That’s the good news?! Jesus, Baz!” Simon splutters.

“Yes. It’s very good news indeed.” I pause for a second to make sure he’s listening. “Some people have naturally high cholesterol levels regardless of how carefully they eat. But seeing as how you’ve never met an unhealthy food you walked away from, there’s plenty of room for improvement,” I conclude cheerfully.

Simon eyes me suspiciously.

“So, what? You gonna starve me to death and take all the joy out of life by making me eat rabbit food?”

I gaze at him innocently. I might bat my eyelashes once or twice.

“You’re a sadistic fucker aren’t you, Pitch?”

A stifled giggle escapes my lips, despite my best intentions. This man. This infuriatingly charming man knows how to break through all my defences. I'm finding I don’t mind in the slightest.

“There will be no starving, Snow. That’s rule number one. The goal is not to be hungry. The goal is to experiment with healthier foods and find ways to feel more satisfied by making sure other parts of you are taken care of as well as your stomach. We’re going to tackle one or two manageable pieces each week. Nothing drastic. I prefer to crowd out unhealthy choices rather than take them away.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.” Snow is still looking suspicious. ”What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Yet…” I flash him a devious grin.

“Hngh. I can always say no, right?”

“I ask my clients to try each of my suggestions for one week before refusing. I have two suggestions for this week. The first is to buy a bag of apples, or oranges if you prefer, so you can take a couple to work each day. Easy, right?”

Snow just nods his head. He’s still sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Also, I’d like you to try baking some sweet potatoes. Perhaps you’ve done this before, but just in case, there are instructions here. I noticed you warmed up some fish fingers for dinner last week. Done properly, baked sweet potatoes are quite delicious plain without anything else on them. If you do that instead of heating up chips to go with the fish, you’ll have just one fried item instead of two. Plus, sweet potatoes are high in fibre which is an important tool for managing cholesterol levels. Sound doable?”

“Yeah. I should be able to manage.”

“I’ll teach you how to bake your own fresh fish without the fried parts some other time..." I probably shouldn’t rattle his chain, but I do it anyway. "Once I’m certain you can turn the oven on without burning your flat down.”

Snow scoffs. “I know how to turn the oven on, arsehole.”

“Congratulations,” I smirk. “I also want us to keep going with the food journal. It will help to track the small changes over the weeks. It can take three months or longer for cholesterol levels to come down. I think you’ll be surprised later when you look back at where you started.”

Snow looks unconvinced. Most people do at this point in the process. People come to identify with certain foods and ways of eating. They feel defensive and scared. It feels like turning their back on a part of themselves when they decide to do things differently. There’s a certain loyalty that must be overcome through building new ties and habits.

SIMON

I hate this. Not Baz. He’s being really helpful and patient with me, as always. I’ve just never dieted before and it feels so strange and wrong. I mean, I know Baz wouldn’t call this dieting. He’d probably spout that ‘lifestyle choices’ shit from the handouts, but it’s the same thing, innit? Watching what I eat…it just feels bad. There have literally been times in my life (a lot of times actually) when I didn’t have enough to eat. It feels messed up and scary to be thinking about cutting back at all.

The only reason I could even stand keeping the food journal was because it was fun to push Baz’s buttons. I sometimes intentionally ate ridiculous shit just to read his snarky comments (probably not the best idea, considering my long-term goals). I guess it’ll be alright to keep doing the journal with him. I can probably find ways to annoy him with healthy stuff, not just by eating like a beast. And he said I could text him if I need help. But there’s still something that’s bothering me.

“Baz, is it time for the bad news? Or do you still have more ‘good’ news for me?” I use air quotes when I say the word ‘good’.

“Ah, yes…”

Baz is looking like he’s weighing his next move. Like he’s worried he might break me. Which is obviously not reassuring. I lift my chin and jut my jaw out at him.

“Spit it out then. I’m not made of glass.”

Baz lowers his eyes and nods his head, like we’ve just entered into some sort of solemn contract. Here we go then, I guess. I have a feeling I’m gonna want to throw a major fucking tantrum when I hear what he has to say.

“It’s about the scones, Snow.”

My face goes dark. I can’t help it. This is dead serious and Baz knows it. He’s giving me time to get used to the idea before he wrecks me. I glance over at Ebb and she gives me one of her reassuring smiles. Even Baz looks sympathetic when my eyes find his again.

“What about them?” My voice is low and flat.

“You are aware that most people eat scones one or two at a time, correct?”

I’ve no problem admitting that I’m giving Baz a murderous glare right now. I am well within my rights to act like a child. I told him to back off the scones.

Baz reaches over to where the copy of the food journal is sitting on the table. He spins it around and writes a number on it. Then he circles the number and spins it back to face me.

“32?”

“That’s how many scones you ate last week. I don’t have Ebb’s recipe, but based on average values, that’s over 20g of saturated fat per day, or two thirds of your daily allowance. That doesn’t leave much left over for chips, pizza or samosas. Don’t even get me started on the butter you put on the scones…”

I know those numbers are meant to shock me into some sort of realisation, but they’re meaningless to me. Instead I seize on something Baz said earlier.

“This is my one sacred thing Baz! You said you weren’t gonna take things from me!”

Baz levels me with a serious look. “I did. And I’m not. That’s why my goals for this week had nothing to do with scones. We’re going to strategize about the scones. Together.”

We’re locked in a staring contest now. Baz raises his eyebrow and asks, “I presume you make battle plans when you do your…sword stuff?” He’s waving his hand vaguely in the air.

I chuckle because he can barely talk about LARP with a straight face. He’s such a pretentious twat. But now I’m imagining facing off against Baz dressed in some posh fencing get-up (he’d look well fit). The LARP crowd goes all-in for ridiculous punny names too. I’d be Sir Scone, laying it on heavy in the name of buttery righteousness.

“I guess I know a thing or two about strategy,” I admit. “To be honest though, I usually just trust my gut.”

I give Baz a shit-eating grin and wait for the pun to sink in. He rolls his eyes (and head) in defeat. It’s kind-of adorable (you know, in a friends sort of way).

“Just, be thinking about it, ok?” he sighs. “I’m going to do some follow-up research myself.”

He’s giving me this look that’s a little bit fond but mostly exasperated, like Penny sometimes does. I halfway mean it when I tell him I’ll think about it. I like having him on my side.

BAZ

The regret came crashing down when it was time to go. My alarm went off, reminding me of my next appointment and I rose from the table and began gathering my things. The ritual of leaving jolted me back into the world of professional formalities.

I was about to reclaim some of my dignity by wrapping things up with something terse like, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ But of course, Simon would be Simon until the bitter end. He leapt up from the table, upsetting his chair in the process, just like that first day. There was blushing, stuttering, ransacking of curls.

The entire hopeless travesty was laid bare before me. The distance between how I was meant to behave and all the softness welling up inside me was so vast I was choking on it. I did what any reasonable person would do under the circumstances. I turned tail and fled.

By the time I made it back to my car, I was berating myself mercilessly. The war inside me raged all the way to my next appointment. In between bouts of self-flagellation, my mind spun out fantasies of every soft impulse indulged.

You were supposed to make him fall into line, Basilton! What an abject failure. You barely even tried!

…Me resting a reassuring hand on the small of his back as I reach around to right his chair for him.

One little chin quiver and you throw up the white flag of surrender. Your father would be horrified.

…Me cradling his face with both hands and pressing my lips to his furrowed brow.

You’ve let your guard down and he’s wormed his way into your heart. What did you think was going to happen?!

…Me laying a cool hand on his flushed cheek and murmuring, ‘you’re so beautiful when you’re flustered’.

His behaviour is one thing…it doesn’t mean you have to sink to his level.

…Me watching shamelessly as he scrabbles to recover his chair, thighs straining against those infernal joggers…

I lean my head against the steering wheel after I pull into the car park at my next stop. I drove too fast in my agitated state and now I’m early (which is for the best, since I need to clear my head before my next meeting). I can’t keep rehashing this situation with Snow. I have to set it aside.

I decide that the best way to do so is by preemptively reaching out to him. He’s probably in a strop about my leaving like I did. The last thing I need is for him to blow up my phone when I’m with a client. Of course he's right there at the top of my message history: ‘Simon Snow’ (a fruitless attempt to distance myself in advance of our meeting today).

Sarcastic comments seem to soothe him for some inexplicable reason. So I update his contact to keep myself honest and fall back on what I do best.

Me (17:13):
Have you eaten all the scones at Ebb’s yet?

Me (17:15):
I’m about to head into another coffee shop meeting. Shall I buy you some more?

Me (17:20):
Seriously. I have a minute. I thought I’d update your food journal.

Bane of my existence (17:21):
ur a real piece of work u know

Me (17:21):
So I’ve been told.

Bane of my existence (17:21):
I never know where I stand with u

Me (17:22):
In the buffet line, no doubt. If you had your way.

Bane of my existence (17:22):
Had my way…

Me (17:22):
You always do.

Bane of my existence (17:22):
with you?

Me (17:25):
I can’t stand buffets.

Bane of my existence (17:25):
See?

Bane of my existence (17:25):
That’s exactly what I’m talking about…

Bane of my existence (17:27):
hello?

Bane of my existence (17:29):
*sigh*

Bane of my existence (17:29):
5 scones and 2 teas with milk

Me (17:29):
Got it. Now leave me alone. I’m with a client.

Chapter Text

SIMON

“Mr. Snow? We gonna get started?”

My eyes snap into focus, taking in the group of boys gathered around me, their faces expectant. They’re all residents at the care home where I work. When I’m here weekends, we walk over to the pitch at the neighbourhood school for some footie. I like to get them out doing normal kid stuff as much as I can. I don’t have much of a budget, so I try to take advantage of all the free things I can find.

“Right. Same teams as last week.”

The kids start to fan out across the field, shoving and bumping each other as they go. I remember that feeling, that need to bounce off of another human, even briefly, just to know where I fit in the world.

“Evans! You take goalie today. Wood got signed out by his aunt this morning.”

I guess I blinked out there for a bit. I’d been watching the lads run their warm-up laps and my mind started to wander, like it does if I’m not careful. I should have run the laps with them but my legs are made of lead this morning after running last night until I was too tired to go another step. It was either that or lie in bed for hours replaying every moment from my time with Baz yesterday.

Even so, my brain still keeps finding the time to spin out. Penny caught me at it this morning at breakfast, but I was able to shrug it off. Not yesterday. Yesterday, Ebb had to ease me back from the edge…

That had been a close call. The minute Baz walked into The Goat, everything had felt so charged. He looked so good when he came in, with his fancy clothes and his hair all slicked back like a movie vampire. I held my breath as he came over, wondering again if he was real.

Then he knocked the wind right out of me when he acted like keeping my food journal was just another task he had to do for a client. I felt smaller than small. Shabby. Pathetic. If my wings had been out, they would have hunched up protectively. I would have shrunk into them and darted out the door. But they didn’t come because Baz had doused my fire completely. I couldn’t have called them if I tried.

I did try to bolt, but Baz caught me and coaxed me back. I still don’t know why he does half the things he does. I can’t get over the feeling that Baz and I are locked in some epic battle of wills.

I don’t even know what we’re fighting about. Are we even on opposing sides? Or are we fighting together? And to what end? To beat my cholesterol? That’s just stupid. Baz does this every day for his job. His work can’t possibly be this tense all the time or he’d never be able to carry on. It has to be something else, something more. But what?

A cheer goes up and pulls me out of my head. I see that Edwards has scored another goal.

“That’s it, Edwards! Show ‘em how it’s done!”

Man, that kid’s good…Fucking ruthless. Plays on his school’s team now, but they’re underfunded and his coach sucks. He could get recruited if he had some decent boots and the money to join the local club. Hell, all these kids could use cash for something. It breaks your heart if you think about it too much. Most people never do, think about it I mean. Out of sight, out of mind.

Anyway…when Ebb returned from the kitchen and found me yesterday, I had made a right mess of things as usual. My chair was toppled and I was staring at the door that Baz had just disappeared out of. She came up behind me to whisper in my ear, “Simon, your tail.”

My body was rigid, standing right where he’d left me, hands clenched at my sides. But my tail was snaking out, reaching after him, the tip curling around empty air. I yanked it back and glanced anxiously around the café. I don’t think anyone else noticed.

“He’s a bit hard to read, that one is,” Ebb observed dryly.

I let out a ragged laugh. Ebb always knows the right thing to say. She looked a little guilty, like maybe she’d said something mean. Ebb doesn’t like to be unkind about anyone. “You can sure say that again,” I agreed.

Then we both giggled as we worked together to put the table and chairs back in order. It was nice. Sometimes I miss working at The Goat with Ebb, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to work with the kids at the home. Still, The Goat is the only place besides my flat that I feel truly at ease.

Ebb brought me fresh tea and a few more scones. When my phone pinged a while later, I could still feel her calming presence. I let myself feel safe as I pondered how to get through to Baz.

I don’t think it worked. But I’m going to keep trying.

Me (16:22):
i was thinking

Fitness god (16:24):
That’s always dangerous.

Me (16:24):
piss off

Me (16:25):
how do i know when i no longer eat like a rabid hyena?

Fitness god (16:27):
I was just being an arsehole, Snow.

Me (16:28):
no im serious

Me (16:28):
i wanna know how i win

Fitness god (16:29):
What makes you think you can win?

Me (16:29):
i always win

Me (16:29):
also ur avoiding the question

Fitness god (16:46):
I suppose we’ll know when you have leftover pizza for lunch.

Me (16:47):
interesting

BAZ

I stare at my phone until it goes dark and then slip it back in my pocket.

Of course Snow would pester me about the pizza while I’m in line waiting to buy my blood. Because my life is a constant fucking farce. It’s not his fault of course. It was me who initiated this ill-conceived wager in the first place.

I should probably begin wracking my brain for ways to deflect when Snow inevitably crows about his leftover pizza lunch. Some way to acknowledge his success without being forced to share a meal with him. But I know it won’t work. He’s far too stubborn and he specifically said he was ‘very motivated to see me eat pizza’. Honestly, I want to see him eat pizza too…but I can’t.

It’s got me feeling more than a little bit sorry for myself.

I had gotten to a point in my life where I’d mostly come to peace with being the way I am (a monster). Because of my work, I am acutely aware of just how many people are out there silently building lives around private challenges that set them apart from others. An infinite variety of challenges that go largely unnoticed in the day-to-day rush of public life.

Through helping my clients, I’d seen the benefits of facing things head-on. I’d learned to accept the messiness of the human condition and encourage people to move forward on the things that are possible, rather than getting caught up in the guilt and regret of the things that aren’t. I’d found some compassion for myself. I’d applied the same techniques I was recommending to my clients to my own life and I was happy.

Then Simon came along and ruined everything.

I had been so busy feeling proud of my new-found control over my bloodlust and my continuing efforts to love myself despite the undeniable fact that others would instinctively recoil if they knew what I was. So busy that I failed to notice the bubble I was constructing around myself. I failed to notice how lonely my life was.

There are no shared pizzas, no candlelit dinners, no man in my bed. There’s never even been a kiss. Simon has made me want things I cannot have. It’s not like he would ever want a romantic relationship with me; he’s the dictionary definition of a straight bloke. But even this one small thing that he does seem to want is impossible.

It’s been nice, what Simon and I have been doing (more than nice). But it’s all there ever could be (probably all he even wants). For there to be more, I would have to go back to the dark days of boarding school. Back to when I nearly wasted away sneaking around, finding private moments to eat the food that I stole from the kitchens and sequestered in my pockets. Back to when I was a husk of what I am now, haggard and irritable.

There’s a small masochistic part of myself that whispers I could make it work somehow, that it’d be worth it (for Simon). But after years of helping my clients recover from the fallout of making exactly those kinds of bargains, I don’t think I could actually do that to myself. Even if I wanted to try, it’s not like I could reasonably hope to keep my vampirism a secret from someone I was spending that much time with (someone whose mouth I want to become more closely acquainted with) (my fangs wouldn’t be the only reason for Simon to stake me if I tried that).

The only way I could ever be in a relationship with someone is if they knew the truth. And I can only think of a few scenarios where someone would willingly date a vampire. It’s a toss-up which I’d hate most – being pitied would be intolerable but I’m not sure being objectified would be any better – all of the scenarios make me wince. Who in their right mind would want to kiss someone who regularly nabs pigeons off the window sill and drains them dry? Nobody good, that’s who.

“Hallo Mr. Pitch! I thought you might stop in today.”

The butcher’s friendly greeting pulls me from my thoughts. When I step forward to place my order, he slides a paper bag full of pig’s blood wordlessly across the counter to me. It’s our standard routine, but today it makes me feel like the most hideous freak ever to walk the earth. It’s not like the discretion afforded by the paper bag makes the business of pilfering another being’s vitality any less abhorrent.

“Anything else for you today?”

I feel a palpable desire to lash out at something. But I owe my life to this unfailingly kind man, so I force myself to be pleasant.

“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll take two pieces of grass-fed fillet as well.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Pitch. Back in a jiffy.”

I travel a good distance out of my way to come here each week. I don’t really have a choice in the matter. It’s the only creature-friendly butchershop that I am aware of. Jerry is a jolly fellow who is happy to source whatever you request, no questions asked. My clients and I depend upon him.

Jerry returns with my steaks bagged up and leans close over the counter.

“I slipped a little extra something in the bag for you,” he says in a low voice. “You looked like you could use a little pick-me-up.”

For fuck’s sake. Am I that transparent? What sort of disgusting thing did he put in there anyway? (Jerry has all sorts of amateur theories about creature nutrition.)

I’ve been coming here for years and it’s no secret what I do with my purchases. Usually, I’m happy to stop and have a little chat with Jerry; It feels good to be seen and accepted for what I am (most of the time). But I hate it when people make overt attempts to cheer me up. I like to wallow in my head until I feel better. And I am not in the mood to be reminded of my ‘condition’.

I spare Jerry a small, self-effacing smile.

“You’re too kind,” I tell him and he grins warmly back at me.

“I’ll see you next week Mr. Pitch. Let me know if there’s anything I can get in for you.”

I gather my bags up and wave a wordless goodbye over my shoulder. I need to get out of here before I add public crying to the list of humiliations I’ve suffered today.

The sun is setting by the time I arrive back at home. I flip on the lights, pause in the entryway to hang my coat and remove my shoes. Then I walk through to the kitchen where I deposit my purchases on the counter. I glare darkly at the bags as if by incinerating their contents with my stare I could erase the truth of what they conceal, the truth of me.

I’d been planning a nice dinner. I traversed the city gathering the ingredients: spring greens from the farmer’s market, flatbread crackers from my favourite bakery, the fillet from Jerry. I was going to make steak tartare, put on some music and have a glass of wine. Make a festive evening of it. It’s one of the things I do to break up the doldrums of eating alone at home all the time.

But with Simon and his impossible pizza invitation still fresh in my thoughts, I’ve a mind to punish myself instead. I’ll cook this steak until it’s tough and grey and I’ll struggle to chew it with my fangs getting in the way. I’m too tired to go to all the trouble of cooking something special. I think I have a bottle of Worcestershire sauce around here somewhere I can douse the steak with so I can choke it down…

I still put on a playlist, the one Mordelia made me for Christmas. She meant it as a joke – “It’s got all the most hideously emo shit I could find on it,” she informed me – but it’s my absolute favourite. It’s perfect for wallowing.

I stoop to drag the good skillet out from the lower cabinet, position it on the hob and turn on the heat. Then I open the bag with the steaks and peer inside. I pause to process what I’m seeing. It’s not at all what I was expecting.

I reach into the bag and pull out the cupcake that was tucked neatly on top of my steaks. The ‘something extra’ that Jerry slipped inside for me because he noticed I was gloomy (because he’s fond of me and doesn’t care that I’m a monster). It’s not some obscure iron-rich entrails of one sort or another for my ‘condition’…it’s a cupcake. Chocolate on the bottom with what appears to be caramel frosting on top. There’s a pumpkin candy with a face pressed into the frosting, smiling up at me.

I snort a laugh out my nose. Christ, I’m a mess. The stifled chuckles keep coming until my lips part with a click of my tongue and my shoulders are shaking with laughter. I close my eyes and tip my head back as the tears come streaming down my cheeks.

I get so dismal sometimes when I get caught in a spiral. But at least I can still laugh at myself. I could obviously stand to do a little more work on that whole self-loathing business…

I scoff at myself again and shake my head. I take a plate from the cupboard and set the cupcake out on the counter. Then I turn the heat off on the hob and set the skillet aside to cool. I’m going to follow through on my fancy dinner plans after all, even though it’s getting late. It would be disrespectful to Jerry and his cupcake to do otherwise.

Me (18:14):
Thank you for the cupcake. I did need cheering up.

Jerry the Butcher (18:27):
My pleasure mate.

Jerry the Butcher (18:27):
The missus made em for my birthday.

Me (18:30):
I didn’t know it was your birthday. It was nice of you to share.

Jerry the Butcher (18:38):
I figured you’d like one

Jerry the Butcher (18:39):
Most of my loyal customers have a sweet tooth

Me (18:41):
Is that so?

Jerry the Butcher (18:42):
A lot of ‘em yeah. Especially the vamps.

Me (18:45):
Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.

Me (18:46):
Thank you again and happy birthday.

When I've plated my dinner and am sitting down to eat, I take a moment to check in with Simon. I haven't heard from him about his food journal today. He was right; he really is hopeless at it. Despite how often he texts me, he somehow always forgets to tell me what he ate.

SIMON

Fitness god (20:28):
What’s for dinner? [photo attached]

Me (20:37):
ur gonna kill me

Fitness god (20:39):
I often want to murder you.

Fitness god (20:39):
what did you do this time?

Me (20:43):
[photo attached]

Fitness god (20:44):
Why are you sending me a picture of a packet of pork scratchings?

Me (20:47):
im sorta skipping dinner

Fitness god (20:49):
What do you mean ‘sorta’?

Fitness god (20:49):
It’s not good to skip meals, Snow.

Fitness god (20:49):
You should eat something else before you go to bed.

Me (20:52):
im fine

Me (20:52):
just didnt eat a proper dinner

Me (20:53):
met up with some people and were drinking and eating pub snacks

Fitness god (20:56):
Oh. OK.

Me (20:56):
ok?

Fitness god (20:57):
It happens.

Me (20:59):
baz you sound mad

Fitness god (21:00):
I’m not mad. Better than drinking on an empty stomach.

Fitness god (21:03):
Don’t forget to drink plenty of water when you get home.

Me (21:23):
aww baz its almost like you care

Fitness god (21:24):
Shut up. I feel somewhat responsible.

Fitness god (21:26):
If you behaved like a normal client, I wouldn’t even know about this until long after you were home safe in bed.

Me (21:38):
u keep talking about getting me in bed

Fitness god (21:41):
How many drinks have you had, Snow?

Me (21:52):
stop mothering me its not even 10pm

Fitness god (21:55):
We’ve been over this before. I’m your doctor (not your mother).

Me (22:07):
well u can stop worrying [photo attached]

Me (22:07):
im safe in bed with a cup of tea

Fitness god (22:11):
Me too. [photo attached]

Me (22:14):
darjeeling with 3 sugars?

Fitness god (22:15):
Earl grey with milk?

Me (22:17):
chamomile tonight actually

Me (22:18):
my stomach feels like shit

Fitness god (22:21):
Shocking.

Me (22:21):
😀 🖕 😀

Me (22:25):
whats ur favourite pub snack?

Fitness god (22:26):
Certainly not pork scratchings.

Me (22:28):
i also had some wasabi peas and 3 pickled eggs

Me (22:29):
and something like 4 pints

Fitness god (22:36):
You should go to sleep soon before you sick up.

Me (21:37):
lol ur prolly right

Me (21:41):
did u have a nice night?

Me (21:41):
ur dinner looked fancy

Fitness god (21:46):
It started out a bit rocky but it ended well.

Me (21:47):
yeah me too.

Me (21:49):
im crashing baz…

Me (21:49):
g’night.

Fitness god (21:49):
Goodnight Snow. Sleep well.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

SIMON

Penny (12:51):
Home by 6. Do you want to eat together?

Me (12:53):
yes! thats perfect.

Me (12:53):
ill cook

Me (12:53):
i have to do my homework for Baz.

Penny (12:54):
Should I be frightened?

Me (12:54):
always 🤪

“You really are cooking…” Penny says when she comes in the door. “It smells good in here.”

“I’m baking sweet potatoes to go with those fish fingers we got.”

“Huh, good for you.” She looks impressed and it makes me feel proud too. Which is silly. I just wrapped some sweet potatoes in foil and stuck ‘em in the oven. But I’ve never done that before and it feels like an adult thing to do somehow. I even poked them with a fork first because Baz told me they might explode otherwise (I was a little bit tempted to forget…to see what would happen.)

Penny peers through the glass on the oven door.

“When are we going to eat? Do I have time for a shower?”

“Sure. Go ahead,” I tell her. “They’re not quite done. Baz says they need at least ten more minutes.”

“He does?” Penny asks, looking around the flat as if she expects Baz to step out from behind the fridge or something.

“He’s not here,” I say, giggling at her confusion. “I texted him a pic.”

“And he replied? That doesn’t sound like the Basilton Grimm-Pitch I know.”

“Yeah, well, he was an obnoxious git about it,” I admit, rubbing my neck. “He doesn’t mean it though. That’s just how he acts. I think he secretly likes to be helpful.”

Penny considers for a minute.

“You know, I think you’re right, Si. I would never call him soft, but he goes the extra mile for his clients. I think he really does care.”

When the timer goes off, I pull the sweet potatoes and fish fingers out of the oven and set the table. Penny is still marvelling over the fact that Baz actually talked me through my cooking project as we sit down to eat. The sweet potatoes are really good. Better than frozen chips for sure.

I snap a pic of Penny with her cheeks stuffed with sweet potato and send it to Baz. He replies immediately to tell me he’s rolling his eyes. He says it with words instead of using an emoji like a regular person. I follow up with a selfie with my tongue hanging out and covered with half-chewed sweet potato. Baz replies STOP with a selfie of him glaring and holding his hand up in front of his face. I snort. I love getting a rise out of Baz. He’s so proper all the time, it drives me crazy.

When I set my phone back on the table, Penny is giving me a strange look.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Penny answers with an odd smile. “I’m glad you and Baz are able to work together.”

“Yeah. I’m really lucky I found him,” I agree and stuff a whole fish finger in my mouth.

Chapter Text

BAZ

I’m in the library at the Royal Society of Medicine working on a particularly complicated case. I’ve piled monographs and journal volumes all around me. It’s crowded here today and more than one patron has given me a dirty look for taking up an entire table. But I don’t pay them any mind.

The research I’m doing today requires piecing clues together, reading between the lines. I wish there were polished references I could consult, but to my knowledge, there is no one but me working in this field. Even if the research were complete, it couldn’t be published as is and it wouldn’t be shelved at the Royal Society of Medicine.

Three hours into my search, I am forced to drag my attention away from my work when a particularly sanctimonious man in a sweater vest approaches me, attempting to weasel his way onto my table. He clears his throat pompously and when I don’t respond, he launches into a sermon about the virtues of being gracious and accommodating.

A lot of people make the mistake of exaggerating their facial expressions in such situations, to drive home just how peeved they are. What’s truly unsettling and effective however, is a dead stare and a face completely devoid of expression. Of course I do have a bit of an unfair advantage, given that I look like a vampire.

When my gaze settles on the sanctimonious man, his eyes widen and he snaps his mouth shut mid-sentence. He glances around to see if anyone is going to back him up. Finding no one, he clutches his volumes more tightly to his chest and stalks off to guilt someone else into budging up. Vampire perks - if you can’t use them to get your own table at the library, what good are they? I do my best to ignore the acrid smell of his sweat and the sound of his too-fast heartbeat as he makes his retreat.

I go back to perusing the field notes of various physicians working in remote fishing communities. I’m looking for clues that might help Ena, a long-time client of mine. Ena is a selkie who has been ashore much of her adult life and is now expecting her first child. She initially approached me when she’d been living on land for about three years. She was in bad shape. She wasn’t getting the nutrients from her land-based diet that she needed to stay healthy. She was distraught over the very real possibility of one day having to choose between her love and her life.

Ena was my first creature client and her type of case is precisely the reason I wanted to pursue this career. She had no one she felt she could confide in and had become too demoralised to troubleshoot on her own. She was resigned to her tragic fate until she heard whispers about me and decided to risk reaching out. She reminded me so much of my younger self.

It was Margaret who made the introduction. Margaret is a dragon. She is the unofficial spokesperson for the creatures of the UK. She knew my mother when she was alive, so she’s made it her business to keep tabs on me, even though the vampires are the one contingent that refuses to join the confederacy of creatures.

In my more cynical moments, I think Margaret is grooming me to act as liaison with the vampires should they ever decide to make trouble again. But mostly, I am thankful for her investment in me and her watchful eyes. I certainly don’t seek the company of my own kind. Margaret steers a fair number of creature clients in my direction.

Ena and I were able to identify the missing elements in her diet and find manageable work-arounds for her urban location and humanoid form. I taught her how to make fish stock by simmering whole, gutted fish to extract the nutrients from the scales and bones which she finds difficult to ingest with her human teeth and gut. She has a Vitamix blender which she uses to pulverise sea urchin spines and the occasional oyster shell so she can use them as supplements. She drinks seaweed broth the way others drink tea. She says it keeps her skin soft and her hair lustrous.

Ena also dines out on the freshest sashimi twice a week, no exceptions, with her doting husband who doesn’t quite have the taste for it himself (I think he mostly orders the tempura). She’s learned to watch for signs and listen to her body. She tinkers here and there as needed.

We were just beginning to explore the notion of occasional fasting when Ena became unexpectedly pregnant. Seals (and maybe selkies in their ocean form?) fast periodically, most notably when they are mating and pupping. I think Ena may have become pregnant because her diet was finally in balance and she’d built up her reserves. Her body had really filled out since we began working together.

We’re not sure how to support her human body while she is carrying her child, or after, while she’s nursing. Should she fast? Many humans do, an unintentional side effect of the nausea they experience. But for how long?

Ena is concerned that some of her more intense food cravings are a sign that her half-human child isn’t being properly nourished by her seal diet. It’s a valid question. I’m energised by the mystery and the challenge of it. I hope to find some answers that will ease her mind.

Every time I’m successful at helping one of my fellow creatures feel at ease in this human-centric world, I feel more hopeful about my own future. There is so much I still don’t know about my own physiology. Many common vampire myths have proven to be exactly that – myths. There are those whom I could ask of course. But I prefer to blunder along on my own.

I wonder if Margaret has any connections in the creature community that could be of assistance to Ena? I’ve nearly exhausted the available case studies involving residents of isolated fishing communities who married ‘outsiders’ or the occasional account of an unusual child born with webbing between its fingers. There were a few helpful pearls there, but it’s not the same as being able to interview someone with direct experience.

I wonder if Margaret would even help me with this kind of project? She knows I hope to publish my work someday. Obviously, I would take precautions to protect the privacy and sovereignty of the creatures. Still, she’d be justified in being guarded.

It’s been so many years since my mother’s efforts to have the creatures formally recognized under British law fell to pieces. It wasn’t exactly the government’s fault, but the creatures still shy away from anything approaching public scrutiny. As a dragon, Margaret lives in relative safety because she has very powerful magic and a humanoid form. She’s been willing to take risks in the past. Perhaps I’ll go see her next week.

I close the last volume and arch my spine against the back of my chair to relieve the creaks that set in as I pored over my notes. I turn on my phone to send Margaret an inquiry about meeting up sometime and am met with dozens of new notifications. I smile and chuckle softly to myself. They’re all from Simon Snow.

The most recent notifications seem to indicate that he’s at an ice cream parlour. I don’t trust myself to look at them in public. There might be photos involved…He’s started sending selfies. It’s wildly inappropriate (and if he ever stops I’ll throw myself out my fourth story window).

We’ve managed to work past the awkwardness of our last encounter at Ebb’s, when I freaked out. That’s (I’m certain of it) what Simon thinks…

Baz freaked out because he’s an unreasonable tightass and a dramatic git, but I’ll forgive him and keep on with my increasingly familiar and unprofessional behaviour towards him.

I don’t know how I ended up in the wrong in this scenario. I’m objectively right. Anyone could tell you that exchanging selfies with a client is objectively wrong. Everyone would agree that texting ‘goodnight’ to your client crosses a line. I’d like to see someone besides myself try to explain this to Simon Snow (but only if Simon wins of course).

Simon and I are set to meet at The Goat for our weekly check-in in two day’s time. I still haven’t settled on a strategy for averting the disaster that unfolds every time I see him. The second I'm in a room with him I panic. I'm reminded of all the boundaries I typically put up between myself and my clients, to preserve work-life balance. Simon wants me to treat him with familiarity, when every bone in my body is reflexively trying to push him away to preserve some semblance of professionalism (and to protect myself from inevitable heartbreak).

I obviously can’t be trusted to follow through on anything extreme (look what happened last time). I’ve been thinking a middle-of-the-road approach might be most realistic. Somewhere between glaring daggers and batting my eyelashes dreamily.

The problem is I've only ever practised one way of comporting myself with my clients: remaining aloof and revealing no emotion whatsoever. This proven strategy for keeping people in line (case in point: sweater vest man from earlier) is completely useless with Snow. The second I attempt it, he’s crowding up in my space, more obstinate than ever. It’s pointless and unnerving.

It’s just…there’s no structure in the middle of the road, nothing to keep you from meandering over rocky terrain or straight into oncoming traffic. I have next-to-no experience with it. It terrifies me. But whenever I so much as consider putting my foot down and establishing some rigid ground rules for our working relationship, I think of that warm feeling that spreads over me every time I get a text from Simon…I don’t ever want to let that go. Maybe, somehow, we can have it both ways.

SIMON

Me (16:07):
have u seen my good jeans???

Penny (16:08):
They’re in the laundry. I think.

Me (16:09):
thx!!

Penny (16:09):
Simon, wait!

Penny (16:09):
I started the washer before I left for work

Me (16:12):
they’re wet 😭😭😭

Penny (16:13):
Maybe if *you* ever started the laundry…

Me (16:15):
Sure kick me when im down

Penny (16:15):
I didn’t know you had something important today

Me (16:25):
Nvm its fine

BAZ

I make a quick stop on my way to meet Simon for our check-in. Lying in bed last night, I finally decided that my best bet for surviving today’s meeting with him was to employ a series of non-verbal cues to distract him from my tendency to go cold when I’m uncomfortable. He wants me to act casual but I just don’t know how. So, I’m bringing Snow a food offering, like he’s some temperamental god.

Please. I’m doing the best that I can. Show mercy.

SIMON

I’m just putting in my order at the counter when Baz comes through the door. He seems startled to find me here, which is a bit odd, seeing as how we arranged to meet up. I guess we haven’t spent time waiting around at the counter together before. I’m always early and Baz is always right on time. Maybe he expected me to be seated already.

Baz is dressed down today and he seems a bit self conscious about it, which is just ridiculous because he’s still wearing a really expensive looking sweater and a collared shirt. Only someone who knows him would know that this is the Baz equivalent of wearing trackies. He tucks a strand of hair nervously behind his ear and shifts his satchel on his shoulder. He’s carrying a takeaway bag in his other hand. Is that for me?

BAZ

I was counting on Snow picking up on my non-verbal cues, but I feel like I might incinerate under his intense scrutiny. I was imagining we might engage in some casual mingling when I decided to arrive a little early. It wasn’t awkward like this in my head…

“Hey, Baz.”

Thank god for Snow’s ability to just jump right in.

“Hello, Snow.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Hmm. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Snow rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s why I asked.”

And, just like that, the awkwardness passes.

I raise an eyebrow. He tries to peek in the bag. I tuck it behind my back and smirk. Ebb asks if I want ‘the usual’ and I’m absurdly pleased that she now counts me among her regulars. She shoos us off to our table, like this is all just what we do. I guess it is what we do, for the time being.

SIMON

Baz is being a tease about what’s in the bag, but I’m certain it’s for me. When we get to the table, he sets the bag next to him on the floor. My face must visibly fall, because when he looks up and sees my expression, he laughs and leans back down to retrieve it.

“I suppose I need to get my priorities in order,” he says. “First things first, wouldn’t you agree, Snow?”

I’m too excited to really rise to his teasing. I think I just nod my head. Baz lays the food out on the table.

“This,” he tells me, taking the lid off a tub of something green, “is edamame hummus. And these,” he continues, as he pulls out another container, “are things to dip in it.”

“It’s green,” I say, frowning suspiciously.

“I thought we already established that you recently had a positive experience with a green food.”

“Yeah, but…”

Baz holds his hand up to stop my whinging.

“Just try it, Snow.”

I pull the tub across the table towards myself. I lean down and sniff it. It smells of garlic and lemon and some other things I can’t name. I select a carrot stick and snag the smallest blob of green stuff on the end of it.

I catch Baz’s eye. He’s watching me, lips quirked in amusement. If this is all some kind of prank, I’m going to kill him.

“If this is a prank, I’m gonna kill you,” I threaten, jabbing with my carrot stick. The blob of green stuff flies onto the floor and I have to go back to the tub for another dip.

Baz watches as I take a bite and chew. I’m reminded of the day we met, when I made him try the scone. I was so nervous he wouldn't like it. I bet he’s nervous now too. This stuff is way weirder than any scone…

“You know, your weird food ideas don’t suck as much as I thought they would,” I tell him, still chewing.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Snow. Truly. Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

I shrug. “Just saying it like it is.”

I dip my carrot stick a second time and give Baz a wink as I stuff it in my mouth so he knows I’m just taking the piss. He looks startled again and busies himself getting things out of his bag. He’s in a weird mood today.

BAZ

If he had any idea how fragile I am, he wouldn't do such things to me (or maybe he would, just to watch me squirm). I pull out his food journal and set it on the table between us. I’ve highlighted a few areas that show improvement and circled a couple things that we’re going to target this week.

I think my strategy of appearing more approachable is working. Snow leans in to look at the documents with me. He’s listening more carefully than he was last week. He seems eager to know what his next assignments are.

As for myself, I find it’s easier to talk to him when he’s busy eating and looking down at the papers. I’m not feeling stiff under his gaze and I sound a bit less like I’m making a powerpoint presentation to a room full of board members.

“Each week,” I tell him, “We’ll introduce one new item you can pick up at the store and try one new recipe. The apples seem to have gone well last week.”

Snow makes a face.

“You did eat them? Unless you were lying about it…”

“I didn’t lie!” Snow sputters. “Baz…I told you…I’m being up front about everything.”

Snow has his chin tucked in defensively. He’s watching me from under his stubby lashes, anxious for a sign that I believe him. I do…but I’ve dealt with liars in the past. So instead, I raise an eyebrow questioningly. He huffs and runs a hand up to scrub at his neck.

“It doesn’t help anyone if I’m sneaking around,” he says. “At the end of the day, I’m going to have to pass a blood test. Your approval doesn’t mean anything.”

I’m a little taken aback by how sharply that last comment stabs at my heart. It must show on my face because Snow rushes to correct it.

“I mean, of course it means something! It does to me anyway…it’s just…you can’t give me the clearance to join the brigade. I have to earn that myself. I mean, with your help, that is.”

He smiles tentatively up at me with both eyebrows raised, as is if to ask if we’re ok. Christ, why is it so important to him that we’re ok? None of my other clients care if I like them. Some of them don’t even like me…they just like the results I get for them.

Simon is just so…well, he's different. Penelope was right: he is challenging. But not in a bad way…he just pushes me. I like it. I smile back at him.

“So,” I say, “you ate the apples.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. I ate the apples.”

“And?”

“And…nothing! I don’t know…they tasted good but I didn’t really feel like I was eating anything, you know? I don’t think eating them made me eat any less of the other stuff…”

“Well, there’s a few things to say about that. First, the fibre and other nutrients in apples are good for you no matter what. Second, I actually did see a difference. At least on the days when you didn’t find atrocious things in the breakroom to make up for it.”

Simon and I exchange a knowing look before I continue.

“Honestly, apples aren’t particularly filling. Most people need some protein or fat to feel sated.”

I watch Simon run his finger around the inside of the hummus container.

“The hummus appears to be gone,” I observe archly as he licks his finger.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he says, biting his lip. “It was good.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” I tell him, trying to keep the absolute adoration from showing on my face. “That was specialty hummus from a cafe near my flat. But you can buy regular chickpea hummus at the supermarket. I want you to get a couple of tubs and some carrot sticks to take to work.”

“OK. That’s cool.”

“And here’s a recipe for you to try. I know you said you don’t have much experience in the kitchen. This is a simple dish my family makes that I think you’ll like, called mujadara. Just a few basic ingredients and it works well as leftovers. You can eat it for dinner the day you make it, then pack it for lunch for a couple of days afterward. There’s a shopping list at the top of the recipe. You can text me if you have questions.”

SIMON

Baz slides the recipe across the table and he’s wearing an expression I can’t really read. I think he can tell how hesitant I feel about the cooking. But there’s something else there too.

“It’s a bit more involved than baking sweet potatoes,” he says, “but I think you can handle it.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

“I mean it about texting me if you run into trouble.”

“What’s the worst that can happen, eh?” I chuckle nervously.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Snow.”

I suddenly can’t stand how nice Baz is being. It’s making me even more certain that I actually won’t be able to pull this off.

“Shut up, Pitch. I’m going to make your damn recipe and I’ll probably burn the shit out of it. It’s not the end of the world. No one has to eat it but me.”

“That’s the spirit, Snow,” Baz proclaims, pressing his hands into the table as he rises from his seat.

Is it time to go already? I guess it is. I’m always a little worried before these meetings start. Then, once we get going, I’m surprised when they’re over so soon. I never know what to say at the end. Last time I really bollocksed it up. I’m going to let Baz do it his way this time.

“Well then,” Baz says as he lifts his satchel up to his shoulder. “I’ll see you next Friday.” Then, after a moment’s consideration he adds, “Have a good week, Snow.”

So that’s how you do it. Straightforward, breezy. Somehow I always overthink it.

“Yeah, you too,” I reply. “See you later.”

As he turns to leave, I have the same urge to touch him that I always do. But I can’t figure out the right way to do it. It seems like we’ve moved past handshakes…but Baz doesn’t really seem like the hugging type. I feel like a clap on the shoulder might be the right move, but I can’t puzzle out the mechanics with the table between us.

I feel the tell-tale tingling at the base of my spine as my tail start to stir. Nope! Not gonna do that...

Oh well, Baz is gone now. It’s not like we won’t be texting later tonight anyway.

Chapter Text

BAZ

Simon Snow is cooking dinner from scratch. Apparently, it’s a history-making event and I’ve got exclusive box seats. I’m not sure how he made it to the ripe old age of twenty-eight without ever preparing a single meal from scratch, but that’s the only conclusion I can draw from the onslaught of texts he’s been sending me. It started with his trip to the supermarket.

Bane of my existence (15:12):
whats a lentil?

Me (15:15):
A little round thing. You eat it.

Bane of my existence (15:15):
not helpful

Bane of my existence (15:15):
im making ur recipe

Bane of my existence (15:15):
where are they in the store?

Me (15:16):
Near the condiments, with the other dried beans. You really are clueless.

Me (15:18):
The rice should be in the same aisle.

Bane of my existence (15:23):
im in the lettuce section

Bane of my existence (15:23):
lot of weird leafy shit

Bane of my existence (15:23):
nothing called bay leaves tho

Me (15:24):
How are you still alive? Who feeds you?

Bane of my existence (15:24):
not helpful…

Me (15:24):
Bay leaves are a dried spice, Snow. Same aisle as the jam.

Me (15:26):
In case you were wondering, coriander, cumin and cayenne are also spices.

Bane of my existence (15:37):
2 quid for a tiny jar of leaves?

Bane of my existence (15:37):
ur kidding me

Bane of my existence (15:37):
do I really need all these spices?

Bane of my existence (15:37):
or can I just pick one?

Me (15:38):
No, you can’t just pick one. You’re not choosing lollies.

Me (15:38):
You’re making a full-flavoured, satisfying, home-cooked meal.

Bane of my existence (15:39):
i dunno Baz. Are you sure I can do this?

Me (15:39):
Don’t have an aneurism, Snow. It’s really not that complicated.

Me (15:41):
You’ll have spices left over for next time.

Snow went suspiciously quiet after that. I imagined him rolling his cart through the checkout. I wondered if he made a special trip for this recipe or if my ingredients were tossed in amongst the Wotsits, frozen fish fingers and biscuits that make up Snow’s standard fare. I hope Penelope is home to cook with him. I have a feeling he can use all the help he can get.

Bane of my existence (17:03):
how big is large?

Me (17:03):
Excuse me?

Bane of my existence (17:05):
like this? [photo attached]

Me (17:05):
That’s a skillet. For a second there, I was afraid it was going to be something else.

Bane of my existence (17:05):
christ baz get ur mind out of the gutter!!!

Bane of my existence (17:05):
were cooking lentils for fucks sake

Me (17:06):
Are we now? Interesting how you assume I’m just waiting at your beck and call.

Bane of my existence (17:06):
u said you wud help me

Me (17:06):
Isn’t Bunce home?

Bane of my existence (17:06):
nah shes out

Bane of my existence (17:06):
she cant really cook either

Bane of my existence (17:06):
thats sortof sexist of you tbh

Me (17:07):
You’re right. My apologies.

Me (17:07):
Gender is no excuse for your incompetence.

Bane of my existence (17:08):
🙄

Bane of my existence (17:08):
so can I use that pot or not?

Me (17:08):
I already told you. It’s a skillet, not a pot.

Bane of my existence (17:08):
same difference innit?

Me (17:09):
You’re impossible. Hang on. I’ll be back.

Bane of my existence (17:18):
whered u go?

[Incoming FaceTime call from Secret Softie 17:21]

“Baz…what are you doing?”

“I’m making mujadara with you,” I announce as if it’s no big deal.

“Oh. Uh…thanks. That’s….uh…thanks. Really.”

“Don’t mention it. I need to make lunch for the week myself. This way your incessant inquiries won’t be a complete waste of my time.”

Snow gives me a murderous glare but I think he knows I’m full of shit. I try to tamp down the flutter in my stomach at having his face on my screen (my screen!) (shut up Basilton and get to work).

“This is the pot I’m going to use”, I tell him. “Do you have something like it?”

“Um...I dunno. Lemme check.”

It was indulgent of me to FaceTime him. I justified it by telling myself that it was more efficient than texting. But really I was getting tired of imagining what Snow looked like as he moved from one minor catastrophe to the next.

I surprised him with the call and he’s a little flustered. It’s unbelievably charming. I’m secretly quite pleased to be spending my Sunday evening this way (I’m pathetic) (I even kept him waiting so I could fix my hair).

The clattering of the pots and pans as he rummages in the cupboard is a bit harsh on my vampire ears but the little glimpses I catch of him as he moves through the frame of the camera are certainly worth the discomfort. He’s such a beautiful disaster. Plus, I get to hear him bluster and curse in real time.

“How about one of these?” he asks, lurching into the frame with two ancient-looking stock pots. I suspect they came with his flat.

“The one in your left hand looks best. It’s got a heavier bottom.”

“You like heavy bottoms, eh?” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Don’t be juvenile, Snow.” I snap. “A heavy pot keeps the food from sticking.”

“I’m not the one who made the rude comment earlier about the skillet pic…” he huffs.

“Yes, well, pot calling the skillet black…”

“I still don’t understand what you have against the skillet,” he grumbles.

“Nothing, Snow. We can give the skillet some love too if you want,” I reply in a suggestive tone.

“Baz…” he snorts.

“I’d be the last one to skillet-shame,” I press on.

“Fuck the skillet!” Now he’s blushing and rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Indeed! All flavours of kitchenware are welcome here.” I chortle. I’m on a roll now.

“Stop!” he pleads.

Snow is adorably flustered and looks a bit confused. What the hell am I even doing? I lose all control and sense of propriety when I’m talking to him. I’ll stop at nothing to make him blush and laugh. I’m a total disgrace.

“What am I meant to do with the pot?” Snow asks, eyebrows furrowed and voice tentative. “It’s my first time. I want to get it right.”

Bloody hell. It’s all fun and games with the kitchen innuendos until someone gets their heart broken. How can Snow be so earnestly, heart-clenchingly clueless? It’s a good thing I’m locked safely in my flat, decisively prevented from acting on any ridiculous, soft impulses. We haven’t even gotten the pot on the stove.

“Do forgive me, Snow. Let’s get back to the recipe.”

🥄 🍳 🍳 🥄

“OK, Snow. While the rice and lentils cook, we’re going to make the onion topping. Do you have a sharp knife you can use to slice the onions into rings?”

“I’ve got a knife here…I don’t know how sharp it is…why, does it matter?” Snow asks.

“Well, it makes the onion part less painful...”

I can see Snow clumsily forging ahead, heedless of my warning as I pull out my sharpest chef knife and begin slicing my own onions into thin ribbons. Soon enough, the inevitable cursing ensues.

“What the fuck, Baz?! My eyes! Why do they feel like they’re on fire? Are you trying to kill me? I literally can’t see a thing!”

“It’s the onions, Snow. You might need to take a break,” I suggest with sincerity. (It would be cruel even by my standards to laugh at him in this moment.)

Simon does not take a break. He continues fumbling with the knife and the onions.

“Baz! This is awful. My face is a faucet. There’s snot dripping on the cutting board…”

“Snow… Really. It’s not worth cutting your fingers off.” I’m trying (and failing) not to look and sound like an anxious mother hen.

“Nah. I’m good.” Snow snuffles loudly and swipes his arm across his face, smearing his jumper with tears and snot. He refuses to stop until every last onion is sliced, like the damned bloody hero that he is. Then he disappears to the bathroom to wash his face.

“OK. I’m back,” he informs me as he swings back into the frame, face ruddy and glistening. “That was intense. Who knew a vegetable could be so dangerous? How were you not affected by that? Do you have onion-slicing superpowers I didn’t know about?”

Snow brings his face in close to the phone and makes a show of peering suspiciously at me. It’s adorable.

“Curses. You found me out,” I deadpan. “Is my secret safe with you?”

He snorts. “I don’t know who I’d tell, really…”

He seems sad for a second but then he gets a mischievous gleam in his eye. “But – listen – if I call you next time, will you show up in your superhero costume and chop my onions for me?”

What the fuck? I stare at him blankly.

“Every part of that question is upsetting, Snow…How about we just get you a better knife?”

(You can use it to put me out of my misery.) (I thought we were done with the innuendos?!)

“Aw…You’re no fun,” Simon pouts (help me).

SIMON

It turns out it takes a long time to cook onions. Baz says we’re caramelising them. I’m more than a little sceptical that we’re going to be able to transform something that almost burnt my face off into something that sounds like dessert. But I promised Baz I would at least try all his crazy ideas.

Once he stopped joking about the pans, he got dead serious. He’s a surprisingly good teacher. He was incredibly patient, even once he realised he had to explain every basic thing in detail or I might burn my flat down. Sure, there was a good amount of scoffing, sneering and eye-rolling (wouldn’t be Baz if there wasn’t). But he made sure to explain each step carefully and tell me the proper terms for everything we did so I can learn to read recipes by myself someday.

He says half the stuff in our kitchen is junk, not even suitable for a car boot sale. He threatened to come over and go through my cupboards. Maybe once I get the hang of this cooking stuff I’ll make him dinner to thank him for his help. He can rifle through my kitchen all he wants if it makes him happy.

Right now, though? I’m feeling shy all of a sudden. I made that comment about Baz in his superhero suit and now everything’s a little awkward. I don’t know why I keep imagining Baz in various costumes. It must be because of LARP and how most of my friends do cosplay. We actually were talking about LARP the first time it happened (but that doesn’t explain why I dreamt about Baz in a posh fencing get-up afterward).

I can’t think about Cosplay Baz right now. So, I shove him into one of the darker recesses of my mind and try to think of something to say to pass the time.

“Who taught you to cook anyway?” I ask Baz.

“Vera taught me the basics. Then there were some required courses for my degree that focused on balanced nutrition as well as common disorders and conditions. I try to practise what I preach to my clients. You know, home-cooked meals and ‘don’t be afraid to try something new’.”

Baz pauses for a second like he’s worried he might be boring me. But I could listen to him talk forever. He has a nice voice and he’s so bloody smart. My smile deepens a little when he meets my eye. So he goes on.

“I always test recipes before I recommend them. I’ve made a lot of truly awful food in my efforts to meet different dietary restrictions and food preferences. Sometimes I feel a tad guilty about the concoctions I make people eat…”

Baz is laughing and he looks so soft. It’s rather unexpected. He’s a little flushed from his speech (he’s so passionate about his work). I’m caught on something he said though and before I know it, the words are out of my mouth.

“Is Vera your girlfriend then?”

Baz snaps his gaze to me and I raise my eyebrows to show him I really do want an answer.

“No,” he finally says. He seems to be pondering whether to give me any additional explanation, so I wait.

“I’ve…never had a girlfriend. I…prefer skillets,” he says and watches me carefully for my reaction.

“Oh,” I say because I don’t know what else to say. Does he mean he prefers cooking to dating? Or something else…

“Vera was my family’s housekeeper,” he goes on. “I used to hide in the kitchen with her when everything else got to be too much. She would let me chop and stir. Speaking of which, have you been stirring the onions regularly?”

I think Baz is trying to deflect. He looks a little disappointed for some reason. My brain’s turning that skillet comment over and over. It feels important somehow, loaded with meaning. I poke at the onions. The effort it takes to control the spatula so that I don’t flip the onions right out of the skillet helps get me out of my head.

The timer we set for the rice and lentils starts to beep and I panic. I don’t know what the next step is or if I’m meant to do it quickly.

“Baz! The timer. What do I do?!”

“Relax, Snow. You don’t have to rush. Take the spoon you were using when we started and gently pull the rice and lentils away from the side of the pan to check to see if the water is all absorbed.”

I find the spoon where I had dumped it in the sink. I give it a quick rinse and remove the lid from the pot. I blink as the most amazing smell engulfs me. It’s sharp and woodsy and it prickles my nose. I fill my lungs with it and feel all the tension leave my body.

“Baz…” I breathe out. “It smells so good. How does it smell so good?”

“It’s the bay leaves, Snow.”

I glance over at the phone and see Baz smiling softly at me. For some reason I can’t look at him right now. It’s all too much. I go back to peering into the pot, trying to check for the water like Baz said. The smell is still all around me.

“Fuck. Baz. It’s so good.”

Baz chuckles and I know without looking that he’s smirking at me. I’m sure there’s an insult coming.

“Worth the two quid then?” he asks playfully.

“Sod off. I didn’t know, alright?”

“I’m glad you like it, Snow. Really. That’s why we’re doing this.”

I would have expected Baz to rib me mercilessly. His sincerity throws me off-guard and I risk a look at him. That’s a mistake. A fresh smirk splits his face and I know he’s going to take the piss after all.

“I still don’t understand how you’ve never encountered a bay leaf before. Didn’t you ever sit in the kitchen after school while your mum put together a pot of soup? Are you really that unobservant?”

BAZ

Shit. I said something wrong. It was such a lovely moment, watching the wonder on Snow’s face as the steam enveloped him. And the way he said my name…thank Varney there was a phone between us. But now I’ve ruined it somehow. Usually teasing is a form of currency with us, a way to connect. But Snow looks completely broken and I don’t know what to do.

“Simon…I fear I’ve said the wrong thing.”

He draws a deep breath and lets it out. He doesn’t look at the phone. In fact, he looks pointedly away from it.

“The water’s all gone,” he announces in a flat voice that sounds a bit rougher than usual. “Should I turn the heat off?”

I don’t know whether to be relieved or worried that he seems to not want to talk about whatever just happened. I have no idea what to say, but I know I’ve hurt him somehow. I decide to follow his lead for the time being.

“Yes. You can turn off the heat. Use a fork to fluff the rice and lentils a bit and then put the lid back on.”

I watch him quietly follow my instructions. He doesn’t even spill anything because his movements are so subdued. He’s normally so full of life. It’s awful to see him like this. When he turns back to the phone to ask me what’s next, his expression fills me with so much guilt that I almost end the call. But I can’t leave him in the lurch with the recipe. He has every right to be proud of what he’s accomplished. It would be a shame if he couldn’t enjoy eating it after all his hard work.

I force myself to answer his question.

“It should be about time to add the last of the spices to the onions and then it’ll be all done,” I tell him. “The onions should be soft and golden in colour by now. Can you hold the phone so I can see?”

With the camera shifted to the food, I take a moment to try to shake loose some of the tension. I have an apology to make and this moment gives me a chance to try to push the words out.

“You know, Snow, I’m a bit disappointed. I would’ve expected some colourful slurs directed my way, at the very least. I’m surprised you’re missing out on the opportunity to let me have it. ‘Wanker’ is a classic. Or maybe something crude like ‘arsewipe’? ‘Knobhead’ probably doesn’t convey quite the right sentiment…”

Just when I decide I’m probably only digging myself deeper, I hear Snow snort. He turns the phone around and I’m rewarded with a smouldering glower and a v-sign that shouldn’t quicken my pulse the way it does.

“Ah, he’s still mute I see.” I hope my smirk is hiding all the fondness I’m feeling at the moment. “I’ll take what I can get I suppose…”

Snow rolls his eyes and growls.

“Can we just get on with the onions?” he grunts.

“Right. They look perfect. Nicely done, Snow. You can measure the remaining spices according to the recipe and add them straight to the onions.”

What follows is a lot of rummaging for measuring spoons, fumbling with jars and muttered cursing. It’s a whole production and I enjoy it immensely. When Snow’s tongue starts teasing the corner of his mouth in concentration, I turn my attention to my own work. I don’t notice that Snow has completed his task until his voice breaks the silence.

“I didn’t have a kitchen growing up. Or a mum.”

Basilton, you are a knobhead. You have a dead mother, for Christ’s sake! You, of all people, should know better.

“Everything in the care homes was bland as fuck,” Snow continues, sighing derisively. “Cheap, stale, rotten. Just calories. Never enough.”

“I take it back, Snow. I believe some choice adjectives would’ve been in order as well. ‘Privileged fuck’ would be a good start. ‘Entitled prick’ has a nice ring to it. Of course, you could always go for ‘privileged prick’ if you’re into alliteration…

“Baz…it’s ok. You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t have to know, Simon. It was thoughtless and none of my business.”

“Look – I don’t want your pity!”

“I know you don’t. I’m just sorry for what I said. You should be able to choose whether to share something like that." I pause to take a shuddering breath. "I know that all too well…I watched my mum die when I was five.”

“Fuck. Baz…”

“I don’t like to talk about it. I should know better than to push people about their mothers.”

I don’t know how long we sit there looking at each other after that. It could have been a few seconds or a few minutes. Surprisingly, it’s not that uncomfortable.

Usually all that empathising would make my skin itch, but it’s different with Simon. Maybe it’s because we’re both a bit broken. It feels ok to let some of the sadness out. I can carry some of his and he can carry some of mine. We match.

“Well, shit. That was depressing,” Simon finally says, breaking the silence.

“Astutely observed, Snow.”

“Shut up, wanker…Should we eat or what?”

Ah, yes, the recipe. Perhaps it’s time for one last confession.

“This recipe, mujadara, is Middle Eastern. It’s one of the recipes my mother used to make. Her family was from Egypt. Many people consider mujadara a comfort food, but for me it’s always had special significance. When I make it, I think of her. I hope it’s alright that I taught you a family recipe…that it’s not strange, given what we both now know.”

“Of course not, Baz. It’s nice. Thank you for sharing it with me. I don't have anything from my mum.”

Simon looks vulnerable but genuinely grateful. This has all gotten way too real for me.

“Don’t get all soft on me now, Snow,” I sneer half-heartedly.

“Just accept my fucking gratitude, Pitch.”

Simon is giving me another one of his heated glares. The kind that says if I don’t get into line, he’s perfectly willing to tumble me (I blush at the thought of it). I make that shifty, eyes bugged out, shrugging gesture that says ‘will you just drop it’ and thankfully he relents.

“So, do I just mix it all together?” he asks.

“No, you barbarian…To serve, you spoon the onions on top of the rice and lentil mixture. Oh, and I should warn you, the bay leaves aren’t edible. You can pull them out now or eat around them. Listen, I have to run. Let me know how you like it.”

“Alright. See you, Baz. Thanks for the help. I would’ve made a right mess of things otherwise. Probably would’ve burned the flat down…”

“Indeed. I’m frankly appalled that Bunce left you unsupervised for this little endeavour. I’ll have to speak with her about her judgement the next time I see her.”

“Fuck you,” Simon growls, but he’s still smiling.

Time to go Basilton. You can’t stretch this out any longer or he’ll want you to eat something. No one cares anyway how ‘complete’ you feel, just staring into this man’s eyes. It’s unethical and unreciprocated.

“See you on Friday for our check-in, Snow.”

“Yeah. See you, Baz.”

[FaceTime call ended. Duration: 2:09]

SIMON

I feel a little lost when Baz ends the call. The flat feels so empty all of a sudden, except for the smell. It smells fucking amazing in here. Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe my reaction that I’ve been able to cook something this good myself. I mean, I haven’t tasted it yet…I guess it might still taste like dog food. And, of course, it wouldn’t have worked at all if Baz hadn’t helped me. But, still. I’m pretty proud of myself.

I wish I had someone to eat it with. Penny's at her parents' house for the week-end. Baz should’ve stayed on the line. We could’ve eaten together. Or maybe he has someone coming home to eat with him. He must. Perfect, posh wanker that he is. He said he’s never had a girlfriend…Does he live with a man?

Me (19:43):
baz!

Me (19:43):
i think I died

Secret softie (19:44):
That’s a pity. Care to elaborate?

Secret softie (19:46):
I thought I left you safe and sound just a few minutes ago. Or did you manage to hurt yourself with the serving spoon?

Me (19:47):
yeah yeah ur very witty

Me (19:47):
im talking about the lentils

Me (19:47):
cant believe I made this

Secret softie (19:48):
So death is a good thing in this context?

Me (19:52):
tastes fucking amazing

Secret softie (19:53):
So eloquent. You should consider a career as a food critic, Snow.

Me (19:54):
cant believe this is what home tastes like for you

Me (19:54):
lucky bastard

Secret softie (20:03):
I’ll try not to rub it in.

Chapter Text

SIMON

Fuck, it's a relief to be home.

I swing the door shut behind me and shrug my rucksack off onto the floor as I cross the room. I don’t even bother toeing my trainers off before letting myself fall onto my back on the sofa. I draw as much air into my lungs as I can and then push it shakily out again, letting the familiar smells of home work their way through the fog of my day. The cushions embrace me as I sink into them. It’s so good.

I’ve been thinking about my sofa for at least the last hour or two, probably longer. Not daydreaming — to call it a daydream makes it sound too pleasant. I’m happy to be here now, but at the time I was thinking those thoughts, there was a desperate edge to them.

It wasn’t the worst kind of day. Not the kind where someone at work gets a call and we have to scramble to do what we can and it’s not enough (it’s never enough). Thankfully, it wasn’t one of those days.

It was the other kind of hard day.

The kind where everyone’s in a shit mood, tensions are running high and it’s just one thing after another. The kind of day where I have to try my best to keep my cool and rise above it all and help people work through problem after problem after problem. And if you're thinking the kids were the only ones giving me trouble, you’d be dead wrong. You wouldn’t believe the way some adults behave sometimes.

I have not a single fuck left to give today. I’ll be fine in the morning, after a good sleep. That’s how I’ve always been. (Good thing too.) Sleeping things off is a pretty critical coping mechanism when your life is less than perfect. Actually, this sofa is pretty fucking amazing too…I already feel a lot better.

Secret softie (17:31):
What’s for dinner?

I curl on my side to check my messages and smile ruefully when I see who it is. Good question, Baz. It’s like he has some sort of sixth sense for when I'm having a moment of weakness. But I’ve been cooking up a bit of a scheme and I think tonight’s the night to put my plan into action.

Penny already told me to eat on my own since she’s going to be home late. Which is probably for the best. I don’t really have the energy to sit up and be pleasant. I have the pizza place on speed dial and the remote within reach. I’ll text Baz back once it’s a done deal.

Me (18:34):
feeling a bit trashed from work

Me (18:34):
too tired to cook

Me (18:37):
i ordered pizza

Me (18:37):
and got a salad to go with

Secret softie (18:41):
A salad?

Secret softie (18:41):
Have the children given you a head injury?

Me (18:43):
you joke

Me (18:43):
but it did happen once

Secret softie (18:44):
That explains a lot actually…

Me(18:45):
🖕😐🖕

Secret softie (18:47):
In all honesty, I wouldn’t last a day doing your job.

Secret softie (18:49):
I attended a boarding school. Children are horrible creatures.

Me (18:49):
even you?

Secret softie (18:49):
Especially me.

Me (18:50):
i don’t believe that

Secret softie (18:50):
I pushed my roommate down the stairs because he wouldn’t leave me alone.

Secret softie (18:52):
I was extremely troubled.

Secret softie (18:52):
And just as much of a prat as I am now.

Me (18:56):
everyone makes mistakes baz

Me (18:57):
im sorry you were hurting

Me (18:59):
i think you might relate to the kids at the home more than you realise

Secret softie (19:00):
I like to think I’ve matured a bit since then.

Me (19:00):
lol id say so

Me (19:01):
its a little scary sometimes how unflappable you are

Secret softie (19:05):
You learn to keep it all on the inside after a while.

Me (19:05):
not a good way to go long term

Me (19:06):
but I get it

Me (19:06):
better than using your fists

Secret softie (19:07):
It wasn’t really that kind of day, was it? I was just being a prat before.

Me (19:07):
no

Me (19:07):
just too much talking

Me (19:08):
sometimes it wears me out all the talking

Secret softie (19:09):
Talking to children *is* exhausting.

Me (19:09):
the kids did better than the adults tbh

Me (19:10):
what do you know about kids anyway?

Secret softie (19:11):
I have four younger siblings, I’ll have you know.

Me (19:11):
FOUR???!!!

Me (19:11):
how did i not know this about you???

Me (19:15):
what else are you hiding from me?

Secret softie (19:18):
It’s not like we’ve been spilling our secrets at slumber parties, Snow.

Me (19:19):
most people dont consider having siblings a secret baz

Me (19:19):
its a normal thing to talk about

Secret softie (19:21):
They’re mostly quite small. They live with my father and stepmother in Hampshire.

Secret softie (19:23):
The eldest is old enough to have caused me a fair amount of trauma in my teen years.

Me (19:24):
god i can imagine it

Me (19:24):
id honestly love to meet a mini baz

Secret softie (19:26):
I have the feeling you might be mocking me.

Me (19:26):
just a little 😜

Me (19:26):
listen my pizza just got here

Me (19:27):
i like talking to you

Me (19:27):
but i need to eat and get some rest

Secret softie (19:57):
Don’t forget the salad…

Me (20:09):
oh I haven’t

Me (20:09):
its an important part of my strategy

Me (20:36):
im gonna have leftovers 😉

Secret softie (20:47):
It’ll be nice to have lunch all squared away for tomorrow.

Me (20:48):
what'll be nice is winning our bet 😈

Secret softie (20:55):
What’s that they say about counting your chickens?

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

BAZ

I was surprised when Margaret said she wanted to meet at Ebb’s. I had assumed she’d just materialise at my flat like she typically does. It’s a bit unnerving when it happens. One minute you’re busy putting the kettle on for tea, the next minute you catch movement in your periphery and she’s on your balcony appreciating the view out over the city.

Honestly, everything about Margaret makes me edgy. I’ve come to trust her, but I don’t like how easy it is for her to catch me off-guard. Meeting in public is going to make it near impossible to discuss just about everything I want to ask her…things normal people shouldn’t overhear. I already have a hard time making sense of anything she says to me. She’s impossibly opaque.

Margaret’s running late, but she’ll be here soon. It takes a moment for me to realise that’s her thought not mine. She’s put it straight into my head. I have to admit, I’m jealous of this particular power. It's actually useful, unlike my ‘abilities’ (snapping necks and draining lifeblood aren’t exactly talents you can parade in polite company).

The bell at the door tinkles and then Margaret herself is tinkling across the room, countless pieces of jewellery clanking against one another and catching the light. I don’t think she got the memo that it would be prudent to keep a low profile. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. She probably doesn’t have to care.

She pauses on the way to my table. Almost immediately, Ebb looks up and gives her a silent nod.

Did she just speak inside Ebb’s head?

Her behaviour makes me feel out of control, exposed. Margaret might feel safe flaunting her powers in front of humans, but her human body is disposable (maybe?). I’m not entirely clear on how her humanoid form relates to her dragon essence, which she’s told me is keeping guard over a village somewhere in Wales. I’m clear about the limits of my own body though. Namely, it’s the only one I’ve got. It’s comparatively indestructible but that doesn’t mean I’d risk its safety for a cup of coffee.

“Is that really necessary?” I hiss at her as she joins me at my table.

She meets my gaze with an expression of distaste. She always looks at me like that – like I’m damaged goods (as if it were my fault I got turned).

“Is not meaning harm, goat one. You have nose on face,” she scoffs. “So strong…” she tsks and shakes her head at me. “Don’t even try to throw people.”

Riddles. Always riddles. I hate it that she gets under my skin so quickly. I’m about to try to take charge of the conversation when Ebb brings her drink over.

“What a lovely jacket, Ms. Margaret,” she says, resting a hand on Magaret’s (extremely puffy) shoulder.

I take a minute to examine Margaret’s attire. She typically favours dungarees and peasant blouses (I should have noticed something was different). Today she’s swapped the peasant blouse for a peasant skirt, and on top is a jacket that looks straight off the set of Working Girl. It’s pale pink run through with slubby gold threads and has enormous shoulder pads. She has to have found it in a charity shop. I try to wrap my head around the notion of Margaret going thrifting…

“Hmph. This one,” Margaret grumbles, gesturing at me. “Always peacocking. Make everyone look chopped.”

Ebb chuckles and glances over at me. She squeezes Margeret’s shoulder and leans down to catch her eye. “I don’t think anyone could ever hold a candle to you, dear,” she says with a ferocity I find hard to interpret.

I’ve never been particularly fond of that saying myself (it’s vaguely threatening when you’re a vampire), but Margaret straightens her spine and spreads her shoulders wider. (Who’s preening now?)

When Ebb turns back to the counter, I try for a fresh start. I don’t want to be on a bad footing with Margaret.

“Thank you for coming, Margaret. I wanted to fill you in about Ena. She’s doing well. But I think she could be even better if she had someone of her own kind to talk to.”

Margaret lets out a derisive snort and our table is briefly obscured in a veil of mist that I think came out of her nose. I ignore the irony of me suggesting that Ena speak with someone of her own kind and attempt to win Margaret over with flattery.

“As you know, I tend to keep to myself. You have many more connections than I do. Everyone knows your name. Many have benefited from your wisdom and generosity. I was hoping you might know of someone.”

“Spring bird…plucking strings. How help when self is stranger?”

I can’t help the sigh that escapes.

“I wish you’d speak plainly.”

Margaret shrugs. I try not to glare at her.

“It wastes my time and yours when I don’t understand your full meaning.”

Margaret sips her tea like she has all the time in the world. Which of course she does, because she’s immortal (I might be as well but I refuse to live my life that way.)

“She’s having a baby, you know,” I toss out, not expecting it to change anything. But the effect is immediate. Margaret’s eyes lock on mine, assessing the truth of my statement. Apparently satisfied, she softens as she sighs dreamily.

“Kitten…”

“I think they’re called pups actually…”

Margaret’s eyes flash flame red and I snap my mouth shut.

“Kitten…” she sighs again.

Margaret turns her gaze towards the counter and my mind is filled with scenes I don’t recognise, memories which aren’t my own.

...A summer day, a kiddie pool filled with murky water and a pair of infants splashing each other with their…fish tails…

...A group of children playing tag in a field at sunrise, their forms melting in and out of the mist. A dog barks in the distance, startling them. In a blink, they’re turning in on themselves and rising into the air, just wisps on the breeze...

...A young child boarding a school bus for what seems like the first time, turns to smile back over their shoulder while pulling their cap down more firmly over their…horns…

...A baby taking his first tentative steps, clutching his mum’s fingers on either side. His mum is smiling proudly, dark hair coiled atop her head… (My mum, I realise as the vision fades. It’s been such a long time. I almost didn’t recognise her. I’m not sure I have any memories of my own where she’s smiling…everything got so serious at the end.)

...A craggy windswept peak, lush green hills unfolding below. An overpowering loneliness, a longing…”

Ebb looks up, startled, from her work. She’s finishing with a customer and as they walk away, she piles a plate with scones and comes over to our table. Margaret is still lost in her thoughts but I can’t see them anymore. When Ebb sets the plate on the table, Margaret searches her face and I can tell she’s talking in Ebb’s head again.

“These are for you, love,” Ebb tells me as she pulls up a chair. “Simon would want you to have them. He worries you don’t eat enough.”

Ebb looks as if she is peering into my soul and Margaret is regarding me with a new interest. I don’t know who gave them permission to poke their noses into my business. And really, again with the scones?

Having apparently found the answers she was looking for, Ebb smiles sadly and adds, “I’ll get you a bag if you’re not hungry right now.”

What follows is a disjointed one-sided conversation with most of Ebb’s comments directed at me even though I’m pretty sure I have nothing to do with it.

“I was hoping Simon would stop by after work today," she says. "I haven’t seen him as much recently.”

Is that my fault?

“He was telling me he’s been given more responsibility at his new job. It’s nice to see his confidence growing, especially after everything he’s been through.”

Has it been that bad?

“And of course, he’s staying busy with you, learning to take better care of himself.”

Ebb smiles at me fondly. Margaret looks pleased, for once.

“I’ll never be able to repay you, dear. Your friendship means everything to him.”

Turning to Margaret, she adds, “He’s going to be ok. I can feel it.”

Margaret’s eyes are brimming with tears. Ebb takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. Margaret nods her head stoically, withdrawing her hand and placing it in her lap. What the fuck is going on?

“I’ll just grab a bag for the scones,” Ebb announces as she gets up from the table. “You can eat them back at home, so you can have a bit more privacy,” she adds.

I’m overcome with a wave of panic. Somehow she knows about my condition. Worse, I think she knows how I feel about Simon. What if she tells him? She said the two of them have already discussed my eating habits. Ebb seems ok with it all…but I don't like people knowing my secrets. I can’t keep coming here. It’s not safe. I have to —

“Not first blood-eater here.”

I jerk my head up. Margaret tilts her head towards Ebb, who is back at the counter.

“Same egg knows thirst,” she adds.

What?

“Would give life to goat one,” Margaret states fiercely. “Safe. Words shut. Heart open.”

I’m too frazzled to puzzle out what she’s saying but it seems really important. Why can’t she just say what she means?!

Margaret sighs and rolls her eyes. Then another picture forms in my mind.

...Ebb is sprawled on a picnic blanket in a pasture. A goat is eating from her neglected plate as Ebb throws her head back, laughing with her companion. He looks just like Ebb. I can feel the strong connection between them. I know at once that they’re twins.

...But there’s also something about him that sets him apart. I study his features. He’s paler and his face lacks Ebb’s warmth and roundness. He’s acting out a story for her and his movements are smooth, liquid, almost like…

Oh. I see. Well, that was unexpected.

Margaret is gathering her things and rising from her seat. I’m frozen. This meeting hasn’t gone at all like it was meant to. I learned so much and yet so little.

“What about Ena?” I ask helplessly as I watch her turn to go.

“In bag,” is all she says.

Amid the jumble of people coming and going at the door, Margaret simply vanishes. It’s not until later, when I go to eat one of the scones, that I find the paper slipped into the bag. It’s a list of phone numbers written in loopy script on a yellowed page torn from a book.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

SIMON

Me (22:38):
i was thinking…

Secret softie (22:40):
Again?

Me (22:40):
yeah i do it every day believe it or not

Secret softie (22:41):
Incredible.

Me (22:43):
anyway…

Me (22:43):
we should meet at the pizza place this week instead of ebbs

Secret softie (22:44):
I can’t this week

Secret softie (22:44):
My father has requested my attendance at the Club for dinner and networking. I’ll have to go straight from my meeting with you.

Secret softie (22:47):
Believe me when I say that I would choose your company over this if I could.

Me (22:52):
alright then

Me (22:52):
maybe some other time

Chapter Text

BAZ

Indulge me for a minute, if you will, in a little fantasy…

I’m in my car navigating my way through the tangled maze of roads heading out of the city. It’s one of those spring nights where the air feels warmer than the earth and the buildings, which are still holding the chill of a dreary London winter.

I’ve got the windows down and my hair is streaming in the wind (it’s going to look a fright later.) I’m working the gear shift and craning my neck from time to time to switch lanes. I’m eager to finally get on the A3 to Hampshire because there’s somewhere else I’d like to put my gear shifting hand…

As I slow to a stop at a traffic light, my gaze goes immediately to the passenger seat. Simon is sitting there looking so gorgeous my breath catches in my throat. He has his arm propped on the open window and he’s turned in his seat so he can watch me. We exchange knowing smiles. His eyes are dancing with mischief.

Simon’s wearing a new suit (I bought it for him). It’s a warm grey to complement his golden skin and set off his piercing blue eyes. He thinks it’s ridiculous, but he’s humouring me. He looks good enough to eat. I reach over to lay my hand on his thigh, tracing patterns with my finger until a honk from behind calls my attention back to the road.

We’re headed to my father’s Club, at his request. Father assumes my plus-one is a woman. He’s too well-bred to make a scene in public when he finds out he is mistaken.

Simon and I will trade plates at dinner (I won’t have to eat a thing). I’ll rest my hand on his hip or on the small of his back as I introduce him around to people afterwards. Simon will butcher his words and speak out of turn. The guests will be properly horrified and I’ll take great satisfaction in watching them fight to keep it from showing on their faces.

If there’s dancing, we will dance. His nose will find my neck, mine will nuzzle into his hair. I’ll pull him close and dare any of those small-minded schemers to utter a word. But on the way to the Club I need to make a stop…

I pull off the road at a patch of woods I’ve visited before, tires kicking up gravel. I cut the engine, swing the door open and step out into the moist night air. I need to hunt and drink before I venture into the stifling atmosphere of the Club.

The Club. A hundred beating hearts. A hundred different flavours of blood (a few intriguing but most repulsive). On a good day, that sort of scenario leaves me exhausted and dreadfully thirsty. More often than not, Club events make me want to rip everyone’s jugulars open out of spite. It’d be a service if I drained most of the members. I don’t.

I don’t drink people at all. It makes me think of my mother. It took years before I stopped picturing her dying breath every single time I fed. I still do occasionally, when I’m feeling especially macabre.

I slip into the woods…

This is the point where my fantasy comes to a screeching halt. Can you imagine it?

Would Snow wait in the car like a gentleman? Gaze discreetly out his window until I returned and wait until we pulled back onto the road before giving my leg a reassuring squeeze? Not bloody likely. No, Snow would want to tag along. He’d insist on it, in fact. There’d be no shaking him. He’d probably think it was brilliant.

How mortifying.

I try not to think about Simon as I stalk a deer along the well-worn paths. I don’t succeed. I bungle the trap I’ve attempted to lead the deer into. I’m too slow as I slip behind the boulder and I have to chase the deer down, getting myself unnecessarily mussed in the process.

When I’ve drunk my fill, I brush myself off and proceed to the Club. I make small talk over dinner and resent every second of it. Afterwards, I hole up in the coat check for a few minutes of privacy before the dreaded after-dinner mingling. My heart soars when I see I have new messages from Simon.

Bane of my existence (19:05):
penny cooked!

Bane of my existence (19:06):
sort of

Bane of my existence (19:06):
were having pasta and red sauce

Bane of my existence (19:09):
tomatoes are a vegetable right?

I type a quick reply before leaving the safety of my coat room hideaway. I do so wish I could have Simon here by my side. Sadly, another string of messages from him when I get home is the most my sorry self can hope for.

Me (19:41):
Biologically speaking, tomatoes are a fruit.

Bane of my existence (19:44):
oh sod off

Bane of my existence (19:44):
you know what i meant arsehole

Bane of my existence (19:53):
jk

Bane of my existence (21:19):
baz?

Me (22:46):
Sorry. Non-negotiable family obligation, remember?

Bane of my existence (22:49):
oh yeah thats alright

Bane of my existence (22:49):
i mean doesnt sound alright for you

Me (22:53):
Let’s just say this crowd makes my arsehole self look like a bloody Cocker Spaniel.

Bane of my existence (22:54):
that cant be right

Me (22:57):
I know you think I’m awful, Snow.

Bane of my existence (22:57):
never said that

Me (22:57):
But really, there’s no comparison.

Bane of my existence (22:58):
didnt say there was

Me (22:58):
Pit vipers and harpies, the whole lot of them.

Me (22:58):
And they all want free dieting advice.

Bane of my existence (23:00):
that does sound awful

Me (23:05):
Yeah, well, I guess I fit right in.

Bane of my existence (23:06):
not what i said

Bane of my existence (23:06):
what i meant was

Bane of my existence (23:06):
yud be a husky

Me (23:10):
Is that supposed to make me feel better?

Bane of my existence (23:12):
if you ask me cocker spaniels are stupid and ugly

Me (23:15):
And huskies are…?

Bane of my existence (23:15):
fishing for compliments are we?

Me (23:18):
No. I can’t imagine how any of this could be taken as a compliment.

Bane of my existence (23:20):
thats ok ill indulge you anyway

Bane of my existence (23:21):
huskies are clever, intense, beautiful and cool as fuck

Me (23:29):
Still not sure it’s a compliment to be compared to a dog, Snow.

Bane of my existence (23:31):
whatever you started it

Bane of my existence (23:31):
take it as you will

Bane of my existence (23:34):
having a packet of hobnobs and earl grey w/ milk before heading to bed

Bane of my existence (23:57):
‘night baz

Me (00:04):
Goodnight, Snow.

SIMON

Last week Baz taught me how to bake a fresh fish. It was surprisingly easy. Who knew? Baz even had a lead on a fishmarket that always has the freshest catch.

He said he doesn’t really care for fish himself but one of his clients is really picky about it. She says she can tell when it’s not fresh and it leaves her feeling off. Baz told me she said I could tell them I was ‘Ena’s friend’ and they’d cut me a deal. I don’t know about a deal…the fish still cost a fortune, but they did take care of me. They didn’t laugh once.

I cooked the fish while Penny was away visiting her family. I didn’t want her to know if I made a mess out of something so expensive. But I shouldn’t have worried. It was a piece of cake. I still FaceTimed Baz just in case I ran into trouble, but it wasn’t really necessary. We spent most of the time just talking about football and telling funny stories about Penny.

The hardest part was making sure I took the fish out at the right time. It was good to have Baz there for that part. I was hoping maybe he’d stay on and eat with me but he said he had to go.

With Penny gone, I had to eat the whole fish myself. It felt wrong to eat something so fancy in front of the telly, but it was so good.

I went back this week to get another fish to cook for Penny. My homework from Baz is side vegetables: steamed broccoli and braised carrots. I’m not worried about the broccoli. I don’t even really like broccoli…how much worse could it get? But the carrot recipe is freaking me out. It goes on for an entire page.

Baz is out with his cousin for cousin's birthday, so we’re not cooking together this week. But I’m hoping he’ll answer me if I text him with questions.

Secret softie (18:13):
What’s for dinner?

Me (18:14):
youll be proud

Secret softie (18:14):
I believe I’ve mentioned how hard I am to please.

Me (18:15):
shut up

Me (18:15):
you always say that but you always are anyway

Me (18:15):
pleased I mean

Secret softie (18:19):
I’m waiting to be pleased.

Me (18:19):
grrrrrr

Secret softie (18:21):
Charming.

Me (18:21):
can u just be patient for a minute?!

Me (18:23):
whew

Me (18:23):
ok im baking fish for Penny and making ur side veg

Me (18:23):
im not done yet

Me (18:24):
why what are u having?

Secret softie (18:25):
[photo attached]

Secret softie (18:25):
Notice the vegetables.

Me (18:25):
cant

Me (18:25):
too busy looking at the steak

Me (18:26):
looks bloody enough to walk away

Me (18:26):
u sure ur not a vampire?

Secret softie (18:29):
Plenty of people enjoy their steaks rare.

Me (18:29):
likely story

Me (18:29):
ill have to keep my eye on you 👀

Secret softie (18:30):
There are countless reasons to watch your back around me.

Secret softie (18:30):
There’s no need to jump to supernatural conclusions.

Me (18:31):
ok shut up

Me (18:31):
i need to concentrate on these fucking carrots

Secret softie (18:32):
There’s a joke in there that I’m not going to make.

Secret softie (18:41):
How are the carrots?

Me (18:42):
fuckkkkk

Fucking hell! How could anybody care this much about a vegetable?! This entire recipe is one stressful decision after another. It’s all about cutting them just the right way, adding things at just the right time and adding ‘extra’ of this or that if it doesn’t look right. Argh!

I must be on my hundredth text to Baz and I still think I overcooked them at some point in the middle. They look mushy and I’m bummed that my dinner for Penny won’t be perfect. Baz said the fact that I can see that something is off is a sure sign that I’m not entirely hopeless and that I can probably do better next time. It’s sweet of him to try to cheer me up but it doesn’t really make me feel better.

“Si, I’m back!” Penny calls as she clatters in the door. “Sorry I’m late.”

I’m scraping the carrots into a serving bowl so they don’t keep cooking in the hot pan. They’re definitely mushy. I thunk the bowl onto the table and glare at it as Penny comes to join me.

“I could smell dinner all the way downstairs. You’re going to spoil me.”

“I messed up the carrots,” I pout.

“Si, look at me.”

I turn to face her, not even trying to hide my disappointment. My shoulders feel like they’re sinking into the earth. I want to curl up under the table. Penny grabs my cheeks in both hands.

“Stop moping. Maybe you messed up one part of a…” she pauses to count the dishes, “three course meal. It’s ok. It’s more than ok – it’s amazing! If you’d told me a month ago to be home in time for dinner because you were cooking this, I would have laughed my arse off.”

I smile just a little and Penny rattles my head around a bit using her grip on my cheeks.

“Are you trying to make me feel better by making fun of me?”

“Yes. And I hope it’s working because we haven’t sat down for dinner in forever. We have a lot of catching up to do. Obviously, there’s a lot new with you,” she says, gesturing at the table again. “And I’ve got some news too…” she adds with a grin.

“What?” I can’t help asking. She’s right of course. I gotta let the carrot thing go.

“Patience…” she says in a sing-song voice. “Oh! I got wine on my way home. Lemme grab it.”

I set the rest of the table while Penny fetches the wine and some glasses. We load up our plates (literally) (none of that artful shit like Baz’s photos). Actually, I should send him a pic. He already knows about the carrots…I want him to see that the rest went ok.

Penny spears a bite of fish and poses with a goofy smile. She’s used to the pics-for-Baz routine by now. She waits for me to set my phone down before she puts the bite in her mouth. “Oh my God, Simon,” she groans. “This is so good!”

I smile and duck my head. I can feel my ears heating up. Praise from Penny means a lot. She loves me, but she can be kinda harsh sometimes. The good thing about that is that you can trust that she means it if she says something nice. Even though in this case she’s basically saying, wow, Simon, you’re not as hopeless as I thought you were. That’s alright. It’s how I feel about all this cooking stuff myself. I’m shocked every time it works. We just won’t talk about the carrots…

“So…what’s up, Pen?”

Penny sets down her fork and picks up her glass.

“To me!” she declares in a dramatic voice. “For completing my final patient interview! Four years of data collection…done at last.”

“Oh my God, Pen. That’s awesome! Now you can finally look at the results! I can’t believe you’ve been waiting four years to see what you’d find.”

“Well…I wasn’t exactly waiting. I built a computer model before I even started the study and used it to populate a sample dataset. I’ve been writing scripts for years that I’ll use to analyse the real data.”

I look at her suspiciously. “You already ran them, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Penny grimaces. “Late last night.” She’s always been a work-a-holic. I get on her case about it because she doesn’t always take care of herself.

“And?”

She grins. “And the correlations between some of the variables I was looking at are so strong, Si! Better than I could have ever hoped for. There’s more than enough evidence for continued research in this area. I think I’ll even be able to get funding for a pilot treatment program. I have to write up the results as soon as possible so I can make the Medical Research Council deadline next year. You’ll never believe it, Si...”

She looks at me with bright eyes and lip between her teeth. She looks positively feral.

“Go get the figures,” I tell her, laughing.

Usually Penny and I have a no-graphs-at-the-dinner-table agreement. But this feels like a special occasion. It’s a big fucking deal.

Penny’s been gathering medical histories and conducting monthly interviews with hundreds of patients for years now. She’s studying the effects of love on people’s health and well-being. She’s particularly interested in how love (or the lack of it) affects the success of treatments for illnesses. She works at the Hospital for Integrated Medicine and she’s got data from every patient that received treatment there who agreed to participate.

The funny thing about it is that you’d assume Penny was some starry-eyed romantic. But she’s never even been in love herself. She’s never done more than go out on a couple dates with someone. She won’t even watch romcoms with me.

When I tease her, she’s quick to point out that love doesn’t have to be with a real-life person. “I’m in love with my work, Si!” she’ll tell me with a completely straight face. That’s actually one of the things she looked at in her study. She insists that other types of passion light up all the same regions of the brain and trigger all the same chemical reactions in your blood. She seriously knows everything about these people...it’s a little scary. I’m not sure I’d want to see my life plotted on a graph.

She spreads her figures out all over the table and points at different things with one hand while she puts food in her mouth with the other. I try my best to follow along. I’m actually not that hopeless at reading figures…it’s sort-of a prerequisite for being Penny’s friend. I like to think I help her. She fiddles with the layout, labels and colours until they make sense to me. If I can understand them, her colleagues will too.

“You know, these carrots aren’t bad, Si.”

I frown.

“Seriously, the flavour is really good, earthy and sweet. You’ll get the texture right next time.”

“Thanks, Pen.” It’s like her graphs, I guess. I’ll get it right eventually.

“Shepard was telling me that one of his patients had this miraculous turn-around and he couldn’t figure out why. Then this week, they got a notification during their session and their face just lit up. They worked harder than ever. After, he saw them smiling at their phone…You’ll never believe what they told him!”

“Don’t tell me…” I roll my eyes. “They fell in love.”

“Yes! But not really. They said they started writing stories while they were bed-ridden and even though they’d never written before, they’re actually a pretty good writer. They’ve been posting them online and people have been reading them and leaving really supportive comments. I bet you anything if I hooked them up to a monitor while they were talking about it, all the love signals would be activated. It’s so cool!”

“Who is Shepard?”

“Oh. Um. He’s, um. Well.”

What is happening? Is my best friend seriously blushing and at a loss for words? About a guy?

“Penny…”

“He’s the new PT at work,” she huffs. “He’s got a really good way with his patients. He’s been there for like five minutes and already everyone loves him.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s insufferable.”

“Mhmm…right.”

“He is! He keeps showing up with lunch to my office and hounding me into eating in the courtyard with him.”

“You mean the courtyard you forced them to install because studies have proven that sunshine and gardens improve people’s health outcomes?” I ask with a mischievous grin.

“Yes. That courtyard. It’s for the patients.”

“It seems to be helping with your conditions as well,” I tease.

“And what conditions are those?” Penny demands.

“Oh…let’s see, where do I start? Chronic work-a-holic syndrome? Terminal cynicism? An acute case of self-sabotage when faced with romantic possibility?”

Penny growls and throws her last piece of broccoli at me. I duck and cackle at her. She stands up and starts clearing the table. I carry my plate to the sink.

“What’s he like, then?”

She glares at me.

“Come on…indulge me. You know how I like a good love story.”

I can see her start to crack and I give her my best puppy eyes.

“Oh, alright. But there’s nothing to it, honestly. He’s…always smiling. He’s a good listener. He’s tall with darker skin than mine. He’s got cool hair, but his fashion sense is atrocious.” Penny pauses and grimaces before continuing. “He’s a bloody American…”

I can’t help but laugh about that. Every suitor Penny has ever had was an American. She attracts them like a magnet – the first one was an exchange student all the way back when we were in Secondary. They can’t get enough of her. It’s hilarious to watch. She claims the attraction isn’t mutual but I think she’s full of shit.

“Maybe I could meet him sometime. That is, if you don’t drive him away first.”

Penny scoffs but I can tell, she’s legitimately flustered over this guy. It’s cute. I hope he knows how lucky he is.

Chapter Text

SIMON

Me (10:32):
hey should we meet at the pizza place tomorrow?

Secret softie (10:46):
Actually, I have another client meeting me at Ebb’s right after you.

Secret softie (10:49):
I like to stack meetings up when I can.

Me (10:50):
oh right

Secret softie (10:57):
We’ll get to it at some point.

Me (12:13):
sure just let me know when you have time

☀️☀️☀️

BAZ

I wish Snow would take a hint and stop asking about the pizza. It’s one thing to thrall him a little bit to choke down a bite of scone…it’s a whole other thing to eat an entire meal in a busy restaurant. I never know when someone might be looking at me. And Simon’s always looking at me.

Sometimes, if there are high booths or low lights, I can manage it. I have to stare down everyone at the nearby tables before I feel brave enough to take a bite. Which would be fine, absolutely worth it to spend time with him. If it weren’t for the knife and fork…

I know it’s pathetic, but that’s the real deal-breaker for me. When I eat in public, the bites have to be small and tidy so I can pop them in quickly around my fangs and snap my mouth shut. No one eats pizza with a fork. It makes me look like the poshest of twats. Snow would never let me live it down. I can endure a lot of things, but not that. I would die of shame.

So, I put him off yet again when he brought it up yesterday.

I had to call in a favour from Niall. I didn’t tell him why. I can trust Niall to show up but I can’t trust him not to act like a buffoon around Snow. All Niall knows is that I need him to come and pretend to be meeting with me so I can cut things short with a client. He’s done it before; he and Dev have both been on the receiving end of S.O.S. texts on a Friday evening.

When Snow showed up for our check-in today, I could tell something was off. He’s been sulky ever since we sat down. I can’t believe he’s this upset about pizza.

I should have shut this whole dare down before he dug in. But I didn’t want to. When it comes to Simon, I have trouble keeping my head in the real world. He makes me hope. That’s a dangerous thing for someone like me.

“Alright, Snow – since you’ve been doing so well at building better habits around breakfast and snacks, I have a treat for you this week.”

Simon’s eyes light up and he gives me his full attention for probably the first time since we sat down. I hide my fondness for him behind a smirk.

“Oh, now you’re going to pay attention?”

He growls at me with tilted head and narrowed eyes. Marvellous. (No, really.) I laugh at him openly and slide the recipe across the table.

“It’s another Egyptian recipe – chicken shawarma. It’s typically something you have to go out to a restaurant for because most people don’t have a roasting spit at home. But my cousin sent me this recipe for home cooks recently and I can’t stop making it. It’s almost like the real thing.”

Once Snow’s had a chance to look it over, I venture to ask whether we’re still on for our weekly cooking date. (I’ve come to think of it that way.) (I already have an outfit set aside for this week.) ( I’m a mess.)

“I’ll be making the recipe also, if you want to join me…Sunday?”

SIMON

Of course I want to join him. He knows I can’t do this stuff by myself. I never make plans on Sunday evenings anymore. Even Penny has my new schedule figured out. She goes into work after we make our weekly grocery run. Then she magically reappears when it’s time to eat. She doesn’t like to be home when I’m cooking. She says it’s too weird to hear her work colleague’s disembodied voice in our flat when she’s trying to relax.

Baz looks genuinely worried I’m going to say no to cooking with him. He’s a real idiot sometimes.

“Don’t be stupid. You know I can’t do it without you, Baz. Are you sure I can eat this though? The fat content is pretty high.”

Baz’s forehead smoothes out until he’s smiling. I think he’s proud of me for actually looking closely at the recipe.

“Part of the lesson when you cook something like this at home, is raising your awareness of what goes into preparing different foods," he tells me. "It helps you make better choices when you’re eating out. If you ordered shawarma at a restaurant, they’d give you three servings at once and you’d eat it up without thinking. Ideally, when you make it at home, you’ll portion it out and look forward to having it in your lunch the next day.”

Baz pauses for a second and then he goes on, looking a little embarrassed.

“Although…this recipe is so delicious, I wouldn’t blame you if you ate it all in one sitting the first time you made it. I sometimes do…”

I’m so busy grinning at this adorable, blushing Baz that I don’t notice the bloke coming in the door until he’s hovering at our table, looking between me and Baz with a calculating expression. Baz’s head snaps up and he’s instantly sporting his disapproving professor look. It’s not quite as intimidating with the pink still tinting his cheeks.

The bloke looks at him with a knowing smirk.

“Good afternoon Mr. Pitch. I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all,” Baz snaps. “We were just wrapping up.”

Baz looks like he wants to strangle this guy. He must be his other client. He’s our age, and good looking, in a country club sort of way. He’s looking at Baz in a way that makes me want to tell him to back off. It’s all a little too familiar. Doesn’t he understand about keeping things professional?

I can feel my hackles rising. I narrow my eyes. Baz clears his throat and shifts pointedly in his chair to face me.

“Simon, did you have any additional questions?”

I gape at him. I can’t think. He called me Simon. In front of this smarmy prat.

“Um. No. I…Not right now. I’ll save them for Sunday,” I mumble.

I stand up too quickly, sending my chair toppling. Again. The other client stoops to retrieve it and I can see him looking me over as he stands back up. He looks amused. I don’t know what’s so funny.

“So…this is ‘Sunday evenings aren’t good for me’...” he says to Baz.

I’ve never seen Baz look so stony-faced.

“Mr. Kelly, if you’d care to have a seat, we can discuss how your libido is responding to the dietary changes I recommended.”

Hah! Now Country Club doesn’t look so smug. I give him my best pitying look. (Too bad Penny isn’t here, she’s the master of pitying looks.)

“See you Sunday, Baz,” I call out cheerfully as I head for the door (I might be gloating).

Baz waves me off. I’m glad I don’t have Baz’s job. He must have to put up with a lot from his clients. And there’s no way I could discuss someone’s libido with a straight face. I snigger to myself as I cross to the door. I just catch Baz’s client muttering, ‘arsehole’, as the door swings shut behind me.

☀️️☀️️☀️

BAZ

Bane of my existence (11:23):
hey is it alright if penny joins us for cooking class?

Bane of my existence (11:46):
shes curious what all the fuss is about

Bane of my existence (12:17):
i can also tell her no

Bane of my existence (12:18):
i know shes not a paying client and all

Me (12:20):
It’s fine, Snow.

Me (12:21):
She’s a colleague. It’s a professional courtesy to allow her to sit in.

Simon and I have been cooking together most Sunday evenings ever since that first time. It’s unnecessary and indulgent and without a doubt the highlight of my week. It’s even better than our check-ins at The Goat because we’re both in the comfort of our own homes and we can get lost in the magic of cooking and chatting.

Simon gave me a heads up earlier that Bunce would be joining us this time. He’s told me before how impressed she is with his increasing confidence in the kitchen. This is not a good development. Bunce is not stupid (like some people).

Penelope is going to see right through me. She’s going to give me piercing looks, ask probing questions and demand answers. Worst of all, she’s going to completely ruin this perfect realm of make-believe I escape to once a week.

SIMON

[Incoming FaceTime call from Simon Snow 16:53]

“Hello, Snow. You’ll have to bear with me for a minute. I’m still getting things ready.”

Baz looks more flustered than I’ve ever seen him.

“Me too. I know I’m early. Penny’ll be home in a minute. I just wanted to check if it’s really ok if she joins in.”

“Of course,” Baz says stiffly. “Not a problem.”

“Are you sure? You’re being weird about it.”

“Snow, it’s fine,” he says with a sigh. “It’s a little added pressure since she’s a work colleague. But nothing I can’t handle. How is your marinade looking?”

He’s deflecting. I can tell it’s not fine, but he doesn’t want to say so. Maybe I can send Penny to the store for wine or something once we get started. I shouldn’t have sprung this on him.

“Snow?”

“Hm?”

“Your marinade?”

“Oh. Good, I guess? I’ve never marinated anything before…so I really have no idea.”

“Let me see.”

I go to the fridge to grab the marinating chicken and try to keep things casual as Penny comes bustling in.

“Am I late? You started without me.”

“Sorry, Bunce,” Baz jumps in. “We’re just pulling our ingredients together. You didn’t miss anything except the marinade. Simon can show you what he did.”

He called me Simon again. He only does that when other people are around. Is Snow like a pet name or something? But he calls Penny ‘Bunce’...

“There’s not much to this recipe, really,” Baz goes on. “That’s one of the reasons I like sharing it with my clients. We should be done within the hour and you two can be on your way,” he says without even looking at the camera.

Is he trying to get rid of us?

Penny is leaning over my shoulder poking at the marinade. She’s saying something about how her mum sometimes does this for parties. She leans down and sniffs at it.

“Basil, what are the spices you’re using? It smells familiar and exotic at the same time.”

“I believe it’s the paprika and allspice which are different from the traditional flavour profile of Indian cuisine,” Baz replies like some culinary swot.

Penny pulls the marinade out of my hands and sniffs at it again.

“Hmm. Interesting.” She gives me a mischievous look. “So this is why the jars in our spice cabinet keep multiplying?”

I shrug and give her a weak smile. I feel grumpy. Penny’s ruining our vibe. I know I shouldn’t think that way about my friend. Usually I love her enthusiasm, but right now it’s bothering me.

“The marinade looks good, Simon. You can start the oven preheating now if you haven’t already. I have some salad greens here that I’m going to wash while we wait.”

He’s really rushing us, but maybe it’s for the best. Penny and I busy ourselves washing lettuce and something frizzy called escarole. Baz made me get it because he says it’s more nutritious than regular lettuce. When the oven beeps, we transfer our marinated chicken to a tray and slip it in.

I go back to chopping tomato and cucumber for the salad and Penny goes back to grilling Baz.

“Basil, do you do this for all of your clients?”

Baz doesn’t answer right away. I glance up at the phone and see him take a deep breath, like this is requiring every bit of patience he has.

“Not typically, no,” he grits out between tight lips.

The silence is deafening. Penny is staring at him, waiting for an explanation.

BAZ

I knew this was going to happen. I briefly thought maybe Bunce would be distracted enough by the recipe and her unrelenting need to understand everything that she wouldn’t ask me any awkward questions. Unfortunately, that need extends beyond the recipe to understanding what the hell is going on between me and Simon. I wish I knew.

“Simon is a special case, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Oh? How so?”

She’s smirking at me.

“I’m trying to help him to join the fire brigade,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Not summon them to his flat to put out a kitchen fire he started because he’s a clueless buffoon.”

“Hey!” Simon interjects. Penny cackles.

“That would make quite the first impression, Si,” Penny teases, bumping his shoulder with her own.

I envy their closeness but I’m relieved she seems to have decided to go along with my ruse. I stay on the phone long enough to talk them through the last sauté that crisps the chicken. I’m forced to watch as they joke and bumble along: dropping the spatula, bumping into things, feeding each other pieces of the finished chicken…all the cliché things that happen when you cook with someone. Everything I’ve been missing while I’ve been hiding behind my phone. Everything I’ll never have.

I make my apologies and end the call. I look around my silent, empty flat and sigh. I feel really down.

I turn to the fridge to get out a carton of blood. As I warm the blood on the stove, I tell myself I must be feeling peaky since I forgot to drink yesterday. Which I’m sure is true, but I know this ache in my heart has nothing to do with my iron levels. It’s a hole, the size and shape of Simon Snow.

️☀️️☀️️☀️

SIMON

“Simon, your tail.”

“What.”

“It’s flicking.”

“So?”

“So, did you get it out on purpose?”

“No…You know it has a mind of its own sometimes.”

I glance over at Penny. When I do, I see that my tail is indeed out. It’s up in the air by my shoulder and the tip is flicking lazily back and forth. Penny brought home a library book once about cat body language. I’m sure she has a theory about what this particular tail gesture means.

“Who are you talking to?” she asks.

I drop my phone in my lap and turn to glare at her.

“Just say whatever it is you’re thinking. I hate it when you beat around the bush.”

“It’s just that it’s been happening a lot lately,” she says.

Penny drives me crazy sometimes. She’s my best friend in the world and she’s also the smartest person I know. She gives really great advice almost all of the time, but when it comes to important stuff, sometimes she insists I have to figure things out for myself. I have a feeling this is one of those times. Which kinda sucks. Because I never know what she’s talking about and it always takes me forever to figure it out.

“If my tail is bothering you, just say so and I’ll put it away,” I grumble.

“It’s not bothering me,” Penny insists. “I just wondered if you’d noticed. I don’t mean to be rude, Si, but sometimes your tail figures things out before you do.”

See? What did I tell you? Even my tail is smarter than me, apparently. I go for the extremely mature response and stick my tongue out at Penny. She returns the gesture. (We both know we don’t mean it.)

Penny is the only person besides Ebb who even knows about my dragon parts. I guess you could say I grew them for Penny. I wasn’t born with them (or maybe I was and I never knew). In any case, I never really had them until…well, it’s a long story.

It happened a few years back. Penny left me behind to come to London for uni. Then something terrible happened and I just had to get to her. Immediately. Nothing was going to stop me, no matter what…

Chapter Text

SIMON

Penny and I grew up together in Lancashire. I met her in Year 7 when we both started at the big Secondary school. The very first day, she spun around in her seat and fixed me with her piercing gaze. I remember her looking me up and down, nodding her head once and informing me that we were going to eat lunch together.

Penny never mentioned my ratty clothes and I never ribbed her for being a teacher’s pet. She was my everything back then and she still is.

In year 11, I got placed in a new foster home. The guy's name was Davy Mage. He was a single man in his early 30’s who was active in local politics. At first I was excited to be placed with him. He had all these big ideas and spoke with such enthusiasm about his plans to transform our town. He would take me along to events and always seemed so proud to be out with me, sharing his vision.

As time went on though, he developed more and more rigid expectations for how I should act, especially at events.

When he announced his plans to run for office, I tried to be supportive. But I was worried about what his expectations for me might be. Penny and I had already made plans to attend uni in London together. Davy begged me to delay for a year so I could assist him with his campaign. I felt obligated to do as he asked, because Davy had agreed to pay my way through uni. Penny was furious that he was putting himself ahead of my education, but Davy was insistent.

Penny and I were both heartbroken. We decided Penny should go ahead without me and that I would join her in her second year. Saying goodbye to her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. She was my friend, my sister and my mother all rolled into one. I didn’t have anyone else; I’d long since soured on Davy.

Campaigning with Davy was awful. If he was unsatisfied with turnout at an event or a drop in his poll numbers, he would find ways to blame it on something I said or did. He would rant and rave at me for hours. Sometimes...he even shoved me and knocked me around a bit.

I got so sick of being his scapegoat that, one time, I just skipped a major event. I figured if I wasn’t even there, I wouldn’t have to take the blame. I should've known what a big mistake that would turn out to be.

When Davy got home...Christ, I'd never seen him so mad. Don't you ever do that again! He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pushed me up against the wall as he shouted at me. His fist dug and pressed into my neck. I could barely breathe. I remember thinking that if I blacked out, at least he'd probably stop yelling. I never told Penny about that night.

For a while after that I tried to be the model son, standing by his side the way he wanted. But no matter how hard I tried, he still found things to criticise. So I went back to skipping more minor engagements just to have a break from the pressure and exert a tiny bit of control over my life. That’s when he started locking me in my room before important appearances, so he could be certain I would be there.

When Penny heard about that, she went ballistic. She tried to convince me to leave for London right away. She started talking about coming to get me and telling her parents. But voting day was right around the corner and I was determined to stick it out and get my college money. I didn't want all the shit I'd put up with from Davy to have been for nothing. I told Penny I would talk to my caseworker (I knew I wouldn't) and I convinced her I had everything under control.

On election night, we gathered with Davy’s staff and supporters at his headquarters in this mill building on the edge of town. The atmosphere was tense. Davy’s numbers had been slipping in the run-up to the election. It was going to be a tight race. Davy was in a monstrously bad mood and was pushing all of my buttons. I was having a hard time playing the role of doting son. It didn’t escape his notice.

As the last batch of votes was counted and about to be announced, I tried to think of something encouraging I could say that wouldn't set him off. I said something about these last votes pushing us over the top, but I should've just kept my mouth shut. He turned on me and growled under his breath so no one else would hear. I can still remember what he said, even though it's been years...

What do you mean ‘us’? I thought it would help my image to have an orphan by my side but you’ve been useless. More than useless. Too stupid to trust with anything important. You’ve done nothing but make me look bad and sabotage my chances. If I lose, it’ll be all your fault. And you better believe I'll make you pay.

The shock I felt at his words hung over me as we awaited the results. The stuff about me being stupid and useless was old news, but the orphan part stung. I already knew he played the orphan card when he was campaigning. But he’d never been so shamelessly blunt and nasty about it. It made me sick to my stomach.

I kinda wanted him to lose…I was also scared of what he would do if he did.

But he did lose. When the news came in, his face clouded over with the darkest expression I’d ever seen. I was frozen in place, a chill running down my spine. Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me by the elbow and guided me away from the crowd. He dragged me to a distant storeroom, shoved me inside and turned the key. I’ll deal with you later, he snarled before leaving to address his disappointed supporters.

I was terrified of what he would do when he got back. I was trapped in a nightmare. All I could think was that I had to somehow get to Penny.

There was a window high up in the wall that was my only way out. My eyes darted around the room searching for something to climb but there was nothing but rickety shelves overflowing with junk that wouldn't reach high enough. I remember just standing there looking at the window with my mind racing and my breath ragged, feeling hopeless. What if I died here? What if I never saw Penny again?

There was a sudden noise like someone snapping a sheet over a bed. I dropped to the ground, thinking Davy had returned. But the room was still. When I opened my eyes, all I could see was red. Again, I thought of Davy and whether he had trapped me under some sort of tarp. Was he going to smother me? Wrap me up and throw me in the river behind the mill?

I was in a total panic, barely able to get air into my lungs. But the room continued to remain still. Eventually, when nothing happened, my pulse slowed, and I began to come back into my right mind. As strange as it sounds, I felt at peace inside that red cocoon.

It took ages for me to find the courage to move. I spooked myself many times over as I fought to stand up and find my footing, with what turned out to be my very own wings tugging at my back.

I’d just given the first tentative flap when I heard someone approaching. A new jolt of fear flooded my body and I heard another strange sound like a whip cracking behind me. The renewed terror spurred me to launch myself into the air.

I wish I could say I was a natural-born flyer, but that would be the stuff of fairytales. It didn’t matter though. Because my wings were real and they were carrying me to safety, even if I did look like a moth bouncing frantically off a lightbulb in my rush to get out of there.

Davy threw the door open just as I was poised on the sill of the open window, about to tilt over the edge. I guess I should’ve made some great cathartic speech, or at the very least have hurled some choice slurs in Davy’s direction. But I just got the fuck out of there and made my way all the way to London and the safety of Penny’s sofa.

My only regret is that I didn’t get to savour the moment when I first leapt into the open air and trusted my wings to catch me.

When I woke in the morning, the wings were gone. I didn’t know where they had come from and I had no idea if I’d ever see them again.

Penny was obsessed with my dragon parts (she told me later I’d had a tail, though I never saw it for myself). She asked me again and again exactly how it had happened. What was it like to fly? What was I thinking? Feeling? She scoured the Internet and searched all the libraries she had access to, trying to dig up useful information.

Penny wasn’t able to find much. But we’ve learned a bit more since then via observation and experiment.

We didn’t see my wings again until months later when we got an unexpected package delivery. The driver banged on our door, loud and impatient. I thought it was Davy…that he’d finally come for me. It was a scenario that had been plaguing my dreams since the night I left him.

The dreams overtook me in that moment like they were truth.

Penny screamed and threw her hands over her head as the sheet-snapping sound echoed across our tiny flat and a lamp went crashing to the floor. The delivery guy hollered out to ask if everyone was ok. Thank goodness Penny is a confident and intimidating person and was able to shoo the driver away.

After the shock wore off, Penny circled me like a buzzard and pelted me with all the questions she’d held at bay since the night I arrived in London. It wasn’t until she’d pestered me to distraction that my tail made its appearance. It snaked quietly out behind me and began lashing back and forth. Penny’s not usually one to be intimidated, but it made her stop short and take stock of the expression on my face. I’m not that hard to read, if you bother to look.

Oh, Simon, I’m so sorry. You’re not a zoo animal, I remember her saying.

She backed off after that, but she kept her watchful gaze on me the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

SIMON

When my dragon parts reappeared out of the blue that second time, I expected them to be gone again in the morning, like had happened the first time. But when I woke up, they were still there. I called in sick to The Goat that day and waited for them to disappear. And the day after…And the day after that. I started to get worried they would never go away (but I was also sorta wishing that they wouldn’t).

Penny eventually suggested that maybe I had to do more than just wait around for them to be gone. When I baulked at her suggestion, she scrutinised me for a long while before speaking.

“You’re afraid of losing them forever, aren’t you?”

I nodded guiltily. They were inconvenient as fuck and I would lose my job and not be able to make rent if they stuck around. But, I liked them. They made me feel safe. And they were wicked cool.

“Si, they came back when you needed them, right?”

“Yeah,” I huffed. “But it’s hard to enjoy them when I’m having a panic attack. Or stuck in the flat because I look like a monster.”

“Hmm, that is a shame.” Penny admitted, looking thoughtful. “I wonder…”

“What?”

“I wonder…Yes! I think that would work.”

“What, Penny? I hate it when you don’t finish your thoughts.”

“When do you have LARP next?”

“There’s a small pick-up campaign tonight. Why?”

“I think you should go.”

“Like this?!”

“Yes! Like that! That’s a pretty awesome new costume you have there, Simon,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

That was how I started wearing my dragon parts out at LARP events. Penny was right. People just assume they’re part of some elaborate, animatronic costume. I attached some pull cords to my existing get-up to make it look like that’s how I control them. Nobody seems to notice that when I’m in the thick of battle I can’t be arsed to pretend to use the cords.

The wings and tail put themselves away after that first LARP campaign, while I was eating dinner back at the flat. It was like they were satisfied by their little outing and ready to go to bed. A few weeks later, when I was getting ready for LARP and wishing they were around, they appeared, peacefully, without all the sheet-snapping and whip cracking noises.

It’s an amazing experience to be able to wear my dragon parts out and proud like that.

I just have to remember to keep my feet on the ground. I think even folks who are fully committed to immersing themselves in the fantasy of it all would have trouble accepting flying. There’d be questions I don’t have answers for.

I’ve never met anyone else like me. But Ebb is always telling me I’m not alone. The first time she said that, I pressed her to tell me what she meant, but she said it wasn’t time. The bullshit with Davy was too fresh. I was still figuring out my plans for Uni and life more broadly. She thought I should develop my own sense of self and handle what was in front of me before opening up any more questions.

It seemed like reasonable advice at the time. But sometimes I get to thinking and wondering. Sometimes I feel a little alone. Sometimes I wonder if I should bring it up with her again. But right now is probably not a good time either. I’ve got all this stuff with Baz to work through.

Baz.

Which brings me back to the tail…

Nowadays I can pretty much control my dragon parts (except when I lose control of myself). The wings have snapped out at Penny a few times when we’ve been arguing. I always feel like shit when that happens.

The tail though…

Penny says I’m like a cat (I hiss at her when she says so, just to be difficult). The tail is always getting me into trouble. Like now. What was it that Penny just said?

Sometimes your tail figures things out before you do.

Penny has a smug look on her face because she knows she’s gotten under my skin. You don’t need a degree in animal behaviour to know what it means that my tail is now laid out across the sofa, tip thwapping irritably against the seat cushion.

“And what is my tail so knowledgeable about this time?” I grit out between my teeth.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Penny muses. “Perhaps your texting companion could enlighten you?”

My face heats up and I’m starting to sputter a response when my phone buzzes, as if on cue. I retrieve it from where it’s fallen beside me on the couch. I can’t help the smile that plays on my lips when I read Baz’s message. I begin to type out a response, deciding to ignore Penny’s heckling.

“Mmhnh,” she grunts with a self-satisfied smirk. “Happy. Captivated.”

My tail is back up at my shoulder, tip waving sinuously. Fucking hell. I huff and give the tail some disapproving side-eye. This is what happens when your body parts have minds of their own. If Penny wasn’t here, I might even talk to the tail, give it a piece of my— My phone buzzes again, interrupting that thought, and my tail perks up.

Alright, I’ll admit it. My tail likes Baz. It’s kinda cute and also majorly inconvenient. It’s bad enough that the tail has now outed me to Penny. (I don’t want to talk about it.) (He’s funny and kind and gorgeous—Anyone would like him!) (Even a free-thinking body part, apparently.)

The tail has also been acting up around Baz. I’ve been having to be very careful when we say goodbye after our meetings at Ebb’s, to keep the tail from reaching after him the way it did that one time.

Once, during our meeting, Baz got a funny look on his face. I realised too late that my tail had made an appearance and was curling around Baz’s ankle under the table, unbeknownst to me. I had to coax it back while pretending to play footsie with Baz myself to avoid being discovered.

It was extremely awkward. I got flustered. Baz got stiff. It took a couple days of texting for us to get back to our normal ease with each other.

I was pretty pissed off at the tail for pushing me before I was ready. The thing is, maybe I already do know what I want (I hate it when Penny’s right) (Except I don’t, ‘cause Penny gives really good advice).

“Penny?” I ask her now. “Would it be wrong to ask Baz out on a date?”

Penny grins in triumph. “I knew it!”

“Yeah. Yeah. You’re very smart.” I roll my eyes to make up for the heat building in the tops of my ears.

“So, nothing’s happened yet?” Penny asks in a softer voice.

“No! I would’ve told you…”

“I wasn’t sure.” She admits. “You’re obviously really into him. And you guys spend a lot of time together. Way more time than makes sense for a client relationship. You’re practically dating already.”

I huff some more. “But we’re not. In fact, when we’re together in person, it’s sometimes really tense. You know…since he’s sort-of my doctor? And I’m his client?”

Penny winces. “I can see how that would be difficult.”

“Everything will be going just fine, but then something will shift and I can see the walls going back up. I don’t know how to break through all that.”

“Maybe you just have to wait it out until you’re not his client anymore?”

I heave a heavy sigh. I hate waiting.

☀️☀️☀️

BAZ

Standing in line at The Goat, I have to school my features while I wait out the flood of sensory stimulation that always threatens to overwhelm me when I enter a space like a café. One of the many joys of being a vampire.

The visual noise is fairly manageable. Ebb certainly does like her knick-knacks, but at least she has a cohesive colour palette. And most café-goers are relatively subdued: studying, chatting, staring at their screens. (Simon Snow at a café is…not subdued.) (But that’s hardly the only reason I find him captivating.) (Regrettably, it’s not Simon that I’m meeting today.)

My client Humphrey reached out to see if we could meet up. He’s got something he wants to ask me. I suggested meeting here at the Wandering Goat. I’ve been doing that more lately, ever since that strange meeting with Margaret and Ebb. I keep a running list of safe spaces for my creature clients and Ebb’s is now at the top. Even if I have been resolutely not acknowledging the content of my conversation with Ebb that day…

It’s a madhouse at The Goat today. Looks like a rugby team came in for a post-game snack. Probably not the best environment for a client meeting, but it’s too late to change now. I’ll just have to do my best to create an aura of calm. My gums are already bothering me.

It’s the smells that really threaten to undo me; I’m constantly in danger of losing control over my fangs. The food odours are everywhere (obviously), but there’s also the human odours: body products, sweat, blood. The rugby team is a low blow.

Of course I have coping strategies. The most important one being focusing on my own scent: narrowing my field of attention so I can tune out most of the other stimuli. My scent is unique, chosen after much trial and error for its effectiveness (assertive, yet calming). I apply it rather liberally, but I know from observation that people generally find it pleasing. I would hate to think I was contributing to someone else’s sensory overload.

As I pull my awareness in towards my own little sphere and fill my nose with notes of cedar and bergamot, I allow my attention to settle on the sound of the heartbeats around me. It’s a gamble. There’s always the chance that I’ll think too hard about the blood associated with that sound, but typically, I can use the sound’s hypnotic effect to my advantage.

The rhythmic swishing does the trick and my mind quiets until I can focus on my scent only. My scent and the one heartbeat that doesn’t match the rest. Actually, make that two heartbeats that don’t match the rest (my own skips a beat.)

Like the predator that I am, all of my senses immediately lock in on the owner of this other too-slow heartbeat. I rotate my head a fraction and find him already observing me. This has happened a handful of times before. It rattles me every time it does. But it’s no effort at all to stand taller and angle my chin up so I can look down upon him. It comes naturally to me to feel superior. After all, I’m nothing like them.

The other vampire looks wary but it could just be the way he looks. He’s got narrow eyes and hollow cheeks. His stringy blond hair hangs in front of his face on one side. He’s working as hard to get a bead on me as I am to get a bead on him. I try to project an air of nonchalance, like he’s not worth the trouble, as long as he doesn’t cause me any.

He’s wearing an outdated suit jacket over a band t-shirt and jeans. Looks like he’s come into the city from the county, like he’s trying too hard. There’s something about his face that is familiar. But I can’t imagine why. Father always kept me well away from the vampires, after my mother was killed. And even at the height of my teenage identity crisis, I was never disturbed enough to seek them out, to see what I was missing.

But still…I know him from somewhere…and he can tell. His eyes dart over to the door and then to behind the counter, where Ebb is making his drink. When my eyes land on Ebb, the resemblance hits me and I remember Margaret’s vision. Ebb's twin

He runs a hand up into his hair and ducks behind it. He clears his throat and Ebb glances up. Almost immediately her gaze follows his to where I’m standing. She falters for the barest moment before greeting me.

“Basilton. Thank you for waiting.”

She sounds strained. As much as I don’t like the look of her brother, I don’t want Ebb to worry, so I smile and return her greeting.

“It’s no trouble, Ebb.”

“You sure picked a busy day to come in,” she adds with an apologetic laugh.

Her heartbeat is drowning out her voice and her brother shifts nervously beside me.

“Indeed,” I reply. “I hope I’ll be able to find a table. I’ve got a client joining me.”

“It’s not Simon’s day already, is it?”

“No. Someone else.”

Ebb hums. I recall my thought from earlier about feeling safe here (and hate myself again for my cowardly avoidance of the vampire issue). Against my better judgement, I fill the awkward silence with a confession of sorts.

“I appreciate how comfortable it is here. My clients and I always feel quite welcome and at ease.”

When she looks over at me with a questioning look, I glance at her brother.

“Lemme just get Nicky his caramel macchiato and I’ll be right with you.” The vampire must be Nicky. His eyes go wide but Ebb forges on. “Nicky, do you know Basilton?”

Christ. Now what have I gotten myself into…

It appears Nicky’s thinking the same thing because it’s with a snide tone and a scowl that he replies.

“Can’t say as I do.”

And I believe him. I’m not sure what his reaction to meeting Natasha Pitch’s son would be (or what I would want it to be). But I know there would be some reaction. I extend my hand and he takes it, his sneer morphing into something else as I say my name.

“Basilton PItch.”

“Pitch?”

“Yes. Pitch.”

He withdraws his hand rather abruptly.

“Ahh...Of course. Should’ve seen that coming.”

He fumbles as Ebb slides his coffee across the counter to him. She looks sad.

“Give my regards to Fiona,” he says, edging towards the door. “I’m just…ah…passing through…or I’d look her up myself.”

And with a nod to Ebb, he’s off, leaving me gaping at his retreating form.

“Ebb,” I start, turning back to the counter. “How does he—”

“The usual then, love?”

“Yes, but—”

The hiss of the espresso machine drowns out my question. I wait, mind racing, For Ebb to finish my drink. What could my aunt Fiona be doing, getting mixed up with vampires? It doesn’t speak well for my opinion of my aunt that my mind immediately goes to kinky blood drinking stuff. I would readily believe that of her, if it weren’t for what happened to my mother. How could she?!

I don’t get a chance to interrogate Ebb because I’ve barely opened my mouth before she silences me once more.

“Another time, love.”

I know she’s right. I’m not going to get the kind of answers I’m looking for in front of all these people, when she’s this busy. I’m going to have to corner her sometime soon for answers to my growing list of questions. For now, I need to set this aside and get ready to meet Humphrey. He texted to say he was running late, so I snag an open table and take out my phone to schedule with Simon for later in the week.

Me (18:32):
Are you free Sunday morning?

Bane of my existence (18:32):
yeah why?

Me (18:33):
Let’s meet then instead of on Friday.

Me (18:34):
I’ve got something a little different in mind.

Bane of my existence (18:35):
are you plotting?

Me (18:35):
I am.

Me (18:36):
If all goes well, I’ll have a surprise for you.

Bane of my existence (18:36):
👀

Chapter Text

BAZ

My client Humphrey is fifteen minutes late. I don’t tolerate tardiness in myself but I make allowances for certain people. Humphrey is one of them. He feels very ambivalent about people at times and it makes it hard for him to keep appointments.

When he slides into the seat across from me, I’m lost in thought about Nicky the vampire. I drag myself back to the present and puff out a big sigh before reaching into my satchel for my notes.

“Rough day Mr. Pitch?”

“Yes, I’d say that’s a fair assessment.”

(At least the rugby team has buggered off with their locker room stench.)

“How about yourself, Humphrey? How has life been treating you?”

“Freddie.”

“Pardon?”

“I go by Frddie now.”

“Oh? Trying something new?”

“I already look like an old man...don’t have to sound like one too,” he replies moodily.

“Fair enough,” I nod. “Freddie.”

I smile at him but he doesn’t give me an inch. Some would say he’s unpleasant, I just say he’s seventeen. Like most young people, it takes him a bit to warm up.

“You look well,” I observe.

He scoffs. “Mum and dad say I look like a freak.”

“I perhaps have some additional information that puts some of the choices you’ve made into perspective.”

“Sounds like doctor-speak for ‘I think so too’.”

I laugh. Humphrey (Freddie) doesn’t.

“It might be challenging at times to stand up for your right to self-expression. But I’m proud of you.”

Humphrey was that child who always had pockets full of stones, acorns and seed pods. Feathers and leaves seemed perpetually lodged in his hair and stuck to his clothing. His dirt-smudged face would sometimes take on an almost mossy appearance if his mother hadn’t recently wrestled him into the bath. I always thought it was charming, but he had trouble with bullying at school.

Now that he’s grown and no longer living at home, he’s a sight to behold. The fairy glamours that disguised him as a changeling have faded away and he’s making his own choices now. His parents still don’t know about any of the magickal stuff.

Spriggans (that’s what he’s told me he is) are known for accreting bits of nature right into their leathery skin. Freddie has taken this to heart and procured an impressive collection of piercings of every description. He eschews metal jewellery in favour of found objects: bone, wood and shell. His forehead got wrinkly without the glamours and he’s got a line of piercings threaded right through the most prominent wrinkle. It stands in stark contrast to the youthful glint in his eyes and the childlike pout of his lips.

I’m fairly certain his body has undergone some changes too, but he’s using his clothing to effectively obscure all that. It’s making it hard for me to tell if he’s been eating properly. He didn’t tell me why he wanted to meet today.

“What’s on your mind, Freddie?”

He’s snagged a packet of sugar from off the table and is fiddling with it. I wait for him to find the nerve to say whatever it is that's bothering him.

“You know that link you sent me after we met last time?”

OK. That’s not what I was expecting…I sent him a number of references but I’m fairly certain I know which one he’s referring to.

“Was it helpful?”

He barks out a laugh. “Certainly not what I was taught at school.”

“I should think not." I scoff. "As much as I’m in favour of a more progressive and inclusive sex education curriculum, I’m not sure we’ll ever see the inclusion of spriggan reproductive lore. Sometimes you just have to educate yourself.”

“Yeah…erm…yeah…I could have told you some of what was in there. There’s been changes... Puberty stuff I guess, but different. Especially since the glamours started wearing off.”

I felt uncertain at the time, about sending info regarding sex and reproduction to a minor (off an internet message board no less!) but I’m glad now that I did. It’s hard enough being a human teenager navigating the paltry information available. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Freddie, isolated as he is, here in London.

“We’ve talked before, Freddie, about you maybe moving back to Cornwall. So you could be part of a community. Have you given any more thought to that?”

“No. Not really. I like my life here. Plus, there’s this bloke…”

“A bloke?”

“Yeah…that’s what I wanted to ask you. I know it’s not like, what you do,” he starts off, with an apologetic grimace. “But there’s no one else that would understand what I mean…”

Oh Humphrey. I don’t feel particularly qualified to help in this area but I’m damn well going to try.

“Being happy in other areas of your life makes it easier to make good choices about self-care. I view the health of the whole person as part of what I do." I assure him. "Of course, my expertise does have limits… What is it you wanted to know?”

“I wanted to know…or ask…I know you can’t say for sure…it’d be his call really…ugh…You like blokes, right, Mr. Pitch?”

Um...I swallow.

“I do.”

“OK. Here’s the thing – I don’t got what you’ve got in your pants, alright?" he states, rather belligerently. "But I could still make a human bloke happy, couldn’t I?" he asks, suddenly vulnerable. "There’s other things I could do…and it’d be enough, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” I tell him without hesitation. “You are enough. And Freddie?”

His shoulders visibly relax. “Yeah?”

“You could show him how to make you happy too.”

“Fuck,” he says, ducking his head. “This is embarrassing. Can we stop talking about this now?”

I chuckle and quickly change the topic.

(God, this kid’s brave. An inspiration really…Could there ever be a bloke for me? Could I ever be enough?)

“How’s your living situation working out?”

“Oh it’s sick, Mr. Pitch! You should come by sometime. Kendra’s been letting me do my art on the retaining wall at the back of the garden.”

“I’d like that. Thank you for the invitation.”

“I had to find a new place to sleep a while back though cuz a bike shop opened in that one warehouse I was crashing in. It took a while, but I found another spot.”

“I know moving is hard for you, Freddie. Were you able to keep up your appetite?”

“Yeah, I kept eating. I hunkered down for a bit…didn’t really see people for a while, but I still went out to get food at night. As long as I have the garden as my home base, I feel grounded enough.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear you took care of your basic needs. You can always reach out to me if you ever need help getting back on track.”

“It’s easier now that I can make my own choices,” Freddie says. “Not like when I first met you. Ugh, do you remember the sandwiches?”

“I still maintain it was an inspired solution,” I answer, smiling fondly.

Freddie’s parents brought him to me when they found his collection of lunch sacks under his bed. They were (understandably) appalled when they learned he was eating them, intentionally, months after he’d sequestered them there. They’d always fretted over how he picked at his plate at meal times but this was the last straw.

It took a few months for Freddie to open up to me. But he eventually shared what he knew about his identity and I learned what was driving his behaviour. His family had relocated to London from Cornwall the year before. Severed from his old life and dropped into an urban environment, this was the plan he had come up with to meet his dietary needs.

Spriggans typically haunt ruined buildings in more natural environments. They feed on forest litter and carrion. At his old home in Cornwall, Freddie ran wild in the overgrown areas behind his house, eating freely and sometimes even sleeping outside in a hollow under an old stone foundation. Other spriggans had approached him over the years, to tell him about how he was left with humans as a changeling, and to share stories.

It was a creative solution really, to compost his lunches in his bedroom. But without telling his parents about his identity (which he was firmly against) it was a hard choice to justify. I prescribed ‘specialty meal delivery’ as a stop-gap while I hunted for long-term solutions. It wasn’t until my client Kendra mentioned that she had a plot at an allotment garden that a longer-term plan began to form in my mind. Freddie has been ‘volunteering’ there for years.

As soon as he finished Year 11, he moved into an abandoned warehouse near the garden. He makes found object sculptures and scavenges meals from the garden’s compost pile and along the railroad tracks.

It's been quite the PR campaign, supporting Freddie in these choices in conversations with his parents (without revealing his secrets). But I've been largely successful in passing a lot of it off as the whims of youth. As much as Freddie grumbles about his parents, he still visits regularly. (And they still pay my bills when I send them.)

When Freddy’s feeling social, he runs with a crew of straight-edge punks; making street art, putting on underground shows and lately, doing parkour. The kid can literally run up walls. Sometimes, it looks like he goes right through them (enhanced abilities).

“I take it you’ve been feeling social lately…given the curiosity about the bloke?”

Freddie’s face lights up.

“We made a wicked parkour run last week. Did Mordelia tag you on the video?” he asks excitedly.

I roll my eyes in response.

“She’s getting pretty good at keeping up with us when she’s filming, you know—”

“I don’t want to know, Freddie. I try not to think about it.”

“You worry too much Mr. Pitch.”

“I worry precisely the right amount. She’s my little sister! She won’t heal as quickly as you do if she falls.”

Freddie shrugs.

“It takes weeks for humans to regrow their bones! We can’t just grow other limbs like you can,” I grumble.

“Sucks to be you, eh?” he says with a grin.

“Get out of here, you,” I huff, gathering my things. “I’ll text you about coming by to see your art.”

“A’ight. Later Mr. Pitch. And thanks for…you know.”

“Not a problem. Take care Freddie.”

Before I head out, I look over at the counter and catch Ebb watching me. She has a soft look on her face and seems a little teary. There’s a new rush of people coming through the door. I nod goodbye and resolve to find a better time for a chat. It’s high time I got some answers about my own identity.

☀️☀️☀️

SIMON

Me (16:51):
two scones with butter and ebbs special chai

Me (16:51):
milk and honey probably?

Dr. Baz (16:53):
You’re at Ebb’s?

Dr. Baz (16:53):
Did you forget we’re meeting on Sunday instead of Friday this week?

Me (16:54):
nah just habit i guess

Dr. Baz (16:54):
Aww. Did you miss me?

Me (16:54):
shut up

Me (16:54):
ur an arse

Me (16:54):
why would i miss that?

Me (16:58):
idk I was feeling kinda down

Dr. Baz (16:59):
Hard day?

Me (16:59):
its this one kid at the home

Me (16:59):
edwards

Me (17:00):
ace football player really killer striker

Me (17:00):
just found out his coach at school quit

Dr. Baz (17:01):
He should join the local club.

Me (17:01):
thats the problem

Me (17:01):
doesnt have money for dues or proper boots to play in

Dr. Baz (17:03):
Maybe he could find a sponsor?

Me (17:04):
yeah right

Me (17:04):
like theres people just waiting to throw money at some nobody kid

Dr. Baz (17:05):
You’d be surprised.

Dr. Baz (17:06):
There’s this young guy who just took over the sport shop I go to.

Dr. Baz (17:06):
Maybe he’d kit out your star player in exchange for some free advertising.

Dr. Baz (17:08):
And if you talk to the club, they may have some scholarship funds.

Dr. Baz (17:17):
Snow, are you ignoring me?

Me (17:17):
yeah

Dr. Baz (17:18):
Don’t be an idiot. I’m being serious.

Dr. Baz (17:23):
You know I’m an expert on posh twats.

Me (17:23):
cant argue with that

Dr. Baz (17:23):
I’ll send you the info. Just think about it.

Me (17:27):
ok

Me (17:27):
u know i suck at talking

Dr. Baz (17:28):
Take the kid. He’ll speak for himself.

Me (17:29):
hmm you might be onto something

Dr. Baz (17:30):
Elite Kits. 116-128 Oxford Street. Dev Grimm proprietor.

☀️☀️☀️

As I’m watching the kids play their weekly pick-up match, I decide Baz is right about Edwards. He deserves to have someone make an effort on his behalf. Who knows? It might work. And if it does, maybe I could get a couple more kids involved someday. I think I’ll give that bloke at the sports shop a call.

Baz cancelled our weekly meeting yesterday. He said if things go well, he’ll have a surprise for me tomorrow instead. I wonder what he’s up to?

I was pretty disappointed about not getting to see him. I haven't seen him in person since I got honest with myself about my feelings. Just a couple selfies. Which, honestly? The way my guts tried to leap out of my mouth when I saw them...I'm not sure I can even handle seeing Baz in person. I still want to though.

I went to see Ebb yesterday anyway, just for something to do. Then I ended up chatting with Baz after all. It's nice how he seems to always have time for me.

It’s been almost two months now since Baz started helping me and I haven’t been spending quite as much time as I used to at The Goat. Baz has me trying some new things for breakfast at home. I’m not sure I’ll ever willingly eat yoghurt, no matter what I put in it to make it taste better (it has an icky mouth feel). But he gave me a recipe for this stuff called kasha which is actually pretty good with mushrooms and one egg on top (it’d be even better with three eggs but, you know, cholesterol).

I hate to admit it, but Baz was right about slowly pushing less healthy foods out. I’m also learning stuff. I never knew it before, but the fibre in fruits and vegetables and whole grains can help lower your cholesterol as much as eating less fat can. Also, apparently there are good fats and bad ones.

I’ve never eaten so many different foods. And it’s…not as bad as I thought it was gonna be.

Sometimes the foods Baz has me try leave me feeling so unsatisfied I could punch something. Those are the weeks I find myself making a lot of trips to Ebb’s. But Baz is fine with that as long as I give it a go before saying it’s not working. And some stuff, like the kasha, surprises me with how good it tastes and how filling it is.

The only thing that’s still really a problem is snacks. I mean, an apple just doesn’t cut it when you’re in that late afternoon slump. Or when you get home late and you haven’t made dinner yet. Or when you’re up watching Doctor Who for the hundredth time and get the munchies.

Baz wants me to reach for carrot sticks and hummus or a handful of walnuts in those moments. I try, but sometimes I’m just still so hungry. We’ve come to an agreement about sourdough bread and huge hunks of cheese (at least it’s better than chips or crisps or pastries).

The thing that really keeps me up at night is the scones. Baz writes my total on my copy of the food journal each week and I’m down to 19. He hasn’t mentioned it again beyond that though. Every week I stress about him bringing it up. I’m worried that might be what his surprise is.

It’d be just like him to get me all excited and then make a big show of announcing that this week’s goal is NO SCONES. Bloody wanker.

Chapter Text

BAZ

My mutinous sister has left me sitting awkwardly in the library of the Manor with my parents, something I try to avoid at all costs. If she weren’t doing me a favour, I’d skin her alive. I’ve already been waiting an hour. The little shit wasn’t even awake when I got here.

My father has already tried to guilt me into doing a free consultation with a friend of a friend from The Club (no thank you). Daphne is currently asking if there might be a ‘special friend’ I’d like to bring home for Sunday dinner sometime. She means well, I know. But this is not a question I have any wish to entertain in my father’s presence. It’s a hopeless affair and I wish she’d just leave it (I find my thoughts drifting to Snow and how fetching he’d look with cheeks flushed by the fire at Christmas). Like I said, pointless to even consider it.

I glance at my watch and dig my fingers into the upholstery. I know the only reason Mordelia consented to help me in the first place is that I agreed to conveniently forget to bring her back from London. She just got home for summer holidays and already she’s desperate to escape.

Mordelia finally materialises and I‘m sorely tempted to send her back upstairs to change. She’s wearing this atrocious goth getup complete with grotesque makeup and what can only be described as a combination harness/garter belt. Her demonic grin tells me everything I need to know about her motives for choosing this particular ensemble.

“Get in the car, you hellhound,” I snarl.

I toss my phone to Mordelia as we’re heading down the drive so she can pull up the directions for our first destination. I’ve recruited her for an important mission. She’s taking me on a tour of all the vegan hotspots in London. We’re collecting scones for Simon.

I think I’ve gotten as far as I can get with crowding them out. It’s time to advance to my next line of attack. I’m hoping to find something a little healthier for those times when he wants to treat himself.

I finally wrestled Ebb’s recipe out of her so I could calculate the nutritional content and it was frankly appalling. The numbers were at the upper end of the range the Food Standards Agency documented in their scone report last year. I know the largest part of the reason Snow frequents the Goat is to see Ebb, but I still feel compelled to try to find a healthier alternative.

We've been driving for a while, listening to one of Mordelia's angrier playlists, when I’m pulled from my thoughts of Simon by the realisation that it’s gotten unnaturally quiet in the car. A quick glance at my sister confirms that she’s actively plotting, her fingers flying over my phone. I flinch instinctively when I see the song title flash across the console, Bela Lugosi’s Dead by Bauhaus. Mordelia collects these little gems and saves them aside to torment me.

This one is especially devilish and my skin actually crawls as the beat starts up and the guitar comes in with its industrial scratching. The song is intended to be unsettling, to pick relentlessly at the corners of your brain. I suppose it’s meant to evoke the enhanced sensory experience of being undead. But when you’re an actual fucking vampire, with actual vampire senses, it’s utterly intolerable (and Modelia knows it).

I refuse to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her ‘music’ selection. But once Mordelia has decided it's time for conversation, there's no escaping it. She smiles sweetly at me from where she's slumped against the passenger door.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” she says.

I return her simpering look. “Tell me again why I never used my ‘enhanced abilities’ to remove your toenails one by one?”

She lolls her tongue out at me in a disgusting manner. “I don’t have to help you, you know,” she points out.

“I know. Thanks for coming today.” I offer up in a rare show of gratitude as I massage my aching temple with my free hand.

"So? Why are we doing this?"

“I’m doing research for a client.”

“Since when do you spend your Saturday running errands for clients? Haven't you heard of work-life balance?”

“Actually, I’m spending Saturday with my charming sister,” I retort.

I’m saved from further prying by our arrival at our first stop. It’s got a marquee-style sign out front proclaiming ‘Sex Coffee Rock & Roll’. None of these things is what I’m on the market for today. I’m a bit sceptical about the baking expertise to be found within these walls, but Mordelia swears this is the pinnacle of vegan coffee shop subculture (calling this ‘culture’ seems a bit of a stretch to me, but I’m trying to not be as much of an arse as I usually am).

There’s a ghoulish thug of a boy propped against the building taking a drag from a cigarette. He leers at Mordelia as we approach and she throws him an overly dramatic V-sign as we walk inside. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s essentially a bad boy version of Simon Snow. Perhaps Mordelia might be more sympathetic to my mission than I expected. I raise my eyebrow at her.

“Oh, fuck off,” she mutters. “Like you have a leg to stand on. I know we’re not buying scones for some doddering pensioner in Mayfair. You got a photo of this bloke we’re wooing with baked goods?”

As a matter of fact I do. I texted Snow after it took longer than I wanted to coax the recipe out of the baker at the one stop I made this morning, before I picked up Mordy.

Me (10:06):
Do you have a photo of yourself doing firefighter stuff?

Bane of my existence (10:09):
…

Me (10:09):
I’m trying to get you a scone recipe.

Me (10:10):
Your inspirational backstory should be just the thing to win them over.

[Unsent draft] Me (10:10):
And your shoulders in those suspender pants couldn’t hurt either.

Bane of my existence (10:31):
the director at my last care home wrote a rec for me when i did the optional training camp

Bane of my existence (10:31):
she did a followup article for their newsletter even tho its been years since i lived there
[link included]

Bane of my existence (10:32):
u know how people like to wave around success stories…

Baz (10:37):
Just the sort of sob story I needed. Thanks.

Bane of my existence (10:38):
sometimes i dont know why i bother with u

Baz (10:39):
Must be because I’m a ray of sunshine.

Bane of my existence (10:39):
🙄😃

Baz (10:44):
Of course they’d be proud of you, Snow.

I’ll admit, I was a bit shocked at first when I read the article Snow sent. I shouldn’t have been; Snow had already shared a little bit about his past. I knew he was an orphan. I guess it was harder to gloss over when it was printed in black and white.

I still can’t believe that someone so good and kind and generous could have had such a rough beginning. I know that's an ignorant assumption. My privileged circumstances certainly didn't keep me away from trauma or from growing up to be an insecure arsehole. Simon hasn’t told me much about his past, but I get the feeling Penelope has been his one constant through a long string of hard situations. And yet he still has such a big heart.

I pass Mordelia my phone. She scans the linked article and her eyes open wider when she enlarges the photo (there really are suspender pants) (the gods seem to be smiling on me at the moment).

“He’s…hot. In a disturbingly heroic sort of way. Malcolm’s going to shit himself.”

We lock eyes and cackle in unison. Annoying the fuck out of our father is the only motivation we need to set our differences aside and get cracking.

“I know some of the staff here,” Mordelia announces. “You need the recipe?” When I nod in the affirmative, she heads off to infiltrate the kitchen for me.

As crazy as Mordy makes me, she’s always been a good wingman. I almost murdered her my last year of uni when I discovered she’d hit send on a draft text of mine asking a boy I was crushing on out for a date. I thought my life as I knew it was over. But then he actually said yes.

It never went anywhere. But that was the first time I really let myself believe that being gay might amount to anything other than a miserable, lonely existence. There’s still the whole vampire problem of course…but that moment was a real turning point for me. It wouldn’t have happened if Mordy hadn’t been such an audacious little shit (she was only seven!)

So when Mordelia returns with the scribbled recipe and the ruffian from out front looped on her arm, I roll my eyes and shove them both in the backseat. I pretend not to notice when they lock lips on the drive to the next stop.

Modelia takes me to a few more places before she bails.

If the first stop threatened to smother me with its self-satisfied grunge atmosphere, the second promises death by a thousand rules. These people are card-carrying vegan militants. I’ve got to hand it to them though, they know what they’re doing. Their wares look quite tempting.

I get a plain scone and also their fancy one. It has cherries in it, which I know is Snow’s favourite. Getting the recipes proves to be impossible. If Snow likes them the best, perhaps we’ll have to come back together so I can unleash the full Simon Snow charm offensive. I dare them to say ‘no’ straight to his beautiful, freckled face.

Next up is a gaming café with a surprisingly well-stocked pastry case. The staff here are much more agreeable, but they bring the baked goods in from an outside distributor, so I’ll have to follow up with that bakery later. While I was at the counter, Mordelia and her boy wandered off to chat with a group of kids that looked to be playing Dungeons & Dragons or some such rot.

I signal to Mordy that I’m ready to go. She comes over and gives me puppy dog eyes and a woeful tale of never getting a chance to come here. She wants to bail on me to join her friends’ game. I know she’ll be surly and unhelpful if I force her to leave with me. Instead, I allow her to plug one more address into my phone and I head out without her, after extorting a promise that she’ll text me later and be back at my flat by midnight at the latest.

🚗🚗🚗

When I pull up at the last stop, I snort out loud. Mordelia’s just messing with me now. Whatever her faults (and there are many), she does have a wicked sense of humour. I’m about to pull away without going in, assuming she was just pranking me, when I notice a small sign in the window which reads, ‘Vegan high tea served week-ends’. My curiosity gets the better of me and I decide to investigate.

I’ve barely stepped through the door and am still struggling to take in my surroundings when a flamboyantly dressed woman swoops down upon me.

“Welcome, darling! Are you here for the tea? I’ve got just the seat for you, over here next to Ginger. He’s a dear. I think you two will get along famously.”

I allow myself to be dragged along to a table in a cosy corner. I sit blinking as the proprietress rattles off the tea menu. When she stops and looks at me expectantly, I just ask for Earl Grey. She looks vaguely disappointed but whisks away to prepare my tea service.

I can’t get over the interior of this place. The lurid pinks and purples of the upholstery are bathing the entire space in an unearthly light. The room is a fully-imagined set design with papier-mâché tree trunks, fairy lights and castle facades. Crossing the room in every direction are catwalks, tunnels and towers. There are felines everywhere.

My gaze flicks over when I hear a little chirrup to my left. A long-haired orange tabby is regarding me with a focused expression.

“You must be Ginger,” I tell the cat. “Doesn’t this place make you crazy?”

The cat yawns and stretches its back as if to say, “You don’t have to be such a dramatic git about it.” Then he hops onto the bench beside me and crowds up onto my lap. He butts my chin with his nose and turns a few circles before flopping on his side with his head resting in my limp hand.

“You’re already plotting to eat my tea cakes aren’t you?” I mutter as I begrudgingly begin to scratch at his cheek. He opens one lazy blue eye and leans in a bit to reveal more neck. I certainly don’t smile at him. He starts up a low purr.

When the tea is served, I am admonished to NOT feed the cats. But as the server turns to go, I swear Ginger winks at me and emits a quiet growl.

“You’re a menace, you know,” I inform him. But that doesn’t stop me from slipping him a crumb of Snow’s scone and asking his opinion. I can’t really eat the cakes myself because, well, you know why. I can sometimes get away with a nibble here and there, especially if I’m dining by myself. But generally I just move things around and ask for a to-go box. You’d be surprised what people will overlook.

I think Simon would like it here. It’s really quite charming, magical even. I’m imagining his lovely face lit up in boyish wonder when he walks in for the first time, turning in place as he takes it all in. He’d greet every blasted feline before grabbing my hand and pulling me towards a table. I’d pretend not to notice when he eats my share of the tea cakes—

My phone pings with an incoming text. Shit, it's Agatha. It’s gotten later than I thought. I make my apologies to Ginger as I excuse myself to settle the bill and get the tea cakes packed up to go. Agatha (my second scone accomplice for the day) is already waiting for me at my next stop. Snow had better appreciate my little café marathon. I’m embarrassingly eager to relax in my flat with him tomorrow, sampling scones and sipping tea.

🚗🚗🚗

I use the lint roller from the glove compartment to remove the cat hair from my black jeans before joining Agatha at the café she suggested. It’s modern and glass-walled, and I congratulate myself on my choice of a cream-coloured turtleneck for today’s outing. ‘Beatnik poet’ was marginally acceptable with Mordelia’s lot and it also works here, amongst this crowd of thirty-somethings in their designer athleisure wear.

Agatha is a vision (as always) with her platinum blond anime haircut and coordinating icy pink ensemble. She taught a kickboxing class this morning but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. She’s frowning at me for being late.

“Wellbelove. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I thought you were better bred than to leave a girl hanging, Pitch,” she gripes, accepting a peck on the cheek.

“It’s been a marathon of a day,” I sigh.

I show her the photo of the cat café that I sent to Snow by way of explanation. Before I realise my mistake, my devious companion is scrolling back through my conversation with Simon. She smirks and snorts intermittently as she reads.

“Is this him?” she asks when she finds the article he sent me this morning. Her fingers are busy and I know she’s forwarding it to herself so she can torture me with it later. I shoot her a warning glare that I hope looks menacing, but which probably comes off as petulant (I fear Snow is rubbing off on me).

“I’ve been getting your type wrong all this time, haven’t I?” Agatha observes.

When I grimace, she adds, “He’s darling. Just, not what I expected.”

“I didn’t know I needed your seal of approval, Wellbelove.”

She gestures dismissively. “You know I care nothing for affairs of the heart...”

Agatha is an old friend and I sometimes attend events as her plus-one so she doesn’t have to answer awkward questions about her lack of partner.

“In any case,” she offers, “It shouldn’t be too hard to impress this guy. I’m sure he’s never seen anything as fancy as you. You probably knock the words right out of his head the second you walk into the room.”

I scoff audibly. “You obviously haven’t met him,” I mutter, recalling all the times Snow has managed to find exactly the right words to undo me. “And I don’t think he has much use for my brand of charm, to be honest.”

She cocks her head and looks at me sharply. “What do you mean, Basil? You’re always the picture of grace and good taste. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think he’s as shallow as all that. He’s the noble do-gooder type.” I pause before confessing, “And he’s a bit rough around the edges.”

Agatha looks at me thoughtfully for a full minute before replying. She’s one of the only friends I have that grew up in the same moneyed circles as I did. She understands that it’s not always all it’s cracked up to be. That it comes with a load of pressure and a healthy side of insecurity. That you can feel just as self-conscious in a tailored suit as you can in a pair of second-hand trackies.

“You like that about him, right? That he’s a bit scruffy?”

I nod with a resigned sigh.

“Then I don’t see why he couldn’t like that you’re a bit fancy. You have a good heart, Basil. You deserve to be happy. So let’s get down to business. We’re wooing him with scones, right?”

Agatha Wellbelove is a force of nature. In less than two hours, we collect samples from half a dozen bakeries. She demands, and receives, recipes from every single place. There isn’t a health trend imaginable that her fitness fanatic crowd hasn’t flirted with. The scones range from something that frankly looks more like an energy bar to a tempting fruited variety that Agatha assures me tastes amazingly close to the real thing despite being gluten free as well as low fat.

When Agatha and I finally part ways, I’m loaded down by bakery bags and I’ve never been more ready to hole up in my flat with a salad, a glass of red wine and a good romance novel. But, tragically, I’m expected at Dev and Niall’s for football night. I’ll have to settle for collapsing on their couch instead. At least I have time for a shower beforehand (I can’t wait to get out of this bloody turtleneck).

Once I make it to Dev and Niall’s couch, I pull out my phone to update Simon on my plan for tomorrow. The match is already underway but I don’t care much for either of the teams.

Me (19:02):
Would you mind meeting at my flat tomorrow instead of at Ebb’s? 11am?

Bane of my existence (19:17):
ok…

Bane of my existence (19:17):
what are u plotting?

Me (19:18):
I thought we could get started on the scone project.

Bane of my existence (19:20):
yikes!

Me (19:20):
Scared, Snow?

Bane of my existence (19:21):
a little

Me (19:21):
If I wanted to murder you, I could have found a way to do it by now.

Me (19:21):
Poisoned your tea, drained you dry, used the past perfect subjunctive tense in conversation...

Bane of my existence (19:25):
im not worried about that stuff

Bane of my existence (19:25):
i was actually talking about the scones

Me (19:26):
Well, in that case, you have nothing to fear.

Me (19:26):
Come hungry. I have samples.

Bane of my existence (19:26):
u couldve just said so…☺

Bane of my existence (19:32):
speaking of hungry…

Bane of my existence (19:32):
im watching footie with penny and this guy she likes

Bane of my existence (19:32):
we made milkshakes and were dipping chips in them

Bane of my existence (19:33):
and penny brought home the best pickles!

Me (19:35):
Are you pregnant?

Bane of my existence (19:35):
wtf?!

Me (19:35):
My stepmum always craved salty and sweet together when she was pregnant.

Bane of my existence (19:37):
you mean like ice cream and pickles?

Me (19:37):
You *are* a quick study. Who ever said you were thick?

Bane of my existence (19:38):
i like pickles with peanut butter too

Me (19:38):
Repulsive.

Bane of my existence (19:39):
banana with marmite

Me (19:39):
Stop.

Bane of my existence (19:39):
frankfurters and salad cream

Me (19:40):
You’re a nightmare. Literally.

Me (19:40):
Half of my supposedly restful moments are plagued by you and your fiendish food habits.

Bane of my existence (19:41):
u saying i haunt ur dreams?

Bane of my existence (19:44):
also…u always say i have to try something first before i throw a fit

Me (19:44):
I’m not the client. You’re clearly the one who needs help, not I.

Bane of my existence (19:46):
Sounding a tad defensive there baz…

Me (19:47):
Fuck off.

“Who are you talking to?”

I lower my phone to find Dev and Niall both eyeing me suspiciously. I must have been checked out from the match for a while. I know it's rude to be on my phone when I'm supposed to be hanging out with them. But I had to get in touch with Snow about tomorrow before it got too late. It’s not my fault he’s always so chatty.

“This new client of mine is absolutely ludicrous,” I tell them, making a show of shaking my head in disbelief.

“You were rolling your eyes indulgently,” Niall observes.

“And giggling,” Dev chimes in.

“I can hardly be held responsible,” I protest. “He just admitted to his nutritionist that he’s eating milkshakes, chips and pickles. Together. As an after-dinner snack.”

“You never indulge your clients,” Dev accuses. He makes a show of checking the time (definitely after hours) and shoots me a patented Grimm eyebrow (the incredulous variety).

Niall is softer, but no less devious. “Baz, is this the firefighter?”

Dev snaps to attention. “Wait, there’s a firefighter?!”

“Yeah, Ags sent it around earlier. Keep up.”

“Oh, I thought that was just another kickboxing video…hold up.”

Dev starts scrolling madly through his messages. I make a half-hearted attempt to direct their attention back to the match but I know it’s futile. They’ve smelled blood. Dev finds what he’s looking for and his eyes light up with malicious glee.

“How’s he doing?” Niall prompts while Dev gets caught up on the embarrassing details of my sorry love life. “He’s the same one I rescued you from that one time at the café, isn’t he?”

“Why did Baz need rescuing?”

“He wanted help cutting his meeting short. Seems this guy wants to spend all his time with Baz…Can’t even do his Sunday cooking without Baz holding his hand— ”

“Wait. This is ‘I can’t do Sundays’?!” Dev squawks incredulously, waving his phone with Simon’s firefighter pic in my face. “What the fuck, Baz? When were you going to tell us about this?”

“He wasn’t,” Niall observes, helpfully.

“Seriously, Baz?”

When my only response is to sink further into the couch, the tag-teaming begins in earnest. These two love nothing in life more than working together to take the piss. I’m powerless to stop them, and this time I probably deserve it, so I don’t even stand up for myself. I press a pillow to my face and prepare for the worst.

“I guess it is a noble deed the way Baz is going out of his way to help him realise his dream,” Dev begins.

“A real sacrifice.” Niall agrees somberly.

“Well, it's not like Baz could've said no..."

"Of course not. He pretty much has to do anything this guy wants. I mean, the people of London are waiting for their hero to arrive.”

“Think of all the lives you’re saving indirectly by helping him, Baz."

I refuse to respond to this heckling.

"They’ll probably give you a medal,” Dev goes on.

Niall snickers. “D’you see the suspenders?”

“Yup.” Dev affirms, popping the P. “A glorious sight. A real morale boost that is.”

“Aye. The Queen will knight you for sure, Baz, once the people get a look at that,” Niall declares.

Finally, he and Dev dissolve in a fit of laughter.

Someone kill me now. Put me out of my misery.

Also, maybe someone could remind me why I’m friends with these people? Oh right, it’s because I’m lucky to be here with them. Joking about my gay crush instead of pining away in secret. Still, sometimes I wish they didn’t have to be quite so obnoxious…

Chapter Text

This chapter dedicated to Arnold Lobel, a legend.

BAZ

“Mordelia, I swear to God, if you don’t vacate that bed in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to light it on fire! With you in it!”

Deep breaths, Basilton.

I set my palms on the kitchen island and let my eyelids fall closed for a moment while I listen for the rustle of sheets coming from the guest room. I fear I’ve made a grave error.

I needed Mordelia’s help yesterday to secure the best scones for Simon to sample, but I see now that it was a devil’s bargain. I didn’t account for the unbudgeable nature of the sleeping teenager.

In my mind, I was going to whisk Mordelia off to Fiona’s bright and early this morning, leaving me two hours to prepare for Simon’s arrival and plenty of time to— Fucking hell!

There is no universe where my eternally self-destructive aunt is awake at this hour either.

Me (07:40):
Mordelia will be on her way over shortly.

Me (07:41):
Are you awake?

Me (07:42):
I hope you remember agreeing to let her stay with you.

Me (07:45):
Get your arse out of bed you degenerate witch!!!

No relation of mine (07:47):
For crying out loud, Baz. It’s the arsecrack of dawn.

Me (07:47):
And clean up your flat while you’re at it.

No relation of mine (07:52):
Why would I get up to meet her? She’s got a key.

Me (07:52):
Just please get up and be presentable for once.

No relation of mine (07:52):
This isn’t a fucking daycare.

No relation of mine (07:53):
You’re such an old man.

Me (07:54):
Impressionable young minds don’t need to be exposed to the wreckage of whatever hedonistic activities you were up to last night.

No relation of mine (07:58):
God you’re dramatic. I don’t know why I agreed to this. She’s not even my blood relative.

Me (07:58):
Fiona, you PROMISED me!

No relation of mine (07:59):
Fine. But if you want perky, send her over after lunch.

Me (07:59):
I need her gone within the hour.

No relation of mine (08:03):
Basil, do you have a boy coming over?

Me (08:07):
We are not discussing my love life. I have nothing to say to you on that topic.

No relation of mine (08:07):
That’s a yes then.

No relation of mine (08:10):
Bout time you had a little fun.

No relation of mine (08:10):
A good shagging. A little drink now and then…

Me (08:10):
Don’t you dare talk to me about drinking.

Me (08:11):
I know all about the “drinks”.

No relation of mine (08:14):
You’re such a prig. Even Mordelia has more fun than you.

Me (08:15):
You’d better not be doing that in front of Mordelia!

No relation of mine (08:15):
She’s 16 Baz! Hardly an innocent.

Me (08:19):
There isn’t one there now is there? I’m not sending her if there is.

Me (08:23):
How *could* you Fiona?!

Me (08:23):
After everything that happened.

No relation of mine (08:24):
What are you on about?

Me (08:28):
Maybe you should ask Nicky.

No relation of mine (08:28):
wtf Basil

Me (08:29):
He sends his regards.

No relation of mine (08:29):
You saw him?

Me (08:30):
Regards that I deliver extremely unwillingly.

Me (08:32):
You can fuck up your own life Fiona but leave me out of it!

No relation of mine (08:33):
Baz, it’s not what you think.

Me (08:33):
And what am I supposed to think?

Me (08:34):
How am I *meant* to interpret your being on a first-name basis with a vampire? After your sister was murdered by a vengeful mob of them?

No relation of mine (08:36):
It’s not like that. That was all before. It’s been years since I saw him.

No relation of mine (08:41):
How was he? How did he look?

Me (08:44):
Like a pathetic vampire deadbeat. Not worth anyone’s notice.

Me (08:45):
I trust you’re sufficiently awake now.

Me (08:45):
I’m sending Mordelia over. I have things to do.

SIMON

I woke up with the sun and already I’m coming apart at the seams with nervous energy. The only thing for it when I get like this is to run until I burn some of it off. I slip into some shorts and an old t-shirt and leave the flat quietly so I don’t wake Penny.

I set a course for my longest loop and try to lose myself in the mechanics of moving my body through space and filling my lungs with air. I attempt to quiet my thoughts. It’s not that I’m trying not to think…there’s just a lot of noise in my head today. I direct my mind to where it always wants to go anyway…Baz (and how excited I am to see him today).

It’s barely been a week since I finally got honest with myself about how I feel about him. And I’ve been a right mess ever since. I’m dying to know if he feels the same way. It’s driving me around the bend that I can’t just get in his face and find out, because we have this stupid professional arrangement. I’m going to his flat for the first time later this morning to test scone recipes (I’m guessing that's what we're doing) and I just wish it were a proper date.

I’ve begun to seriously consider breaking up with Baz as my nutritionist so I can ask him to be my boyfriend instead. But when I really think through the consequences of that, I have to face the reality that I still have a ways to go on the whole cholesterol thing. The thought of doing any of that work with someone who isn’t Baz…well, that’s a hard no.

I just wish we could do both. I mean, if we were married already and I needed help, he wouldn’t refuse to help me, would he? (Obviously this isn’t a real question). Fuck, my thoughts are getting away from me again…

What I’m meant to be focusing on is how excited I am to see Baz, in person, at his flat.

When we meet at Ebb’s, he always looks so fucking fit. I can’t get enough of looking at him in his fancy clothes. For instance, last week he had on an honest-to-God waistcoat (who wears waistcoats?)

He’d stopped buttoning his shirt somewhere along the way and I kept getting lost looking at the point where his pale chest disappeared into the top of the waistcoat. I kept having to drag my eyes back up to his face when it was my turn to talk. I never did decide whether there were tendrils of dark chest hair peeking out along the edges or not.

It was maddening and I hadn’t even realised yet that I like him like that. (Looking back on it all, I feel like a real fucking idiot…)

When we cook together, he’s more casual. Usually, he has his hair pulled back in a loose bun to keep it out of the way and sometimes he puts glasses on to read the recipe. I feel special when I get a glimpse of this soft, swotty version of Baz.

I don’t think Baz will let me see him in joggers though (that’s probably for the best anyway) (maybe we’ll work up to that). Baz will want to be pulled together, but it’d be ridiculous to wear a suit in this scenario. Baz is extra as hell, but he’s not ridiculous. I’m guessing he’ll fall somewhere in between. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll wear my nicest jeans and the waffle-knit Henley shirt that Penny gave me for Christmas. The one that makes my the colour of my eyes pop (that’s what Penny tells me).

BAZ

Simon Snow is knocking at my door. I have to let him in because I invited him here. I spent the entire morning preparing and now I have to open the door.

Simon is going to be thrilled to have permission to eat all these scones. It’s going to be rather entertaining to watch him eat and listen to him rant about their faults and virtues. I even have a valid reason not to try them myself, as I’ll be busy recording his reactions.

I’m certain he won’t realise how much work went into this, but also, I’m certain that he will. I’m worried it will be painfully obvious how besotted I am.

The thought has been knocking around my head all morning (I can’t seem to prevent it), that this feels like a date. Obviously, it isn’t. That would be unprofessional in the extreme and I’m certain Simon doesn’t think of me that way. But the truth is, I’ve never had a man over to my flat for a meal before now.

Sometimes, I let myself daydream that when this is all over…When Simon passes his medical exam (I know he will), that there could still be an us. That we don’t have to be over too. That (maybe) there could even be more…

SIMON

This feels like a date. I’m dressed smartly. Baz is also dressed smartly. We’re staring at each other across the threshold of his flat, because Baz has just opened his door to greet me. Because I’m coming over for a meal, at his flat.

His hand is still on the door knob, clutching it tightly. He’s breathing shallowly and his cheeks are the slightest bit pink. Is he nervous? I know I am. Butterflies are filling my chest as I look him over. He’s wearing slim black jeans and a soft button down with flowers on it. He looks really good.

Also, he smells fucking amazing. It’s going straight to my head and making me feel a little swoony. I don’t know how I never noticed this before. Maybe because The Goat is always full of other people? But now it’s just us and I can’t think of anything else.

I break into a huge grin. I’m just gonna be happy that it feels like a date, even though it’s not. It’s the same in the end, innit? I’m just going to enjoy myself with whatever Baz has planned. We always have fun together.

Baz finally steps aside and leads me into the kitchen. He gestures to a seat at the island and begins making tea. There are a bunch of baskets on the island with little napkin-wrapped bundles in them. When Baz has his back turned to me, I give one of the bundles a squeeze. I hope they’re what I think they are, because they feel like oven-warmed scones.

I keep looking around the flat. It’s different from mine and Penny’s of course. Baz is quite posh, after all. But the flat isn’t stiflingly fancy. It’s comfortable. And tidy. Either Baz cleaned for me or he’s just a tidy person. There’s a vase of flowers on the counter and quiet music playing.

Yup. This feels like a date. I’m well chuffed about it.

Baz is making idle chit chat and fumbling a bit over the tea. He’s so lovely. When he spins around with a mug in his hands for me, I take it from him carefully and I don’t attempt to hide the warmth in my smile when my fingers brush his.

BAZ

Damn it all to hell! This is feeling more like a date by the second. At least Simon looks pleased about it and not creeped out. He’s smiling at me like we’re in on some secret together but I don’t dare let myself believe he’s thinking what I’m thinking. He’s just humouring me. He’s seen how much work I’ve put into this and he knows it’s too much. But he’s not making a big deal out of it, because he’s a kind person—

“Baz…”

Right. Get with the program Basilton. The scones are getting cold.

“What’s in the baskets?” Snow asks, as he lifts a corner of one of the napkins.

“Drop it,” I scold, giving him a stern look. “This is a scientific study.”

I explain what we’re going to do and ask Snow to choose a basket and read me the number from the slip of paper tucked inside. I grab my clipboard and write the number on the first line of my data sheet.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Snow unfolds the napkin and reveals the first scone. I can see that it’s the plain one from the militant vegans. It looks like a reasonable approximation of a scone to me, though I’m no expert.

Snow turns it around in his hands then brings it to his nose and sniffs it. He takes a bite and I can see him rolling it around in his mouth. He’s almost taking this too seriously. It’s making me sweat. He eats a few more mouthfuls before shrugging his shoulders and setting the scone back in the basket.

“It’s alright,” he says.

“How would you rate it on a scale of one to five?” I ask him.

Snow scrunches his mouth off to the side and lowers his eyebrows, thinking.

“A solid three,” he declares. “The texture’s good, it’s just kinda flavourless. Not bad. Just, not much point in eating it, ya know?”

“OK. Fair enough. Let’s move on.”

Snow chooses another basket, reads the number off the slip and lets the slip fall to the counter.

“Let’s keep the number in the basket,” I interject. “In case you want to go back to any of them,” I explain hastily, feeling a little embarrassed for being so uptight about everything.

Simon gives me an indulgent smile and picks up the slip. He unwraps the scone and sets to work studying it. It’s one of Agatha’s, I think. Not one of the outrageously healthy looking ones, but it looks like it might be made out of some sort of alternative flour. Snow takes a bite and he frowns noticeably.

“This is not a good scone,” he pronounces without prompting. “Scones are light and airy. This thing is dense as a brick. One out of five.”

Oh dear. I’m jotting notes in the margin about the words he’s using to describe his ideal scone. I can see his point, but he hasn’t seen anything yet. What is he going to say when we get to the ones that look like they’re made out of birdseed? “Should’ve gone for a ten point scale,” I mutter to myself under my breath.

“Hmm?” Snow asks.

“Oh, nothing. Do continue.”

Simon pushes the offending scone off to the side without wrapping it up and pulls another basket towards his seat. He reads off the number, waits to see me write it on my data sheet and then places it pointedly back in the basket. Terrific, he’s already getting peevish, and we’ve only just begun…

Again, he hefts the scone, he sniffs it, he inspects it from all angles. He takes a bite and doesn’t immediately react. I think maybe this one is going to be OK. I can’t remember where it’s from (the rock ‘n roll cafe maybe?) Then Simon smacks his lips in an exaggerated way and makes a face.

“This one’s got bad mouthfeel. It’s light enough. And they’ve put a little salt and sugar in it. But, I think that’s just to hide…” He takes another bite and swallows. “It’s not buttery,” he says to me like it’s a criminal accusation.

“Some of the scones are from vegan cafes,” I tell him, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “I haven’t run the numbers, but they may turn out to be better for your cholesterol.”

“Baz…” Simon groans and rubs at his neck. “Scones are supposed to be buttery! It’s like their defining characteristic.”

I give him a weak smile and an apologetic shrug. “Rating?”

“Four out of five,” he mutters. “But only because I gave that flavourless one a three. I don’t think it had butter in it either, now that I think about it...”

“Why don’t we sip some tea to cleanse your palette,” I suggest.

“Where did you get these things anyway?” Simon asks before taking a gulp of tea and swishing it around in his mouth.

“I had some help,” I tell him. The incredulous look he gives me makes me laugh. “You can blame my little sister and my friend Agatha if they’re all terrible.”

“Sure, throw your friends and relations under the bus,” he teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert here?”

“You wouldn’t defend my sister if you’d met her, Snow. She’s an utter menace.”

“What about poor Agatha?”

“Don’t let her hear you call her that. Agatha does not need or even want a champion. She could break your leg like a matchstick all on her own.”

“Baz, I’m starting to worry about you. Do you know any nice people?”

“Of course I do.” I brush him off without offering any concrete examples. I can’t very well cite him.

“I don’t believe you,” Snow says, eyeing me suspiciously. “You know what I think?”

I’m about to make my standard quip about him thinking but he cuts me off.

“I think it’s these miserable excuses for scones turning them into miserable excuses for humans. What these people need is some butter.”

I suppress a chuckle and push another basket across the counter at him.

“Easy now…we still have plenty of contenders.”

SIMON

I’m no longer excited to see what’s in each napkin, but I haven’t given up all hope. There has to be at least one decent scone here. I pull back the cloth one corner at a time and snort when the contents are revealed.

“Baz, you’ve got to be kidding me. This thing looks like some crazy bird lady made it to put out at her feeder.”

“I admit,” Baz grimaces, “it should perhaps be judged in a separate class.”

“Yeah, by a separate panel of judges – bird judges. There’s a starling who comes to my neighbour’s feeder who really sucks down the seed. We should get him to weigh in.”

Baz sighs. “Let’s just move on, shall we?”

I push the basket with the bird cake off to the side and survey the counter warily. I stretch clear across the counter and drag a basket towards me. I unwrap the scone without much enthusiasm but it actually looks sort-of normal. A little heavy maybe…

I take a small bite and find my teeth struggling to separate the bite from the rest of the scone. I pull with my hand to compensate and begin chewing, hoping that at least the flavour will make up for how tough it is. It doesn’t.

“How can you think this is a good scone?!” I wail. “This scone is tough! Not soft. Not tender. It’s like pizza crust!”

I grab another basket.

“This doesn’t even look like a scone!” I shout. “This thing is full of weird shit and caked in icing! Probably to cover up how awful it tastes!”

I start grabbing at all the remaining baskets, dumping the scones out of their napkins.

“This whole counter is covered in scones and all of them are rubbish! What are we even doing here, Baz? Scones aren’t supposed to be good for you! They’re supposed to taste good!”

Chapter Text

“This whole counter is covered in scones and all of them are rubbish! What are we even doing here, Baz? Scones aren’t supposed to be good for you! They’re supposed to taste good!”

BAZ

I’m so stupid. This has been an unmitigated disaster. If I don’t scream right now, I’m going to cry. So I do scream.

“I spent my entire day yesterday gathering these scones for you!”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, Baz,” Simon huffs. “I’m sorry if—”

“No. You’re right,” I spit, cutting him off. “It was a waste of time. I never should have gone to this much trouble for a client.”

Simon looks mortally wounded (Good. Let him hurt.)

“Well, maybe I don’t want to be your client anymore!” he shouts back.

What? I stare at him blankly.

I’m stunned. And gutted. And furious. After all we’ve been through? How can he just…

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Simon sets his jaw and raises his chin. He looks dead serious.

“You’re just going to call everything off?” I murmur in a rising panic.

Simon’s mouth is a tight trembling line but his gaze doesn’t waver.

“Because you’re a whiny baby throwing a tantrum about some fucking scones?!”

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe him. I’m livid with rage and heartbreak. My fangs are going to pop if I’m not careful.

“Fuck you, Baz! I didn’t ask for this!” Simon shouts. His curled hands are beating at the air, his chest is rising and falling with the force of his words.

My mind flashes to the photos I’ve seen of him charging with sword in hand and wings unfurled behind him. He’s stunning in his fury. But I don’t care anymore. I march into my living room and point at the door.

“Get out,” I tell him.

He freezes as he registers what I mean, then deflates and trails along behind me.

“Baz…” He reaches a hand out to me with pleading eyes. But I can’t. It was foolish of me to let him in in the first place.

“Get. Out.”

SIMON

Why is he being like this? I bring my hands up and rake them through my hair, tugging until it stings. “I don’t want to!” I yell at his cold, stiff form.

“I don’t care anymore!” he screams back.

How did this go so wrong?

Everything is broken and I don’t know how we got here. I can’t leave. I can’t! What does he mean he doesn’t care? Does he really mean that? What if I never see him again?

I’m so distraught I don’t feel it coming—my wings—they’re about to pop. Panic shoots through me. I can’t lose control. Not here. Not now!

I have to stop them. Baz doesn’t know….He can’t know! Not now. Fuck, he already thinks I’m pathetic enough. I have to stop them—I can’t—

The snap of them unfurling sends Baz dropping to the floor. His back is turned to me and his arms are curled over his head protectively.

I’ve scared him.

“Baz…”

His back tenses and his elbows pinch tighter against his face.

“It’s ok. I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He lets out a choked sob and his whole body is shaking.

“Baz? Please…It’s ok. It’s going to be ok…”

Another sob escapes. His voice is strained and broken when he finally speaks.

“Nothing is ok, Simon. You have to go.”

“You can’t do this to me! You can’t make me leave you here like this,” I plead.

“I said, GO!”

“NO. I’m not leaving until you look at me. I’m serious.”

Baz snarls and lowers his hands to the floor, coiling his body into a crouch. He hisses as he twists his head to look at me over his shoulder. His mouth is full of gleaming white teeth, curling over his taut lips. My heart catches in my throat.

I see the moment when Baz registers my wings. His eyes widen until I can see the whites all around the storming grey middles. My tail chooses this moment to whip loose from my jeans. I don’t think either of us knows what to do. We’re so far off script we might as well be in a different story. One minute we’re starring in a romcom and now we’re stuck in a frame of a stop motion animation. Where do we go from here?

Baz looks like he’s waiting for me to run away. He’s an idiot.

What I want to do is gather him up off the floor and wrap him in my wings. I want to rest my cheek against his head and smooth his hair until he calms down, until he understands how I feel about him.

I think he might bite me if I tried to do that. But he’s crazy if he thinks I’m going anywhere.

BAZ

Simon Snow is standing with arms folded across his chest regarding me intently. His wings fill half my living room. His look was defiant before he saw my fangs. Now, his mouth has fallen open and he looks hungry. He does not look the slightest bit afraid.

His arms drop slowly to his sides and he takes a cautious step forward. It’s enough to send me scrambling to my feet and backing away. I’m trying, and failing, to get my fangs to retract.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss.

My back hits the wall as he continues advancing on me. My mind is racing and I can’t get control of my fangs.

“Wanna hold you,” he says with a shrug. Is he insane?

“That would be completely inappropriate,” I lisp around my teeth.

“Why?” he asks, coming to a stop.

I shut my eyes and bring a hand up to cradle my forehead. A handful of shallow breaths later, I finally manage to pull my fangs back up into my gums.

“Because, I’m a vampire for starters! In case you hadn’t noticed…” I huff.

“So? I have wings coming out of my back! In case you hadn’t noticed...” Simon smirks.

“I could bite you!”

“That would be completely inappropriate,” Simon recites in a surprisingly accurate imitation of my clipped aristocratic accent. (I am grateful that he refrained from mocking my lisp.)

“I meant to say because I’m your doctor,” I amend with a sigh.

“I’d rather you were my boyfriend.”

I scoff because my life is a fucking tragedy. He can’t be serious. But when I meet his eyes, it doesn’t look like he’s joking.

He raises his eyebrows and waits.

What am I going to do with this moron? He’s been headstrong and ornery from day one. I never should have agreed to take him on. None of this should have happened…especially today. Today should never have happened. What the hell was I thinking?

“That’s what I was trying to say before, when everything went to shit,” Simon elaborates.

I open my mouth to try to reason with him but he cuts me off.

“I know you feel the same way Baz—Don’t try and tell me you don’t,” he warns, jabbing a finger at my chest.

I make a stifled squeak like a cornered animal.

“There’s no way you throw tasting parties for all your clients, Baz. Spend hours cooking every week with all your clients. Text with them into the wee hours of the morning and wish them goodnight? It’s laughable that you still claim that’s all we are. I’m not just a client to you, Baz…and I don’t want to be.”

Is it always this hard to swallow?

He’s right of course.

No matter the lengths to which I’ve gone in my attempts to delude myself, I’ve been treating him like my boyfriend for weeks. I’ve never in my life been this close to someone, or cared as much about them as I do Simon. There isn’t a minute of any day that passes when he’s not in my thoughts. All I want to do is talk to him and be with him.

I’m consumed by him.

I love him.

“Simon, I’m an actual monster,” I whisper, my head hung down and my eyes squeezed shut against the pain of the rejection that I’m sure is coming. He can’t still want me after today. He’s going to change his mind once the adrenaline wears off.

It’s quiet for a beat before I feel a twining caress on my calf. I open my eyes to find Simon’s tail gently winding itself around my leg. It’s a comforting and not completely unfamiliar sensation. I’m sifting through my memories, trying to place it—

At Ebb’s…When we were meeting once…I didn’t know what to make of it at the time…Could it mean?

I raise my eyes to meet Simon’s gaze. He’s smiling at me fondly.

“I know, Baz,” he says. “We match.”

The tail gives a tug that almost makes me stumble and Simon huffs and gestures at it in annoyance.

“Apparently the tail figures things out before I do. Or so I’ve been told…”

I allow myself a small smile. My ears feel strangely warm.

“Can I hold you now?” Simon asks again.

I really shouldn’t, but…

“I think—I think that would be ok,” I find myself saying. “For a moment or two. It’s been quite a day after all. Anyone would need a hug. A medical professional can’t be completely unfeeling. You couldn’t provide quality care if you were incapable of showing compassion. Vulnerability is—”

I’m babbling and gesturing erratically , looking everywhere but into Simon’s face. He catches hold of me and gathers me into his chest.

My arms get pinned against my sides and I drop my chin helplessly onto his shoulder. My mind is still racing at full tilt, orbiting high above my body. I feel like the least huggable person in the world.

Simon’s cheek comes to rest against the side of my head and I draw a shaky breath, my rib cage pressing tight against the band of his arms. His fingers trail through my hair. I focus on filling my lungs with air, again and again and again.

With every breath out, I sink a little further into his embrace. He’s so warm. I breathe until I come back down into my body. I breathe until my arms feel real enough to bend and make their way up Simon’s back. When they find purchase, latching on to the juncture where his wings emerge, I lean my weight into it.

Simon inhales sharply when I touch him there and I worry I’ve ruined the moment. I start to pull away. How could I be so stupid? I would hate it if someone touched my fangs, calling attention to my shameful secret. But instead, his arms grip me tighter. His cheek presses into me as he smiles and nudges his nose deeper into my hair. His wings wrap around and rest against my back, comfortably heavy like a quilt.

He pets my hair and hums in my ear. I breathe his scent and listen to his heart beat until I become acutely aware of the passage of time. It’s been far more than a moment or two.

I’m supposed to be worried about this. It’s supposed to be a problem (for so many reasons). I’m not sure that I do care that this has become an embrace, not a hug, or that I’ve lingered here for far too long. But I’m supposed to care. I am someone who endeavours to do what’s expected of me (miraculous romantic revelations notwithstanding). So I drag myself back until I’m standing with my hands on Simon’s sides.

“Simon,” I tell him resolutely. “I can’t date you while I’m your nutritionist.”

SIMON

I knew he was going to say that.

It sucks.

It sucks a lot.

My tail loosens its grip on Baz’s leg and falls in a coil around his ankle. I don’t blame it. I feel like sulking too. It hurts. But it hurts a bit less than I thought it would. Maybe because everything is out in the open now.

I think now maybe I can wait.

I think he’ll be waiting too.

“I don’t want another nutritionist,” I grumble.

He gives me a satisfied smirk. For the first time today he’s almost back to his normal, arrogant self.

“Good,” he says, taking a step back and clapping his hands together. “Because I like to finish what I start.”

I groan, then ask him, “Does that apply to flirty text conversations too?”

“Of course it does,” he smirks. “That is—if—” His confidence falters a bit. “If that's still something you want, once our professional business has come to a close.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Baz,” I huff. “I’ll be counting down the days until I can kiss you.”

His eyes widen and his back stiffens. He’s about to pull one of his bait and switch manoeuvres, I can just tell. But I’m not having it.

“And you better remember what we talked about—No ghosting me! I expect the same level of service I’ve been getting so far: Weekly cooking dates, late-night confessions and goodnight texts. You got it?”

Baz throws his eyes skyward and groans. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Nope. I was already a monster when I met you. Speaking of which…are we going to talk about any of that?”

Baz pretends to think, tapping a finger against those lips that I’m dying to kiss.

“Let’s save it for the late night confessions, shall we?” he drawls.

“Deal,” I say, offering Baz my hand.

He shakes it distractedly as he runs his eyes over the carnage in the kitchen.

“I’d been hoping to identify one or two commercially available scones you could treat yourself to in lieu of going to Ebb’s every day…”

My mouth flies open in outrage. If I’d known that was what this was all about, I never would have been on board.

“Don’t look at me like that Simon,” Baz sighs. “I know how you feel about Ebb and her scones. But you would not believe how rich her recipe is. They’re the fattiest scones in all of England! It’s literally killing you to eat them in the quantities you do.”

Baz looks distraught. I feel a bit bad when I see how worried he is about me.

“I’m sorry Baz…I’ve been a real git about this. I know you’re just trying to help.” I glance back toward the counter littered with baskets. “You’re right, you know.”

“Of course I am,” Baz retorts with a sniff.

“There’s no way I’d want to eat more than one of any of those scones.”

“Nevermind,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “We’re moving on to Plan B.”

“You bought two dozen scones and you still had a Plan B?”

“I always have a Plan B, Snow.”

How is it so adorable that he’s such a prat? It makes me want to get my hands on him again…

“I took notes about the words you used when you were complaining about the scones you sampled, particularly the good qualities they were all apparently lacking. I have most of the recipes, including Ebb’s, and I will use them to create a lower cholesterol scone that will meet even your refined expectations.”

He finishes his little speech and I grin at him.

“Snow, you’re smirking. Do you doubt me?”

“Nah. I know how determined you can be. It’s cute. Can I help?”

“I prefer to work in secrecy.”

“Aw, come on…We could bake together!”

“No, we can not. It’s going to take a lot of trial and error to perfect the recipe.”

“You think I’ll be too distracting,” I grumble.

He’s blushing (I know I’m right). I pout. Baz sighs.

“Fine, you nightmare. We can bake them together…after I get the recipe worked out.”

I grin. He looks like I’m the biggest pain in the arse he’s ever had the misfortune of dealing with.

“Go home and make something healthy for dinner, Snow. I’ll be in touch.”

BAZ

“And I’ll text you when I get home later,” Simon tells me with what could only be described as a fond smile.

He doesn’t make a move to go.

I shift my weight uncomfortably and notice his tail coiling tighter around my ankle. I glance up at Simon and he shrugs.

“Looks like someone doesn’t want to go home,” I observe, looking archly at the tail.

“Yup. I’m aware of that,” Simon replies.

“Is it going to throw a tantrum?”

“Always a possibility.”

“What about the wings? Are they easier to manage?”

“The wings usually put themselves away when they’re done.”

“What does that mean?” I hope he doesn’t mind my curiosity.

“Right now? I’m not sure,” Simon says, rubbing at his neck. “I was gonna give ‘em a minute. It doesn’t really help if I lose my cool.”

“Is that what happened? Did they come out because we were fighting?”

Simon shrugs and looks at his feet.

I take the opportunity to look at his wings. Really look at them. He’s moving them around a bit like he’s trying to nudge them towards wrapping things up. The way you might stretch your arms over your head, push your chair back from the table or take a step towards the exit if you were trying to signal to your partner that you were ready to leave a dull dinner party. I smile as I watch him.

I’ve spent more hours than I’d care to admit looking at pictures of Simon’s wings. I can’t believe they’re real. I check Penny’s Instagram daily to see if there are any new photos of Simon. The ones with the wings are my favourites. They’re a natural extension of Simon’s whole personality, fiery and fierce and beautiful. Today I learned that they can also be gentle, protective.

Simon growls in frustration. His wings stretch to fill the room and beat the air. He looks up worriedly.

“I can’t really control them when I get upset,” he admits. “I’m sorry if I’ve scared you. They scare me sometimes.”

I’m sure he thinks he’s overstayed his welcome. He probably feels like a freak. He couldn’t be more wrong.

“Don’t be daft, Snow. They’re every bit as ridiculous as you are. Why would I be scared? Did you forget that you’re speaking to a dread creature of the night? Hmm?”

Simon chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. He’s looking deliciously flushed and spotty. In a moment of weakness I say what I’m actually thinking.

“They’re magnificent, Simon. I feel lucky to have had the chance to see them in person.”

I didn’t mean to let that last bit slip. He gives me a puzzled look and I’m already plotting how I’ll explain it away when the air around him begins to shimmer. The surface of his wings ripples almost as if the individual scales that cover them are rearranging themselves. I watch mesmerised as the wings grow smaller and smaller until, in the space of a moment, they’re gone.

I blink my eyes a few times, staring at the space they once occupied. When I finally look back at Simon’s face, he’s looking pleased with himself.

“Well, guess I’ll be going,” he announces.

My heart seizes. I actually never want him to leave. I shake my foot to remind him of his tail. The tail coils tighter. We make a good team.

“Not so fast…” I sing-song.

“What? Oh. Yeah…I’m just gonna shove the tail down the leg of my jeans. There’s no way I’m going to get it to behave. It’s worse than a toddler sometimes.”

Simon starts to tug on the tail but it won’t let go. I’m secretly delighted, but it’s beneath my dignity to be a willing participant in a bout of tug of war. I reach down to coax the tail free. It releases its grip on my leg without too much fuss, but twines around my arm for a moment instead before allowing Simon to begin reeling it in.

The scales are surprisingly warm and rough as they slide along my forearm. The tail grips my wrist, the drag of scales slowing Simon’s progress at retrieving it. Without thinking, I curl my fingers to stroke the last little bit of tail as it goes. I end up catching the spade-shaped tip in my palm. It’s pulsing and hot.

Simon looks at me with eyes wide. I can hear his heart hammering. I drop the tail in a panic and stride quickly across the room to open the door.

“Better make your break now, Snow. While you still can.”

“Right. I’ll…um…text you later…like I said. Um. Bye.”

I close the door promptly and stand there until I hear the downstairs door swing closed. Then I turn and slide down the door until my bum hits the floor and my legs splay out in front of me.

It’s nearly an hour before I pick myself up off the floor and head towards the shower. I don’t even bother with the mess in the kitchen. After my shower, I briefly heat up some blood and then I head straight to bed without dinner.

There’s a cacophony of thoughts that I’m struggling to process running through my head…

Simon Snow was in my flat…he has a tail…Simon Snow wants to be my boyfriend…he knows I’m a vampire and he still wants to kiss me…I touched Simon’s wings which are real…and I stroked his tail…he says he’s waiting to kiss me…he held me…he saw my fangs…Simon Snow saw my fangs and then asked to hold me…he has a tail…I touched Simon’s tail and it was hot (in my hand, but also maybe for me?)...Simon saw my fangs and he wasn’t scared…He said we match…Simon Snow’s wings are real…his tail is rough…He wants me…even though he knows I’m a monster…

I must fall asleep faster than I expected because, when my phone wakes me up, it’s just after midnight. Simon is texting me (just like he said he would) (he knows I’m a monster).

Scone lover ❤️ (00:04):
hey

Scone lover ❤️ (00:04):
i just wanted you to know

Scone lover ❤️ (00:05):
i didnt know

Me (00:11):
I have no idea what you’re on about.

Me (00:14):
I’m sure there are plenty of things you don’t know.

Scone lover ❤️ (00:16):
i see ur back to your jolly old self

Me (00:16):
I’m fairly predictable.

Scone lover ❤️ (00:18):
i guess ur not upset then

Me (00:18):
I am not upset, no.

Me (00:24):
Why would I be upset?

Scone lover ❤️ (00:25):
i didnt know itd be like that

Scone lover ❤️ (00:25):
with my tail

Scone lover ❤️ (00:26):
i didnt know itd be so

Scone lover ❤️ (00:29):
fuck

Scone lover ❤️ (00:29):
i cant write this

Scone lover ❤️ (00:29):
its too embarrassing

Me (00:32):
I was the one who was out of line, Snow.

Me (00:33):
If you’ll accept my apology, we don’t ever have to speak of it again.

Scone lover ❤️ (00:35):
ur not mad?

Me (00:35):
I’m not mad.

Scone lover ❤️ (00:35):
ok good

Scone lover ❤️ (00:36):
it was weird though right?

Me (00:37):
What did I just say?

Scone lover ❤️ (00:37):
but wasnt it?

Me (00:40):
I don’t know, Snow. It’s not really my area of expertise.

Me (00:41):
I do know someone who might have some answers for you. I could put you in touch with her if you like.

Scone lover ❤️ (00:42):
i dont even want to know…

Scone lover ❤️ (00:44):
wait what do u even mean?

Scone lover ❤️ (00:45):
u know i cant talk to anyone about my extra parts right?

Me (00:46):
Of course I know that. And I can’t share anything I learn about you as my patient without your consent, Simon. I want to be crystal clear about that.

Me (00:47):
I wouldn’t even have suggested it except…Margaret’s not just anyone.

Me (00:47):
She’s a dragon, actually.

Scone lover ❤️ (00:48):
a dragon

Scone lover ❤️ (00:48):
like with wings and a tail?

Me (00:49):
Presumably. I’ve only ever seen her humanoid form.

Scone lover ❤️ (00:49):
ur shitting me

Me (00:50):
I am not. Ebb knows her.

Me (00:52):
Actually…Simon? Does Ebb know about you?

Scone lover ❤️ (00:52):
ebb n penny are the only ones who know

Scone lover ❤️ (00:52):
and now u

Scone lover ❤️ (00:54):
why?

Me (00:55):
I met up with Margaret at Ebb’s recently and it was weird. I honestly always struggle to follow what Margaret is talking about, but this time was especially strange.

Me (00:56):
I didn’t realise they knew each other. But Ebb seems to know about Margaret. And Ebb talked about you. To me. But also like she knew Margaret was listening.

Scone lover ❤️ (01:01):
what are u saying baz?

Me (01:02):
I’m not sure. Maybe I’m imagining things. Being around Margaret does that to me. It’s probably nothing.

Scone lover ❤️ (01:02):
doesnt sound like nothing

Scone lover ❤️ (01:02):
why were they talking about me?

Me (01:05):
I guess I was just wondering if maybe Margaret already knows about you? Not because Ebb broke your trust or anything. Margaret has extremely powerful magic. She operates on a different plane from the rest of us. And she makes it her business to look out for other creatures.

Me (01:17):
You OK Snow?

Scone lover ❤️ (01:20):
guess i just need some time to think

Scone lover ❤️ (01:20):
its a lot u know?

Me (01:21):
It is.

Me (01:21):
You can bring it up again anytime.

Scone lover ❤️ (01:22):
thanks

Scone lover ❤️ (01:25):
never really thought of myself as a creature until now

Scone lover ❤️ (01:26):
is that what we are?

Me (01:27):
It would appear that way.

Scone lover ❤️ (01:29):
i dont know how it is with vampires

Scone lover ❤️ (01:29):
have you always known other creatures? other vampires?

Me (01:33):
I don’t know any other vampires.

Scone lover ❤️ (01:33):
how does that work?

Me (01:34):
Not particularly well.

Scone lover ❤️ (01:34):
i mean were you born a vampire or were you turned?

Me (01:35):
Another time, Snow. I’m off to bed. Goodnight.

Scone lover ❤️ (01:36):
sorry baz i didnt mean to pry

Scone lover ❤️ (01:37):
im ready to listen if you ever want to talk

Scone lover ❤️ (01:38):
sweet dreams

Me (01:38):
Sweet dreams, Simon.

Chapter Text

BAZ

After spending the morning yesterday cleaning up the mess from the Great Scone Debacle, I took the rest of the day as a well-deserved mental health break. I spent most of my time daydreaming about Simon. Sue me.

My thoughts weren't even punctuated by my usual bouts of anxiety and self-loathing. (Clearly my mind was overtaxed and unwell and I needed to recuperate.)

I awoke this morning from a night of vivid, convoluted dreams, feeling stirred up and hungover with an ache in my jaw. That was more like it. I knew what to do with that. I threw off my covers and headed for my wardrobe to begin my morning routine.

I am now ready to tackle creating my very own improved scone recipe for Simon.

It’s hotter than Hades in my flat when I go to preheat the oven. Britain is poised to break its record for hottest day ever endured. At least that we know of. (I’m not sure I would have the wherewithal to record anything for posterity if it were any hotter than it currently is.)

Which is why it’s insane that I’m even considering a bake-a-thon at this moment. Any reasonable person would take a rain check. That I am foolheartedly marching ahead with this plan which involves complex maths, precision, deductive reasoning, forming any thoughts at all…

Well, it’s further proof (that nobody needed) of how utterly besotted I am with Simon Snow. It’s absurd and embarrassing and I will drop dead in my kitchen from heat stroke before anyone will be able to stop me.

The first step before embarking on any attempt to alter a classic recipe is to master the original. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that I’ve never baked a scone myself. Vera used to get up early every weekday morning when I was a boy to produce a steaming hot batch for the breakfast table.

I may not have been entirely truthful with Snow when I feigned ignorance about this most important of topics. I missed Vera’s scones when I went away to boarding school more than anything, aside from her actual person. I can’t say for certain that they’re better than Ebb’s (memory is a fickle thing) but they’re certainly stiff competition.

Vera sent me a pic of her old stained recipe card right away when I asked for it (but not before giving me a guilt trip about when I’d be home to sample the real thing). She also sent several screenfuls of instructions about technique. Apparently that’s where the magic happens.

Rule number one (and two) (and five) (and thirteen) is to keep the butter cold. I glance at the thermometer on the digital clock and grimace when I see it reads 30 degrees C. The butter, which I had gotten out of the fridge, is already sweating. I hasten to put it in the freezer (a tip from Vera) and lean my head in for a moment as well, resting it on a bag of frozen peas.

I follow all of Vera’s instructions to the letter. When I get to the part about working the butter quickly into the flour using my fingertips, I congratulate myself that finally my naturally cold vampire skin is good for something!

I slip the tray into the oven, set the timer and pour myself a glass of iced tea before retreating to the living room to wait. I resist the urge to turn on the oven light and watch the scones bake. Only a masochist would willingly spend time in the same room as a 225 degree oven on a day like today.

When the timer beeps, I open the door and peer in at the scones. They are not the lovely golden colour I remember. I close the door and give them a couple more minutes, after which I take them out to cool. They remain an unappetizing colour on top, even though their bottoms are verging on burnt. They also don’t appear to have risen very much.

Hrmph.

🌡️ 🌡️ 🌡️

Light and airy

After some internet research and a trip to Borough Kitchen Cook Shop to pick up an oven thermometer, I determine that my oven’s temperature gauge is wildly incorrect. I’ll need to phone the serviceman eventually, but for now, I crank the thermostat up to 275.

The next batch rises beautifully and browns evenly. They are…really good. I’m flooded with memories of piling still-warm scones with mountains of clotted cream and generous spoonfuls of jam. The way the tender insides would melt on your tongue after your teeth pierced the flaky outer crust.

Simon eats his scones slathered with butter. So, I eat the second one like that. It’s a little plain without the jam since I haven’t added the cherries yet. But still quite good. I think of Snow with butter dribbling down his chin (what a numpty). I’ll need to reduce the butter in the recipe as much as possible to compensate for how much he puts on top when he eats them.

I considered switching to vegetable fat instead of butter, but decided against it in the end. Not only would Snow probably dismember me if I tried it, but the more I looked into it, the less convinced I became that it was absolutely necessary.

There’s no arguing that butter isn’t made entirely of saturated fat. But cutting HDL fats is just one piece of the cholesterol puzzle. Butter does have more vitamins and minerals than most vegetable fats. And the better tasting sources of vegetable oil have their own questionable dietary and environmental impacts. Given Snow’s strong preference (and the fact that I need him to choose my scones over Ebb’s), I’m going to stick with butter and just cut it as much as I can. Wholemeal flour is actually going to be my biggest weapon here.

Tomorrow I’ll begin the process of tinkering with the recipe. I’ve learned from past endeavours to develop new recipes that I have to pace myself. I have a bit of an obsessive personality and I’ll drive myself to distraction if I don’t take breaks.

SIMON

I called in sick to work yesterday. Who could blame me after the day I had on Sunday? I mean every single thing that happened on Sunday was overwhelming. And there were so many things…

I got takeaway on my way home from Baz’s (I knew I didn’t have it in me to make something). I felt like I’d fallen from a great height, flat onto my back. I was bone-tired, bruised and stunned. But also jumped up on adrenaline. My heart was still knocking noticeably in my chest, my breath still shallow.

Penny was in her room, talking on the phone when I got home. Normally I would knock and wave ‘hi’ just to let her know I was back. But I didn’t really feel up to her scrutiny, so I slipped into my room with my food and closed the door.

As I ate my takeaway dinner, I reviewed my day.

It all started with the scones—what a disaster! I can’t believe I acted like such an ungrateful bastard. But also, I can’t believe Baz thought I would like any of those scones!

Is that seriously what he thinks I should be eating? If it is, that’s gonna be really hard to swallow (literally). But I’d do it for him. I’d try at least. It was real sweet of Baz to have gone to all that trouble, just for me.

Baz…secret softie, dread creature of the night. I crack a smile just thinking about him. How he felt in my arms (once he leaned in) (once he was holding me back). His hair was so soft. He smelled so good. I can’t believe he has fangs…so wicked!

He didn’t argue with me when I accused him of liking me back. He let me hug him. He blushed when I told him I was counting down the days until I could kiss him. He said he wanted to finish what we’ve started.

But then I went and made it all weird with whatever happened with my tail.

What the fuck was that?!

It’s just—when the scales on my tail were dragging across Baz’s skin… and then—when he grabbed hold of the spade… It felt—it felt…it felt—good. So good.

I had no idea. I didn’t know that was a thing. I just stood there watching it happen. Watching Baz touch me. He liked it too, I could tell.

But he didn’t know. He didn't know what it was doing to me. When he realised, he dropped my tail like it had burnt him.

I felt like some sort of freak (I still do).

I tried to text Baz about it later. I tried to apologise for being so weird. He said it was no big deal, that we didn’t need to get into it. Then, instead of dropping it, he said maybe his dragon friend could explain it to me. And, by the way, maybe she knew about me already…

That was more than I could handle.

So yeah. I spent Monday on the sofa playing FIFA. Sue me.

I’m back at work today and things are hectic, as usual. I hadn’t really realised how much I needed that day off yesterday. I sometimes forget to take time for myself. But I wanted to come in today. I’m taking that kid Edwards to Elite Kits to see if we can score some free gear for him. I hope Baz wasn’t totally offbase about this guy Dev maybe sponsoring Edwards so he can join the local club.

Edwards is standing on the opposite side of the train from me. He’s leaning against the doors, trying to look tough. Edwards has his pride, like Baz. He doesn’t like to let the world see what he’s feeling. But he can’t make his face go completely smooth like Baz can. His features are still tighter than usual, even though he’s managed to make his eyes look a little dead.

I’m shit at hiding how I feel. I’m nervous that this plan isn’t going to work. But I’m trying to get in character for Edwards’ sake. It’s not really helping that, even as an adult with a job, I probably couldn’t afford to buy anything from this shop. I don’t frequent this part of town.

The manager better not pull any bullshit. Sports are meant to bring people together, right? A bloke can’t run a sports shop and be all rude to his potential customers, can he?

I catch Edwards’ eye when we’re getting close to our stop and jerk my chin toward the doors. When we step off the train, Edwards slips his hands in his pockets and glances at me warily out of the corner of his eye as he waits for me to make a move. I clap him on the back and his shoulders visibly relax.

“Come on, mate. I think it’s this way.”

We fight our way through the after-work crowds until we’re standing in front of the shop’s window display. It spans two storefronts and everything in the windows is top of the line, name brand gear. Edwards has forgotten to stay cool. He’s standing with mouth open and eyes wide. I can see the store manager watching us through the window.

“Should we go inside?”

Edwards doesn’t move or tear his gaze from the boots in front of him. I can barely make it out over the noise of the street when he speaks.

“Think it’ll work Mr. Snow?”

I want it to. Baz said the kid himself will sell it. I think he’s right. I just have to give him hope and get out of the way.

“Yeah,” I assure him with a small, mischievous nod. “Let’s go get you kitted out,” I add with a wink.

I let Edwards push open the door and go in first. He heads straight for the football aisle and starts running his fingers over all the boots. The manager is still watching us. I phoned him before bringing it up with Edwards. He said we should come in and he’d see what he could do. Nothing for it but to go introduce myself now before things get awkward.

“Hey. I’m Simon. I called you earlier…” I start off, reaching my hand out.

He tilts his head and gives me an odd look as he shakes my hand.

“...‘Bout getting my star player kitted out?”

The manager nods as he seems to remember our phone call.

“Right. I know you, mate.”

He turns to Edwards and then glances back in my direction. I swear he gives me a once-over and then his mouth curls up in a smirk. What the fuck? He can just keep his opinions about me to himself.

“What side does he play for?” he asks, jutting his chin in Edwards’ direction.

Edwards spins on his heel. I thought he was caught up in looking at the gear but I was wrong. He’s on this.

“I don’t have a side mister. Can’t join up without boots, now can I?”

The manager nods to that and goes on with his interrogation.

“How long you been playing?”

“Since I was old enough to leave the yard,” Edwards says with a dismissive shrug and a glare at me like it was my fault or something. “Been shootin’ goals at the wall since I could walk.”

“What position?”

“Striker,” Edwards says, lifting his chin up and standing straighter. “Got four goals in my last match. I ain’t met a keeper yet that can stop me.”

I’m not sure bragging is the best way to go here, but the manager just smiles (and I don’t think it’s in a mean way).

“What would you say to wearing my shop’s name on your back while you’re sinking all those goals?”

I’m worried Edwards isn’t going to show the proper gratitude, but I’m wrong. As soon as he hears that, all the bravado drops away and his face splits into the widest grin I’ve ever seen.

“For real, mister?”

The manager nods, still smiling.

“Aw shit! That’s ace! That’s fucking sick!”

The manager and I glance at one another and we both raise our eyebrows at Edwards’ language. He backtracks immediately.

“I mean…that’s cool…thanks. Um, thank you. I promise I’ll do you proud,” he smooths his hands over his clothes and I'm momentarily flooded with memories of Davy's scrutiny. “I clean up good when I put my mind to it.”

The manager softens and I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding.

“That’s right, mate. With my name on your back, you’re going to walk tall. Come on, let’s see what we have in your size.”

I leave the manager and Edwards alone to do their business. The kids I work with relish any individual attention they can get from an adult. It’s always tinged with wariness, but they soak it up like a sponge, even if it doesn’t look like it. There’s no doubt about it now though. Edwards is vibrating with excitement, now that he knows this is actually happening.

I pull out my phone to let Baz know while I wait.

Me (17:47):
u were right

Dr. Baz ❤️ (17:49):
That’s hardly a surprise.

Me (17:49):
wanker

Dr. Baz ❤️ (17:52):
Are you going to tell me what I was right about?

Me (17:52):
about posh twats

Dr. Baz ❤️ (17:53):
Takes one to know one 😉

Me (17:53):
is that an emoji?

Me (17:53):
never thought id live to see that

Dr. Baz ❤️ (17:54):
I’m perfectly capable of growth. Now tell me about how right I am.

Me (17:54):
im at your sports shop

Me (17:54):
waiting for edwards to pick out his kit

Me (17:55):
your mates alright

Dr. Baz ❤️ (17:55):
He is not my mate. But I’m happy to hear he did the right thing.

Dr. Baz ❤️ (17:58):
Of course that’s hardly a surprise. One look at you and *anyone* could see you need help.

Me (17:59):
dont think he was impressed with me tbh

Me (17:59):
gave me a funny look

Dr. Baz ❤️ (17:59):
Well that’s rude of him. That’s no way to run a business.

Me (18:02):
dunnit really matter

Me (18:03):
he and edwards are hitting it off

Me (18:03):
its kinda cute

Me (18:03):
hard to tell whos more excited him or edwards

Dr. Baz ❤️ (18:04):
Dev is a buffoon.

I snort just as Dev comes back over to the counter with Edwards. He’s carrying a shoe box and Edwards has his hands full of shin guards and what must be his practice kit. Dev glances at my phone before giving me another knowing smirk. What is his problem?

“It’ll take a few weeks for me to get that kit printed once I know your side’s colours. But I should have it before the official season starts. I’ll give Simon here a call when it comes in.”

Edwards looks like he might pass out from overstimulation. I think he’s finally realising the enormity of it all. It’s a lot of pressure for a kid, to be honest. I should probably take it from here.

“I’ll give the club manager a call in the morning,” I tell Dev. “I’m hoping there’s some scholarship money, but if not, I’ve got a donor who’s willing to cover the dues.”

Dev looks Edwards in the eye.

“A’ight. Get yourself trained up and give ‘em hell kid. Let me know when your first match is. I’ll be there.”

Edwards nods his head resolutely. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you Mr. Grimm. I really appreciate it,” I say, extending my hand for another shake.

But Dev steps around the counter to clap me on the back instead.

“Just Dev is fine, mate. Anything for Baz’s boy,” he adds with a wink.

Wait, what?

Edwards is already halfway out the door and I have no choice but to follow him. I imagine he’s eager to get back to the home and show the other kids his haul.

“Catch you later, Simon,” Dev calls after us. I swear I can hear him laughing as we step out onto the noisy street. Once we’re on the train, I take out my phone.

Me (18:23):
baz’s boy?

Dr. Baz ❤️ (18:25):
Excuse me?

Me (18:25):
thats what dev called me

Me (18:25):
thought u said u didnt know him

Dr. Baz ❤️ (18:27):
I said he’s not my ‘mate’.

Me (18:27):
then y does he think im ur boyfriend???

Me (18:31):
BAZ!

Dr. Baz ❤️ (18:32):
He’s not my mate, he’s my cousin.

Me (18:32):
and u told him im ur boyfriend?

Dr. Baz ❤️ (18:33):
I did nothing of the sort. You know where I stand on the matter.

Me (18:34):
i wudnt mind u know

Me (18:34):
being ur boyfriend

Me (18:34):
having u gossip with ur cousin about me 😉

Me (18:36):
sounds nice actually

Dr. Baz ❤️ (18:36):
I have to go. My idiot cousin is blowing up my phone. I need to set some things straight.

Me (18:37):
well you know where i stand on the matter 😘 ⏳

Chapter Text

BAZ

Buttery

For the next batch of scones I cut the butter substantially and replace the cream with nonfat yoghurt. I had sent for the cherries by mail and they finally arrived this morning. I add some to my dough, striving to come as close to perfection as possible.

The resulting scones are quite good. Perhaps even more tender than Vera’s because of the effects of the yoghurt. Most importantly, I can still taste the butter. They could maybe use a touch more sugar to offset the sour of the cherries (I remember Simon commenting on the salt and sugar in the rock n’ roll scone).

I think this recipe is nearly in the bag. I just have to head to the shops and pick up some wholemeal flour. That’s my last modification. It will more than quadruple the fibre in the recipe. A high fibre diet is essential for lowering cholesterol. The fibre helps carry away excess fats before they can be absorbed by the bloodstream.

Tomorrow, I get to see Simon for our weekly meeting. I’ve always looked forward to seeing him each week. But this week the wait has been almost unbearable. I never should have had him over to my flat. Now that I’ve had him in my home, I imagine him around every corner. I’m already scheming about how to get him to come back.

Me (14:33):
Any chance you want to come to mine for our meeting tomorrow?

Me (14:33):
We could order in that diavolo pizza you’ve been nagging me about.

Scone lover ❤️ (14:36):
baz…

Scone lover ❤️ (14:36):
are you asking me on a date?

Me (14:37):
I’m asking if you want to eat pizza. Like you asked *me* all those times before.

Scone lover ❤️ (14:38):
hmm…pretty sure i was asking you on a date tbh

Me (14:38):
Well *I’m* asking if you want to eat pizza.

Scone lover ❤️ (14:42):
still sounds like a date…

Scone lover ❤️ (14:42):
wish i could say yes

Scone lover ❤️ (14:42):
i cant tho im sorry

Scone lover ❤️ (14:43):
i have somewhere important to be after our meeting

Me (14:45):
I see how the tables have turned. I’ll do my best to lick my wounds.

Scone lover ❤️ (14:46):
ur so dramatic

Scone lover ❤️ (14:46):
ill see you at Ebbs

⚽⚽⚽

SIMON

I’ve never seen Baz smile this much. I should be watching Edwards, but I can’t stop watching Baz. He’s so cute. I knew he sometimes watched football with his mates. But I didn’t know he was so into it.

When Edwards lands a goal, Baz actually jumps in the air and cheers. I’m grinning, but not at the person I’m supposed to be grinning at. When Baz catches me ogling him instead of Edwards, he widens his eyes and tilts his head in Edwards’ direction.

When Baz cups his hands around his mouth to shout out a cheer, I join in.

“Go Edwards! Wheeooow!”

Edwards turns to give us a double thumbs up. He’s having a blast and I’m so happy for him.

When I called the club, they told me pre-season had already started and we were a little late to join the team. But when I mentioned Dev’s sponsorship, they backed down from that and invited Edwards to drop by the next practice for a try-out. I knew then that things would work out.

There’s no universe where this kid doesn’t deserve to play football. The way he moves on the pitch is like magic. But he’s not a git about it. He doesn’t hog the ball and he knows how to work with his teammates to set up a shot. I can see him making captain someday.

After that first day, Coach made things official. Edwards has been going to practise after school every day since. This is just a low-key, pre-season scrimmage amongst the club members, but I wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

I invited Baz to come along with me on a whim. He’d looked downright disappointed when I told him I had to leave early from our weekly meeting to make the match. I already felt bad about saying no to the pizza date, so I invited him to come along. He was caught off guard at first and acted like he wasn’t gonna come. But when I stood up to leave, he gathered his things and followed me out.

I can’t get over it that he’s here with me. Looking so happy.

The clock is about to run out and I’m pondering my chances of getting Baz to grab dinner with me when Edwards steals the ball. There aren’t a lot of people here watching since it’s just a practice match, but everyone who’s here goes wild as Edwards streaks up the pitch and sinks one last shot before the whistle.

A bunch of his teammates mob him and the ones from the opposing side throw their hands in the air and kick the sod in mock anger. They’re only pretending to be mad. They’re all in the same club after all; they’ll all be on Edwards’ side once the season gets underway.

As the cheering dies down and I stand there watching Edwards with his teammates, my eyes start to well up. I’m just so relieved to see him succeed and be accepted by these kids (most of whom have no idea how fortunate they are). I sniffle a little and turn my head away from Baz to swipe at my face with my sleeve. A moment later I feel Baz’s cool hand grasp my other hand and squeeze.

For the second time in as many days, I’m surprised (and thrilled) that Baz is reaching out. First the pizza date and now with taking my hand. When I look over at him, he’s looking straight ahead, but his face is revealing more than usual: brow creased in concern, lips quirking fondly, cheeks flushed and shy. In this moment, I’m certain I know the answer to the question that’s been plaguing me since that day at Elite Kits…

This is real.

I squeeze his hand back and then move to grab my knapsack. As much as I wish I could eat dinner with Baz, I’m not going to push him. I’m painfully aware that sometimes I’m still that poor kid from the homes, always pushing for more of a good thing while it lasts. Never knowing when to drop it.

I know Baz is outside his comfort zone. He gave me something freely just now when he held my hand. I didn’t have to take it from him. I didn’t even have to ask. I can’t begin to describe how good that feels. We’re building something real between us and that takes time. He’s bending the rules for me and I’m going to try not to be greedy, even though it’s hard for me because I’m worried he’ll take it all away if I don’t hold on with everything I have.

BAZ

I appear to be on a date with Simon Snow. I don’t recall making any conscious decisions to get here, aside from standing up when Simon stood to leave Ebb’s. He cleared our dishes for us and I held his knapsack for him while he put on his coat. Once outside, my feet simply fell into step alongside his.

I followed him all the way to the football match I hadn’t agreed to attend. We watched the kid from Simon’s home (and his teammates) demolish their opponents, we got a bit emotional about it and we held hands.

Now I’m once again trailing along beside him and we’re arguing about which keeper was better as we walk. Simon says the opposing team’s keeper had to work twice as hard because Edwards is relentless. He insists the kid fared pretty well all things considered. I maintain the keeper on Edwards’ team obviously had better technique, he just didn’t have as much of an opportunity to demonstrate it, since his team had control of the ball most of the time.

Simon is walking me back to my car like a perfect gentleman. I’m living a charmed life.

The car park is just up ahead and Simon’s pace is slowing. If this were a real date, I’d lead him to my car and maybe he’d press against my back as I unlocked the door. His arms would circle my waist and his feet would knock into mine. And it’d be all I could do to resist the urge to turn my head and nuzzle into his luscious curls…

Or maybe he’d hang back, uncertain, as I unlocked the car. It wouldn’t be until we stood with the open door between us saying our goodbyes that he would surge forward to plant the briefest kiss to my cheek. He’d blush afterward and toe at the ground with his sneaker before risking a smile at me from under his stubby eyelashes. And I would die a thousand deaths just looking at him…

I’m teetering on the edge of allowing it to happen. All of it. Any of it.

Why would I have even the slightest moment of hesitation? This is everything I want. Everything I thought I could never have—

I stop short. “Well, that was a pleasant diversion,” I announce.

Simon stops as well and turns back to face me, a smirk on his lips. “A pleasant diversion?”

“Yes, I don’t get out to see live matches very often,” I explain, doubling down on my pathetic attempt at indifference. Simon snorts. “What’s so funny?” I demand.

“You,” Simon replies, eyes twinkling.

Damn him. I’ve got to get out of here. “That’s me just over there. I’ll see you next week.”

“Baz, wait!” Simon whines as I make to leave. “Can we just—not?”

“Not what? I’m not doing anything. I said I was leaving…”

Simon huffs. “Not get all weird, for once. Come get pizza with me.”

Oh shit.

“I’m afraid I can’t.” I say, glancing at my watch for no earthly reason. “I have some errands to run.” Lies, it’s all lies.

Simon’s smile fades and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “OK. Sure,” he says. “That’s cool.”

It doesn’t look ‘cool’. It doesn’t feel cool. There’s a lump in my throat as I nod and head to my car.

Me (19:44):
[photo attached]

Scone lover ❤️ (19:45):
thats a sad looking dinner mate

Scone lover ❤️ (19:46):
[photo attached]

Me (19:46):
Big words from a man eating a grab-and-go sandwich.

Scone lover ❤️ (19:51):
this is stupid

Scone lover ❤️ (19:51):
y arent we eating pizza together?

Me (19:53):
I had other things I had to do.

Me (19:54):
Besides, I can hardly be held responsible for this. I distinctly recall you declining my invitation to eat pizza with me today.

Scone lover ❤️ (19:55):
i cudnt do it earlier!

Scone lover ❤️ (19:55):
but we cudve gone after the match

Me (19:57):
I had errands to run.

Scone lover ❤️ (19:57):
i could have gone with you

Scone lover ❤️ (19:57):
and we could be eating pizza right now

Me (20:01):
Simon, I can’t spend my entire day with you.

Me (20:12):
Even if I want to.

Me (20:18):
We agreed we would wait!

Scone lover ❤️ (20:19):
its just pizza baz

Scone lover ❤️ (20:19):
said so yourself

Me (20:23):
It’s not *just* pizza.

Scone lover ❤️ (20:23):
i don’t WANT it to be just pizza

Me (20:24):
I don’t do this ever.

Scone lover ❤️ (20:25):
what? date?

Scone lover ❤️ (20:25):
i dont believe that

Scone lover ❤️ (20:26):
i mean look at you

Me (20:26):
Exactly! People will look at me. *You’ll* look at me.

Me (20:27):
My fangs will pop and you’ll see them. Everyone will see them.

Me (20:30):
I don’t eat in front of people ever. I always get food to go and eat it at home.

Scone lover ❤️ (20:31):
we cudve gotten it to go

Me (20:34):
And then what?

Me (20:35):
Eaten it on the sofa and fallen asleep together watching a show?

Scone lover ❤️ (20:35):
not if you didnt want to!

Me (20:36):
I do want to!

Scone lover ❤️ (20:40):
???

Me (20:40):
That’s the problem.

Me (20:43):
I wouldn’t have the strength to kick you out. I would end up disappointing myself. An utter disgrace to my profession. I could never forgive myself.

Scone lover ❤️ (20:44):
hey im sorry

Scone lover ❤️ (20:44):
ur right we had an agreement

Scone lover ❤️ (20:47):
i had fun with you today and I got a little greedy

Scone lover ❤️ (20:48):
u shouldnt have to be the one to say no all the time

Scone lover ❤️ (20:51):
and im sorry about the fang thing

Scone lover ❤️ (20:51):
im an idiot i wasnt thinking

Me (20:52):
It’s fine.

Scone lover ❤️ (20:52):
doesnt sound fine

Scone lover ❤️ (20:53):
sounds pretty lonely eating by yourself all the time

Me (20:54):
I didn’t eat by myself.
[Simon’s dinner selfie attached]

Scone lover ❤️ (20:54):
haha yeah i guess not

Scone lover ❤️ (20:54):
how were your cheese toasties?

Me (20:55):
Better than your dinner I’d wager.

Scone lover ❤️ (20:55):
ive moved on to a pint of icecream

Scone lover ❤️ (20:55):
[photo attached]

Me (20:59):
You’re disgusting. Put your tongue back in your mouth.

Scone lover ❤️ (21:01):
u like it 🙃

Me (21:04):
🙄

☀️☀️☀️

SIMON

I’ve been avoiding Penny all week. She’s been very busy at work and I’ve been allowing her to believe that’s why we keep missing each other.

The truth is I’m afraid to tell her about what happened with Baz last week-end. I don’t think I can tell her about Baz being a vampire and I don’t want to tell her about my tail. She has enough theories about my tail as it is. I’d never hear the end of it.

Penny finally cornered me in the bathroom this morning.

“Are you doing your usual ‘cooking appointment’ with Baz today?”

“Stop using air quotes when you talk about Baz and I working together on my life threatening health condition,” I gripe at her. “Especially if you’re planning to mooch dinner off of me later,” I add sulkily.

“Why, I’d love to join you for dinner, Simon. Thank you for your kind invitation,” Penny replies, laying it on thick.

I roll my eyes and try to close the door on her, but she makes herself comfortable against the door jam, arms crossed. “So, what’s on the menu?”

“Lentil soup,” I sigh. (I know when I’m beat.)

“Yum. Should I pick up some bread on my way home?”

“Yeah. That’d be good, actually. And some butter.”

Penny raises an eyebrow.

“I’m allowed to eat butter, Pen. Just not with ‘reckless abandon’.”

Penny snorts. “Who’s using air quotes now?”

I shove her gently into the hall and she finally leaves for wherever she hides while I cook with Baz. I have a sneaking suspicion that she spends her Sunday afternoons with Shepard nowadays instead of in her lab working.

I turn on the shower and frown at my reflection in the mirror while I wait for the water to heat up. I’m overdue for a haircut. The sides are getting too long. I look scruffy.

Penny loves to tease me about these cooking dates, but I actually am kinda nervous about it this week. It’ll be the first one since everything came out. I’m not sure how to act around Baz anymore. That’s something I do want to talk to Penny about later…

🥣🥣🥣

“You’ve known Baz likes you back since last Sunday?!” Penny shrieks.

I hide behind the loaf of bread.

“And you’re just now telling me?!”

“But it’s just like I thought!” I plead. “He doesn’t want to do anything about it until after I fix my cholesterol.”

“Still, this is huge, Simon! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

Penny actually looks pretty hurt. I try to explain why it doesn’t feel straightforward to talk about it.

“It’s all complicated because I’m not supposed to have feelings for my doctor. Baz has been pretending he doesn’t all this time and just trying to do his job—stop raising your eyebrow at me, Pen!”

“Simon, it’s been clear as day since the first week that you were both goners for each other. I’ve never seen Basilton Pitch this happy, fun or agreeable.”

“My point is that he kept it to himself, whereas I had to go blurting it out the second I realised it. It’s not like it even changes anything. Not yet anyway.”

“Of course it doesn’t. I would obviously never date someone from work.”

“Not a patient…but someone else maybe?” I say, waggling my eyebrows.

“Not relevant,” Penny snaps and throws a piece of sourdough at me. “Now start again from the beginning. I was only half-way paying attention before. I don’t want to miss the good parts.”

I sigh, partly out of annoyance with Penny, but also because I’d barely managed to get through the gist of what happened last weekend without accidentally revealing anything private or embarrassing. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to finesse it a second time through.

As I feared, Penny draws a lot more details out of me with her enthusiasm and her pointed questions.

“Don’t tell me he was still wearing a suit,” she jokes.

“Actually, he was wearing jeans and a—”

“Jeans?! Basilton Pitch was wearing jeans? Damn, bringing out the big guns.“

I take it back. I love this. Gossiping with Penny makes it all feel so real.

“He looked so good, Pen. So—mnrgh—He smells like something I want to burrow underneath and just–fill myself with.”

“Um…too much.”

Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that. “Sorry!”

“Moving on…Was his flat all posh? Was there music playing?”

I nod. “And flowers.”

“Oooh—I knew there’d be music! And flowers?! Simon, he’s so into you. He put so much effort into this. Who knew Baz was such a romantic sap.” She’s shaking her head and smiling. “How were the scones?”

“Argh!” I bury my face in my hands. “It was a disaster! They were so bad, Pen! Every last one of them. I kept hoping they’d get better but they never did. I wasn’t very nice about it,” I confess, wincing as I remember.

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. We had a big fight about it. We both got really upset.”

“Were your wings ok?”

I don’t know how to answer that without talking about how Baz lost control too. I don’t need to say it though. Penny can see it in my eyes.

“Oh, Simon…that must have been really scary.” She smiles sympathetically and reaches a hand across the table to brush my hair out of my eyes. “I’m certain Basilton will be discreet about it. You don’t have to worry on that front at least.”

I nod wordlessly.

Penny butters me another slice of bread and hands it to me. “How did he take it? I’m guessing the tail made an appearance as well?”

I nearly choke, and the flush runs up my neck so fast I think my head might burst.

“He was cool with it,” I mutter and pray to every god I know that she’ll drop it.

She quirks an eyebrow and when I attempt to shrug right out of my skin, she just laughs. “I’m going to assume that’s the part where the love declarations were exchanged.”

“Something like that,” I agree and slurp my next bite of soup especially noisily.

“This soup is really good by the way,” Penny says after a while.

“It wasn’t hard to make,” I say, relieved by the change in topic. “Took ages to cut all the veggies into perfect little cubes. Baz is pretty particular about how to chop things…”

“I’ll bet he is.”

“Other than that it was mostly just throwing things in the pot at the right time. I can show you sometime if you want.”

“That’d be nice. I could stand to learn a recipe or two. Though I could get used to this coming-home-to-dinner-already-on-the-table thing. Maybe I need a wife…” Penny puts on a pensive face before laughing at her own joke. “Just kidding!”

“Maybe Shepard knows how to cook…”

Penny frowns. “Maybe I like your cooking just fine.”

“Aw, Pen.”

Sometimes I worry that Penny will leave me again. That she’ll get hired away to some fancy job or meet someone she’s serious about and move out. I don’t know what I’ll do without her. There’s no one who knows me like she does.

“Pen? Can I ask your advice about something?”

“Yeah, shoot.”

“When I left Baz’s place, I thought we’d decided to just keep things the same for now. You know, still cook together and meet up on Fridays and stuff. Maybe get a little flirty in our text convos…but nothing that would cross the line.”

“Do you know where the line is?” Penny asks. “Because it didn’t seem like there was much of a line before.”

“Exactly!” I agree. “His cousin called me his boyfriend. And me and Baz sort-of went on a date...he even held my hand! But when I asked him out to dinner after, he totally freaked out!” I tug at my hair. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Wait a minute. Back up. When did you meet Baz’s cousin?”

“At the sports shop where he works. I didn’t know he was Baz’s cousin when I went in there, but he recognised me.”

“He recognised you?”

I shrug. I’m sure I’m turning a hundred shades of red. (I’ve thought a lot about how he recognized me.)

“It’s all those selfies you’re always sending to Baz!” Penny cackles. “You better not send him anything naughty...he obviously can’t be trusted to not show them around.”

Now I am definitely the colour of a fire engine.

“Shut. Up. We don't DO that!”

Penny cackles some more until I glare at her.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll be serious now. It sounds like you need clearer expectations.”

“It’s just, Baz keeps saying he doesn’t want anything to happen. But then he goes and does boyfriend-y things anyway. I don’t know what I’m allowed to do. I feel like he’s making, and breaking, all the rules.”

“That doesn’t sound fair, or fun.”

“I don’t think he means to keep me guessing,” I say, coming to Baz’s defence. “I think he feels torn about it. I think he might want this as badly as I do. It’s hard to act normal, for both of us. But I get my hopes up and then I feel hurt and guilty when he throws up walls.”

“I think you should talk to him and tell him he needs to keep things strictly platonic until after your next blood work.”

I frowm. “I kinda just want to kiss him.”

Penny sighs. “Then kiss him. We all know it’s coming.”

“I can’t!” I wail. “He’d never forgive me.”

“Then don’t,” she agrees, throwing her hands in the air.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“I know it’s not,” Penny assures me.

“I don’t like being stuck in this in-between time,” I grumble. “But I also don’t want to tell him to stop. I want everything.”

We’re both quiet for a minute, thinking. Neither Penny or I are very big on following rules. She just said that thing about setting clear boundaries because she’s protective of me.

“If you can handle his mood swings, maybe your best bet is to follow Baz’s lead for now.”

“Maybe…”

“Just, be careful, Simon. How much longer will it be, do you think?”

“I don’t know…a few more weeks? We haven’t talked about a specific date. Baz is working out his own healthy scone recipe—which he promises won’t suck!—and he says he wants to do some more research about dragons.”

“Really?” Penny is at full attention now. Christ. Just what I need…the two of them teaming up to analyse me and my weird anatomy. They are certainly not allowed to compare notes on my tail!

“He’s very thorough,” I say, trying to make Baz sound as boring as possible. “You know how he is. I’m sure he won’t find anything new. You’ve been on that case for ages already. After he’s satisfied his curiosity, I think I’ll be ready to redo the blood work. Baz said when we first met up that it takes a few months for changes to show up on the tests.”

“Gosh, has it been that long already? I guess it has. I’ll probably hear back about my paper around that time as well...” Penny sounds like she’s scheming. “Maybe we can throw a party if it all works out? And Baz can come as your proper date.”

“And Shepard can come as yours,” I volley back.

“Mmm…we’ll see.”

I give Penny a look and start clearing the table. Penny always washes up after our Sunday dinners while I pack up the leftovers for lunches.

I still can’t figure out what I should do about Baz not being able to follow his own rules. He says a lot of things he doesn’t mean, after all. He has trouble being honest about what he likes or what he wants.

Is it ok to just take what I can get? Let Baz have what I know he actually wants? Or should I help him keep his promises so he doesn’t do things he’ll regret later?

Either way, I have to stop thinking of his little slips, or the fact that we’re spending more time together, as a sign that he’s changed his mind about not dating. Not unless we talk about it. It’s just bonus content.

As far as not letting him do something he’ll regret? I can’t actually control how he feels. But I can draw my own line. No kissing. That’s not something I want to do with anyone but him and I want him to be my boyfriend when it happens.

Other than that? I guess we’ll have to see.

Chapter Text

BAZ

Soft

I glare at the packet of flour sitting in front of me on the counter. I believe the polite thing to say about this particular flour would be that we have a ‘challenging’ relationship. We go way back. I fully anticipate full-throated cursing (and maybe even some tears) before I beat it into submission on this particular occasion.

The flour I personally bake with comes freshly ground from a mill near my father’s estate. It has never failed to produce exceptional results. Despite being wholemeal, I can substitute it nearly one-for-one in place of white flour. But I can’t expect Snow to drive to Hampshire to get flour. I don’t even know if he has a car. No, this recipe has to work with Tesco flour.

I’ve already reduced the amount of flour a small amount in my recipe to account for the drier nature of my favourite wholemeal. I reduce the flour a bit more and cross my fingers that the Tesco wholemeal will behave itself. I also want to see if I can get away with using one egg instead of two.

As I’m gathering the dough up and patting it out, I can already tell something is off. But there’s nothing you can do at this late stage in the process to fix anything. I finish going through the motions of rolling and cutting with lowered expectations. When the batch comes out of the oven, it’s a complete failure. The scones are dense and doughy. They’ve barely risen at all. And they taste so wholemeal-y.

I was so close before I switched flours! Fucking Tesco flour…

I go to bed exhausted, sweaty and completely demoralised.

What if I can’t do it? What if the only way to make an appetising wholemeal scone is to double the butter? I was so fucking sure of myself…I promised Simon I could do it!

Way to go Basilton. Now you’re going to let him down. He’ll have to eat inferior, 3-out-of-five scones in order to pass his physical. He’ll see what a fraud you are and probably throw you over for some insufferable hipster from the rock ‘n roll cafe…

As I’m lying there wallowing in self-pity, a nagging thought surfaces. I try to recall if I drank my blood this morning. I don’t think I did. That doesn’t explain away the entirety of my dark mood, but it does put it into perspective. I’ll have to remember to do some self-care before I tackle the scones again. I need to be in top form if I’m going to figure this out. And I have to figure this out.

SIMON

Baz didn’t give me just one recipe to make this week, he gave me an entire binder full of his favourites. The binder is organised into sections and each recipe has a shopping list at the bottom, arranged according to the aisle where you would find the ingredient at the supermarket. It’s so Baz. I love it.

Baz said I’ve had plenty of practice preparing meals using various ingredients and techniques. I know what every random piece of cookware in my kitchen is for; I’ve even added a few items to the collection. Baz thinks I should be able to follow most of the recipes in the binder by myself at this point. My homework was to create my own meal plan and shopping list for the week.

It’s been fun flipping through the recipes but hard to pick just a few (they all look so good!) I'm pretty sure I over-committed. I filled an entire trolley to the brim. There's no way I'm going to be able to sustain this level of investment long-term. Baz is going to be right proud of me though.

I’m more than a little sad that our Sunday cooking lessons are over. But I have to keep my eyes on the prize. This is an important moment. This is the first step towards Baz eventually cutting his ties with me (as my nutritionist). Before I know it, I’ll be waking up next to Baz on Sunday mornings instead of waiting until the afternoon to see his face on my tiny phone screen. (At least I hope so.)

I’m washing lettuce for a salad when my phone starts to buzz. I reach over and tap the screen with my wet pinky finger to see who it is. It’s Baz calling. I shut off the tap and rush to dry my hands on my jeans before swiping to answer.

“Hey Baz.”

It’s a FaceTime call. We talk this way most of the time. I miss looking at his face when we don't (I like to think he misses mine too).

“Simon, you’re home.”

“Yeah, where else would I be? I’m making dinner. Did your meeting go ok today?”

“It did, thanks. I wasn’t sure if they would take my suggestions seriously. But it turns out the hospital staff have also been frustrated about communication breakdowns. It hasn’t just been me. Wires are getting crossed anytime specialists are brought in to consult. We’re going to try to make a few changes to the procedures and see if things run more smoothly.”

“That’s good. I know it’s been irritating you.”

“Yes, well. If people can actually follow directions, we should see some improvement,” Baz says, but not with any conviction. He seems preoccupied.

I flip my phone around to show him the half-washed lettuce in my sink in an effort to cheer him up.

“See what a good boy I am?”

He chuckles half-heartedly. When I flip the phone back around, his smile looks forced.

“Baz, what’s up?”

He purses his lips and looks off to the side. He’s tucked into the corner of his sofa which is where he calls from when he’s feeling tired or down.

“Come on...I can tell something’s eating at you.”

When he looks back at the phone, he doesn’t quite meet my eye. The worry is plain to see in his pinched brow. I wait for him to tell me (even though now I’m getting worried about what he might be worried about). Finally, he takes a slow breath and begins to speak.

“I was listening to the news on my way home. I put the telly on when I got back…which was probably a mistake…”

Oh.

He’s talking about the fire that broke out last night in that apartment block on the East End.

There was an explosion of messages about it on the Facebook group I joined after I did that training camp for prospective firefighters. I had to turn off notifications to get through my work day. But not before I saw that one of the instructors from my training had been seriously injured trying to make a rescue.

“I don’t know if you heard…” Baz goes on, watching my face for a reaction.

“Oh, um, yeah, I did hear. Penny sent me something about it. I haven’t looked at it yet,” I admit, fighting the urge to set the phone down and go back to washing my lettuce.

Why haven’t I looked at it? Why is Baz the one telling me about it? Why is he the one reaching out and being so careful with me when he’s obviously more shook about it than I am? I sink onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

“I hadn’t really thought about that part,” Baz practically whispers, “before now”.

And I see it there in his face, the fear that I never let myself look at straight on. Now it’s me who can’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah. It’s—um—it’s sad. And hard. It’s real hard.” God, why don’t I have something more to say about this? “Honestly,” I confess, running a hand across my face so I don’t have to look at him when I say it, “I try not to think about it too much.”

I shrug for good measure in the silence that follows.

“What do you mean you don’t think about it?” He’s not mad, just bewildered.

“I don’t know. I just don’t. You know how you’re always saying that I don’t think…” I say with a nervous laugh. “Well, there’s some truth to that sometimes.”

Baz sneers but I don’t think he’s being cruel, he’s just trying to deflect from his feelings. He protects himself by being sarcastic and dismissive, just like I cope with humour.

“I’ve been through a lot of hard stuff in my life, Baz. Seen a lot of hard things. I know how to handle it.”

“Your parents…”

“And everything after that…I mean—losing my parents—that was just the beginning. I didn’t even really experience that. I was just a baby. That was just something that was. Shitty stuff happening to me is sort-of my normal.”

Baz’s eyes flash with anger at that (or maybe just protectiveness). (Penny doesn’t like it when I talk like this either.)

“Maybe you don’t need to pile on more bad memories,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Maybe you’ve gone through enough already.”

I don’t like that attitude. That’s not how I see it. I get up and start pacing around the kitchen.

“Bad stuff is still happening, Baz, all around us.”

“Yes, but it’s not your responsibility to right all the wrongs in the world.”

The oven beeps to signal that it’s reached temperature, but I just turn it off.

“I know. It’s just—I’d rather see terrible things happen first-hand. At least then I know for sure what went down, know for sure that I did everything I could to keep it from happening, or at least make it better.”

“Aren’t you afraid? Don’t you ever want to just hide yourself away from it all?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “I want to make things better for people. Or at least try.” I shrug again. “Because things are so much better for me now. I have Penny and Ebb and my work with the kids. And you,” I add quietly, cradling the phone in my hand as I lean back against the sink.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, about Baz. But actually he looks a little relieved, like maybe he felt daft for calling in the first place. He’s not wrong for wanting to understand why this is important to me.

“It’s not like it was before,” I try to explain. “I feel…guilty, sometimes, about how nice everything is. It wouldn’t feel right to play it safe and not be trying to help others.”

Baz frowns. “Simon…Have you ever spoken to a therapist?”

“Nah, it’s not for me,” I say, dismissing his suggestion immediately. I carry the phone into the living room and plop back onto the sofa, abandoning my dinner preparations completely.

“Simon?”

Uh-oh.

“What did happen to you?”

BAZ

I cover my own mouth with my hand when I realise what I’ve just said. I rush to take it back.

“Nevermind. I—”

“No, I—”

“—shouldn’t have asked that.”

“—want to tell you.”

“You don’t have to, Simon. I don’t want to abuse your trust. It's OK if you want to just drop it.”

I hold his gaze and try to give him space to decide. I telegraph what I hope is the proper blend of receptivity combined with an utter lack of investment in whether he chooses to share or not.

“I want to tell you," he assures me. "I want to be open with you, Baz. You’re my friend.”

For ever and for always I think to myself, as I no doubt beam at him like a lovesick fool.

I listen quietly as he talks, greedily stowing away every detail of Simon’s childhood that he chooses to share with me, even the painful ones. I curl onto my side, tugging the blanket from the back of the sofa over myself, and Simon mirrors me.

I hadn’t realised how long he and Penny have known each other. She really is the closest family he has, aside from Ebb. I’m glad Ebb came into his life, for his sake and for Penny’s. Penny’s far too young to be mothering someone Simon’s age.

They sure did have a lot of adventures together when they were young. She was this positive force keeping him tethered regardless of whatever bollocks he was having to put up with.

It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster not to begin furiously googling every David in Lancashire when Simon gets to that chapter of his life, to the story of his wings unfolding for the first time. I have to remind myself that Simon is no longer a minor, that mandatory reporting doesn’t apply to healthcare providers in the UK even if he were, that it’s his choice to keep Davy soundly in the past.

But fuck if that’s not a neck I wouldn’t happily shred to ribbons. I tell Simon as much.

Simon actually laughs at that. It’ll never stop surprising me how his mood can turn on a dime. I’m not laughing. I’ve sat up again and I’m fuming.

“I had you pinned as the harmless, brooding type,” Simon jokes. “Didn’t know you would…” He hangs his top teeth out over his bottom lip and makes a nibbling motion like a rabbit.

It’s absurd. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m in love with a moron.

I scowl at the phone. “I was bluffing, Simon. I would never actually bite someone.”

Simon frowns, confused. We’ve still never talked about the vampire stuff. He asked a while ago about how I came to be a vampire and I put him off.

“Baz?”

Shit, I shouldn’t have started down this track.

“What happened with your mum?”

Banging, shouting—‘You have to hide!’
Footfalls, shadows passing—Make yourself small.
The rustle of cloth, a stifled scream—Close your eyes.
A body crumpling to the floor—‘Go, go, go!’

“Baz? Hey—”

Echoes of feet fleeing—and returning?
Furniture skidding and scraping—Who’s there?
‘Where is Basilton? Did they take him? ‘Where is he?!’

“Baz. It’s ok, you’re ok…I’m so sorry. I’m here. Forget I asked…”

My eyes ache with tears I can’t properly shed. The pain is old, yet still so heavy.

“Forget I mentioned it. Unless you want to talk. I’m here, Baz,” Simon assures me. “I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And then the tears do come. It’s a muted affair, like my worn-out grief. I think I’m crying more for Simon than anything. For his naïveté. For his unflinching loyalty and righteousness.

I set the phone down briefly to swipe at my face. When I raise it again Simon is looking at me with so much concern and affection. He’s waiting to see if I’ll open up, giving me time to catch my breath.

I can’t tell my story without also telling Simon about the Creature world. I want to keep him in the dark forever, hide him away and pretend everything’s fine. But his ignorance doesn’t change the reality of things.

“I need to tell you something, Simon.”

“Anything, Baz.”

“The world—our world—it’s not how you think it is.”

SIMON

Huh? I thought Baz was about to tell me something about his mum. Or maybe himself, about being a vampire. But he seems to be implying something about me too? I’m not sure I am ready to hear about that. But I can’t back out now. He’s got something he needs to get off his chest.

“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting up.

He hesitates, lips pursed, then starts off tentatively. “The British government doesn’t consider people like you and I to be citizens.” He shifts the phone to better track my expression.

“I thought we were talking about your mum.”

“This is about my mum. But also about me…and you.”

I don’t like what he’s implying. (Baz’s mum is dead after all.)

“My mother worked for the Home Office as liaison to the Creatures. It was a post that existed before my mother held it but under her leadership, the Home Office changed course. She convinced the Home Secretary to agree to pursue a treaty that would formalise relations with the Creatures, solidify their rights and obligations.”

“You say ‘the Creatures’ like they’re another country or something.”

“Anyone with known creature identity is unprotected by British law," Baz explains gently. "We are considered to be ‘other’ and are expected to keep ourselves hidden, to remain on the outskirts of proper society.”

“No one ever told me that. What does that even mean?” I get up and start moving around.

Baz considers for a moment before answering, still weighing every word. “I don’t think anyone officially knows about you. And because of your personal history…well, there was no one to teach you any different.”

“You said you think Margaret knows about me. Why didn’t she reach out?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a hunch. Maybe she decided your ignorance would protect you. Margaret is our de facto leader. She does her best to keep us safe but, Simon—there can be consequences—very bad consequences to being seen as your true self or attracting trouble of any kind.”

“Was your mother a creature?”

“No. She was a human, a regular civil service employee. She witnessed the cruelty that was perpetrated under the auspices of her organisation and she saw it wasn’t right and vowed to fight for equality. She and Margaret were working together to negotiate the treaty, perhaps even to provide a path to citizenship.”

That all sounds great. It’s what I would have done. But Baz has stopped talking and I know that’s not the end of the story.

“Baz?”

“Yes?” he breathes.

“What happened to your mum?” I ask in a hushed voice. I’m afraid of what his answer will be. (I think I know already.)

I can see his swallow, even through the phone.

“The vampires didn’t want a treaty. They are numerous and powerful and had a lot to lose with the increased regulation that would have come with naturalisation. They thought if my mother’s son was one of them, it might work in their favour.”

“Christ. That’s—I can’t believe—how old were you?”

“Five years old."

Fuck.

"I…obviously didn’t understand…just about anything that happened.”

Baz tries to shrug it off but I’m sure as hell not buying that.

“What the fuck is wrong with people?! How could they do that?! To a little kid?”

Baz scoffs. “They’re monsters, Simon.”

“No! They’re people. Just like you and me. They’re fucking accountable for their actions is what they are!”

“That’s what my mother thought,” Baz says bitterly. He scoffs again. “She thought she could negotiate with them. Talk through the pain points, find a solution both sides could agree to. She was wrong.”

She was wrong. Poor Baz. What he must have been through.

He’s heading for his kitchen now, turning on lights as he goes and I do the same, turning the oven back on. It got dark while we were talking. He props his phone on the counter and drops the bombshell I’ve been bracing for.

“They came back and killed her when she didn’t drop it. Nothing ever changed. It was all a waste.”

“No! It’s not a waste to have tried and failed.” I insist. “At least she tried.”

Baz is unmoved. I know that he lost so much and it must have been just awful. So awful. I can’t even begin to imagine (I don’t really want to). But I know that not trying is worse. You have to keep trying.

“It’s never a waste to hope. Not trying is the waste. You never know what will happen. She risked it all because it was important, Baz.”

“I was part of what she risked—”

“She didn’t know that!” I interrupt. “You were just caught in the crossfire. She wouldn’t have put you in danger knowingly.”

“I know.” Baz sighs. “Logically, I know that. What happened was diabolical. No one could have predicted that turn of events. I just—selfishly, I wish she’d taken the safe route.”

“But she—”

“And NOT acted the part of hero, like someone else I could mention,” Baz cuts in pointedly. “Dashing into burning buildings and climbing out of windows…”

I huff in frustration. “Some people can’t just sit by and watch!” I exclaim. “I’m one of them and you’re gonna have to get used to it.”

Baz looks startled by my outburst. Or maybe by my insistence that he’s going to be around long enough to get used to anything about me. I want him to be around for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, softening my tone. “But I’m not going to give up on my dream of being a firefighter just because something bad might happen to me.”

Baz frowns but doesn’t say anything. He steps away from the phone. I hear the fridge door and the clatter of a baking tray. Then he’s back in the frame, still frowning.

“I don’t like to think of that being you on the nightly news. Of you not being safe. Of something happening to you.”

That’s the problem with thinking.

“Me neither,” I agree.

Baz looks at me sidelong, sees that I’m serious and shakes his head.

“You’re such a numpty,” he says. Then, after a second he asks, “do you think he’s ok?”

It takes me a second to realise he’s asking after the firefighter who was injured.

“I’m part of a Facebook group. You want me to check?”

Baz shrugs. “When you feel up to it. But will you let me know if you hear anything?”

I smile and nod. I’m sure it’s written all over my face how I feel about him. He’s such a sweetheart. He’s so fucking beautiful and brilliant…and he worries about me.

We both putter around in the kitchen after that, just letting the conversation settle. Baz and I have surprisingly heavy conversations sometimes. I guess we just have heavy things to talk about. I like that we can be quiet together too.

“So, tonight is salad night?” Baz asks, after a while.

“Yeah. I made the chicken shawarma yesterday so I would have leftovers to put on the salad. I’ll have the last little bit with some brown rice for lunch tomorrow. It’s one of my favourites." I shrug. I still feel a bit out of my depth with this cooking stuff. But I like it. "I even made that yoghurt sauce to put on it—only way I can stand eating yoghurt ever—it's pretty good.”

“You’re eating better than I am these days,” Baz chuckles, flipping his phone so I can see the fish fingers he’s about to slide into his oven. “I’m proud of you, Simon. You’ve taken this challenge very seriously and stuck with it long enough to make lasting change. A lot of people in your situation give up.”

“Not me.” I say, scrubbing at my neck. “I never give up. And besides…” I bring my face close to the phone and wink. “I’ve got the very best incentive.”

Baz groans and turns his back on me, walking clear out of the frame. I’m still laughing when he comes back to glare at me. I can never pass up an opportunity to embarrass him.

“That’s certainly not something I make available to any of my other clients,” he snarks.

“Nope, “ I agree, popping the P hard. “Just me. Because you liiiiike me.”

Baz’s attempt at a long-suffering sigh is highly compromised by the colour in his cheeks and the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, I think I hear my oven timer,” he announces.

Liar.

And then he hangs up on me, the git.

Chapter Text

SIMON

Me (06:02):
morning baz

Me (06:03):
ur prolly still sleeping

Me (06:03):
wish i were there with u

Me (06:03):
holding u close

Me (06:03):
keeping u safe

Me (06:07):
not that ur not safe right now

Me (06:07):
i just cant stop thinking about little u

Me (06:08):
i wish i knew you back then

Me (06:08):
wish i coulda been there to help

Me (06:10):
i like u worrying about me but u dont have to u know

Me (06:10):
u worry too much

Me (06:11):
its all going to be ok

Me (06:11):
we have to live our lives how we want to

Me (06:11):
not let the past get in the way of our future

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:32):
Well, that was quite the deluge to wake up to.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:33):
A lot of *thoughts* from you at (checks timestamp) 6 in the morning.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:36):
You *like* that I’m worried?

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:36):
I thought you cared about me. Apparently I was mistaken.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:36):
Not sure I *can* count on you to ‘keep me safe’ after this shocking admission.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:38):
Have you any evidence to back up these rosy predictions of yours? Or are you just willing it to be true?

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:38):
Granted I have never been accused of being an optimist, but objectively speaking, everything has not always been ‘ok’.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:39):
You’re not one of those infuriating glass half full people, are you?

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:42):
I will admit the thought of you beating back my adversaries is mildly entertaining. You would’ve been what, two years old?

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:44):
I do live my life the way that I want to. I would have thought this was obvious. I’m hardly an agreeable person.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:45):
Wanting to avoid being cursed with yet another life-long affliction may seem dull to you. I guess on this point we’ll have to agree to disagree.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:46):
I worry precisely the right amount, thank you very much.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:46):
I feel concern over reasonable things and I adjust my plans accordingly. Something you obviously do not do.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:47):
Else you would perhaps not be so eager to sleep in close proximity to the likes of me.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:49):
I guess it takes all kinds and I should be grateful and shut up.

I haven’t had a chance to check my phone since I got to work. But I’ve been feeling it buzz, and buzz and buzz again. I know it’s Baz. He usually wakes up right around the time that I’m getting the older kids out the door onto their school buses.

My coworker caught me once checking my phone in the stairwell on my way back inside. I guess I looked so soft that she jumped to conclusions. She wished me and my ‘special someone’ good luck and said I should feel free to take a few minutes to ‘collect myself’ before starting my desk shift.

That was ages ago—back when I was still mostly texting Baz about what I ate for breakfast—but I didn’t correct her. Wasn’t gonna argue with a little bit of down time to flirt with Baz (cuz that’s what it was even then) (I can be a real idiot sometimes).

She must be convinced I’m about to propose to him at this point. As if I would propose to someone I haven’t even kissed yet. Not that I wouldn’t say yes if Baz proposed to me tomorrow—I would. But I’m not exactly saving myself for marriage either…

In fact, I was trying to talk my way into Baz’s bed this very morning. He’s been absolutely blowing up my phone the last few minutes and I’m eager (and a little scared) to see what he has to say. I slip out my phone and lean against the stair railing. Fifteen new messages.

I snort out loud as I read them. It’s all so Baz. And even though he doesn’t come right out and say so, it sounds to me like a pretty green light on the whole waking up in bed together thing. Which is just brilliant.

My coworker passes me on the stairs at that precise moment and catches me grinning like a fool at my phone. I can practically see the thought bubble over her head: Green light on the proposal!

I wonder what she'd think if she knew that simply eating pizza in the same room as Baz would be a huge fucking deal? She’d probably be disappointed, but I don’t mind. I’d say the chances of any of these things happening is NOT zero, which is good enough for me.

I have to get back to work but I can probably get away with a couple more minutes…

Me (07:52):
u know baz

Me (07:52):
things worth fighting for are scary sometimes

Me (07:53):
and ur really not that scary

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:53):
Slander and lies!

Me (07:53):
i know i know

Me (07:53):
ur a dread creature of the night

Me (07:54):
SOOOOO scary 👻

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:54):
Maybe you just don’t know what’s good for you.

Me (07:55):
probably not

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:55):
More likely you never think before you act and have no instinct for self-preservation.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:55):
Cute that you think you could have vanquished an entire vampire mob as a toddler.

Me (07:56):
just cuz ur 3 inches taller than me doesnt make u 3 yrs older baz

Me (07:56):
thats primary school logic

Me (07:56):
maybe I was 12 did u ever think of that?

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:57):
Maybe you’re delusional. As if being 12 would even make a difference.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:58):
There is no universe where you are anywhere near as mature as I am anyhow.

Me (07:58):
maybe not emotionally

Me (07:58):
ur basically a grandpa

Me (07:58):
but im obvs more physically capable

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:59):
You take that back.

Dr. Baz ❤️(07:59):
I have enhanced abilities you could only dream of.

Me (08:00):
is that so? 😏

Dr. Baz ❤️(08:00):
Fuck off. I hate you.

Me (08:01):
u can be the big spoon if it makes you feel better

Dr. Baz ❤️(08:01):
Nothing about this makes me feel better.

Me (08:01):
cheer up gramps

Me (08:02):
i gotta go work now

Me (08:02):
bye

BAZ

I let my phone drop on the bed beside me and roll onto my back. That was a lot of excitement for me at this early hour.

I never used to wake up before 9. Why would I when I can set my own hours? (To steal every moment I can with a curly haired disaster apparently.) Nowadays I actually set an alarm for 7:30 so I can chat with Simon during his morning break. I’m pathetic. But it’s a hard habit to break when I’m always rewarded with a string of new messages.

I am grateful he reached out about our conversation yesterday. I’d gone to bed still stewing on it. I still feel I was out of line in expressing any opinion whatsoever on Simon’s choice of career. But at least I know he doesn’t think so.

While I don’t like him thinking of me as a helpless victim, I am absurdly pleased that his take-home seems to be that I am a damsel in need of ongoing protection from the world. By all means Simon, install yourself in my bed!

Is this really my life? Is he really going to chalk up all the horrid details of myself and my childhood as no worse than what happened to him?

What did happen to him? Where did he come from? Why does he have wings?

Ever since I found out about Simon’s dragon parts, I’ve been thinking about them (obviously). Specifically, I haven’t been able to dismiss the little voice that keeps telling me that Ebb knows something about where they came from. I wasn’t sure what Simon knew until our conversation last night. The answer: very little. I think he deserves to know more.

I’ve been planning to visit the library to do my own research on dragons. But I should probably speak to Ebb first so I don't waste time on false leads. I call her at The Goat to ask if I might be able to stop by at closing time to have a little chat. I fear she'll shut the conversation down like she has in the past, but she says I'm welcome any time.

When I arrive at The Goat, I peek through the window to make sure Simon isn’t in there before slipping inside. The cafe is empty except for Ebb, who spins around when she hears me come in.

“I can come back if it’s not a good time…”

“No no, come in come in. I’ll just fix us some tea and then I’ll be right over. Let’s sit in the cosy chairs by the fire. I’m ready to put my feet up.”

I weave through the tables to the armchairs at the far end of the cafe and make myself comfortable. Ebb stops to lock the door and then she sets a tray with two mugs and some biscuits on the table in front of me. She eases into a second armchair, takes a mug in her hands, and waits.

I’m not sure how to begin.

I’ve convinced myself that Ebb knows more about Simon and me than she’s ever acknowledged openly. But now that I’m here, I’m acutely aware of the risk that I’m taking if I’m wrong. Creatures aren’t meant to let humans know about them. The consequences are severe if the authorities hear about it.

Ebb is obviously accepting of Simon’s dragon side, but I’m not just here to talk about Simon…

I know I’m not mistaken that Ebb’s brother is a vampire. No human’s heart beats that slowly. Ebb trusted me with her brother’s name; it felt like an invitation. I want to ask her about her brother and why he knows Fiona, but what if she reports me? I don’t think Ebb would betray me like that (or anyone else for that matter). But I won’t know for certain until it’s too late to take it back.

Sensing my hesitation, Ebb breaks the silence.

“Simon told me how understanding you were about his secret.”

I guess we’re just jumping right in then.

“As his doctor, I’m obligated to stay impartial regarding anything he chooses to share about himself. And to keep what he tells me in confidence, of course.”

Ebb hums and brings her cup of tea to her mouth. She stares into the fire for a while, lost in thought. I think she might be remembering. A silent tear breaks free, rolling down her cheek and I avert my gaze. I’m hesitant to interrupt when I don't know what she’s thinking.

“I never doubted that he could trust you…” she finally says, turning to lock her eyes on mine.

It feels slightly threatening (is this a shovel talk?) but mostly like she’s splitting me right open with her gaze.

“...given who you are,” she adds with the slightest tilt of her head.

My next breath races sharply in through my nose and my eyes widen a fraction before I can lock down my reaction. Ebb calmly takes another sip of tea. Then she goes on in a now-casual tone (as if it’s no big deal that she essentially just accused me of being a vampire in a vaguely menacing fashion).

“Simon was greatly relieved that you took it so well. It’s a constant worry to him, as you can well imagine. Now, what is it you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Well…I…I wanted to ask you a few questions about Simon, in confidence, if that’s alright.”

Ebb blinks her eyes like a cat as if she knows that’s not all.

“Also…perhaps, about myself,” I add. “I hadn’t realised until recently how many acquaintances we have in common.”

“It’s fascinating how it’s all come back to tie together, isn’t it?”

“Has it?”

“Mmm, you were just a wee babe when I first met your mum.”

I choke on my tea. I was not expecting to hear anything about my mum today.

“Yes, I knew your mum. My dear Nicky had been sent away from London by the authorities a few months before. He never caused any real trouble, mind you. Just been caught hanging out in the wrong place, with the wrong people one too many times. Natasha had a message for him.”

“When I was here with Margaret,” I cut in, confused. “I believe she showed me your Nicky. He’s…”

“A vampire? Yes, dear, he is.”

I recoil a bit at that word (I always do). Ebb bristles and clucks her tongue disapprovingly before settling into an expression of pity.

Right, check the self-loathing and focus on gathering information.

“My mother wanted to get in touch with Nicky? Did she think he might help with the treaty?”

“She did. And she wasn’t wrong. Not all of the vampires were opposed to public protections or regulation. What good is freedom when you can be exiled from your family at a moment’s notice—”

Her voice gets caught in her throat and her eyes drift around the cafe as she hiccoughs and swipes at the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“With no opportunity for justice?” she resumes, her voice still thin and choked. “Nicky was happy to lend a hand. Especially since it meant he would be allowed to return to the city.”

“What was so important to him about being in London?”

“He missed his friends and family. As anyone would.”

“That was an extremely reckless course of action,” I point out. “Breaking ranks…Vampires are ruthless and unforgiving.”

Ebb’s giving me that look again: disappointed and pitying. “Not all of them, love.”

My sneer is immediate and cruel. Who could blame me?

I was just five years old when the vampires decided to use me as a bargaining chip. When they burst into my mother’s office and seized me off the floor where I was playing. When they stole my life from me.

They tried to restart the negotiations after the dust had settled, certain that my mother would hear them out, now that her own son’s fate was tied with theirs. They thought she would fight to win approval for the additional concessions they were demanding.

But my mother was more determined than ever to stand by what had been previously negotiated. She believed all along that moving forward as an integrated society required concessions from everyone, that what had been negotiated was fair.

So they came back for her. Scuttled the whole thing.

“What happened to you, dear, was inexcusable,” Ebb says. “They had no right getting a wee thing involved in their politics, turning you without your consent.”

“Only a monster would do such a thing,” I snarl.

“I don’t blame you for not feeling any comradery towards those that betrayed you. It wasn’t right, what they did. But they had their reasons…”

“I can’t imagine what could possibly justify—”

“Most vampires aren’t like you,” Ebb interrupts. “Turning someone isn’t inevitable, you know.”

I didn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change my stance on any of it.

“Most are turned by choice, by willing friends or lovers.”

I scoff.

“Nicky chose it. Back when we were young and foolish and felt invincible. Those who have chosen it are fiercely protective of their freedom.”

“But not your brother. What changed?”

Ebb lets out a rueful sigh, shaking her head. And then she gives me a small, sad smile.

“There are different kinds of freedom. Nicky wanted the freedom to be seen, the freedom to love who he loved.”

“Fiona,” I say, because I know I’m right before Ebb nods her head.

“So, Nicky turned spy?”

“I wouldn’t call it that…he was more of an…advisor. Natasha and Margaret ran their ideas by him to feel out the vampire perspective. And he shared any useful information he happened to overhear, to help move things along.”

I can’t muster the effort to look impressed or appreciative. Ebbs draws herself back a bit but goes on with her story.

“Your mother, of course, was a very busy woman. I only met her a few times. But Margaret and I became very close. The Goat was the hub for the creature campaign in support of the treaty. Never a dull moment, I can tell you.”

Ebb rises from her seat to stoke the fire and refill the teapot. I find myself looking around the Goat and imagining people gathered at the tables, talking animatedly, exchanging news, arguing points and making flyers. People like me and my clients, working together to fight for justice.

I have a feeling Fiona was here. She wouldn’t have missed it for the world. She’s always boasting about her &lquo;riot grrrl&rquo; days. I’ve seen old photos of her: wearing vintage shifts with torn tights and Doc Martin boots, black hair piled on her head just so, to highlight that ridiculous white streak she has. I’m certain she was as insufferable then as she is now.

“How does Simon fit into all of this?” I ask when Ebb returns with the tea and more biscuits.

“Ah, poor lamb.” Ebb sighs. “Now, this is all conjecture, mind you…”

“But you have a theory?”

“We can’t be sure…but the pieces do add up. Now that you’re here, perhaps we can get to the bottom of things.”

I’m still not sure why I have anything to do with this. But the idea that Simon and I are somehow fated to know one another lights a fire in my chest that I can’t say I don’t like.

“As you know, Simon grew up in care. His age, as best as anyone can tell, is about four years younger than you, meaning he was born during the years the treaty was being negotiated.”

I remember so little from that time…

It’s difficult to hear Ebb talk about it. I was far too young to understand the importance of any of it. I only knew how much of my mother’s attention it demanded. And then all I knew was pain and terror. After the vampires came back for my mother and everything was in ruins, with me left forever marked, I didn’t want to ever think of it again.

No one did.

The creatures still live in secrecy, without protection from injustice or persecution. My father lives his safe, predictable life with his second wife. My aunt has been depressed for as long as I can remember. And literally no one acknowledges what happened to me.

“Around that time,” Ebb continues, “Margaret formed an attachment with a human who was working in support of the treaty. He was a kind man, Jerry was. But their love wasn’t strong enough to weather the tragedy that befell them...”

Ebb pauses to snuffle and sip her tea.

I wish she’d just get on with it. I’m no longer sure how to read her tears (she seems to cry at the drop of a hat). But now that we’re on to the topic of Simon’s origins, her emotional outbursts are making me feel more than a little unhinged.

Finally she continues.

“One day Margaret was here and the next she was gone, disappeared for a whole month. And when she returned, she behaved as if none of it had ever happened. Jerry was quite distraught and heartbroken, poor lamb. We still keep in touch, Jerry and I. He stops in from time to time for a cuppa. I believe you know him.”

“Jerry?”

“The butcher.”

“Jerry…What happened?”

“There was a nest in Wales…”

I gasp as the vision returns to me. Margaret’s craggy mountain top…the overwhelming feelings of loneliness and longing.

“I don’t quite understand it myself,” Ebb goes on. “How she can be in two places at once. But somehow she managed it. That is, until things got particularly demanding with the negotiations. She was forced to focus her attention on this world for longer stretches and that's when it happened. It was at the height of negotiations that she vanished…”

Ebb stops to fumble in her pocket for a handkerchief and blows her nose loudly.

“Oh Basilton!” she wails, burying her eyes in the kerchief. “It’s just too awful!”

I wait quietly for her to pull herself together enough to finish the story. I stare darkly into the cup in my hands while I wait. I have a feeling I know where this is going.

“I learned much later that her nest had been raided. Poachers had scaled the mountain and stolen both of her eggs. One of the eggs did not survive the climb down…”

Ebb stops to blow her nose again while I clench my cup hard enough to crack it and my gums begin to itch. If I ever get my hands on any of these monsters, there will be hell to pay.

“Margaret was able to trace the other egg for a time. It passed between many hands. The trail eventually went cold in Lancashire, where Simon grew up. She guesses that when the egg finally hatched, the baby was disappointingly humanoid. No one looking to raise a baby dragon wants to be saddled with a human infant instead. She believes the baby was deemed worthless and surrendered to the care system.”

“And you believe that baby is Simon.”

Ebb shrugs. “It does seem to fit.”

I sit silently for a few moments. It’s a lot to take in.

“How could a human baby hatch from an egg?” I ask, disbelieving. Now is perhaps not the time for such questions…but it’s hard for me to turn off my inquisitive tendencies.

“Margaret believes Simon’s magic must have come in early as a protective mechanism. Or perhaps his half-human genetics made assuming a humanoid form easier for him. That’s typically magic a young dragon would have to practise for some time. For Simon, it seems to be the reverse. It was his dragon parts that took a while to make themselves known.”

Fascinating. I copy a page out of Ebb’s book and reach for a biscuit so I can turn this puzzle over in my mind for a minute before getting back to the matter at hand. Simon has dragon magic, not just physical parts. How had I not thought about that before?

“How come you’ve never told Simon any of this?”

Ebb looks down guiltily at her lap and fidgets with her mug.

“Maybe it wasn’t right…but I didn’t think he was ready. He was so lost when I met him. Spent his whole life trying to meet expectations that weren't right for him. I wanted him to know who Simon was before running off trying to figure out how to be half a dragon.”

Ebbs chuckles weakly and shakes her head forlornly. “Can you imagine trying to live up to that expectation?” she asks.

My mind readily supplies the imagery. I’ve seen the flesh and blood and bones of it standing in my living room. I’ve been privy to his unwavering gaze, the set of his shoulders (the cheekiness of his tail). I’ve felt the way his wings curled around me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I smile and I’m certain it’s written all over my face how I feel about him.

“I think Simon is more than up to the task,” I tell her.

“Oh, I don’t doubt him for a minute, love! I know how strong Simon is. I just—he’s been through so much already. I hate to pull the rug out from under him just as he’s getting his footing.”

“I understand why you were worried, Ebb. It would be a lot for anyone to handle. I haven’t known Simon for that long, and I’m just recently learning more about his past…”

I pause and smile as I remember my first phone call with him. How instantly I was hooked, despite my best intentions.

“I didn’t take his measure properly myself, at first. I thought he was a hopeless case,” I tell her, shaking my head. “But I was wrong.”

“He has changed quite a bit since he’s met you,” Ebb observes.

I search her face briefly for meaning before dropping my gaze to my lap. “He’s changed me too,” I admit.

“Maybe it is time,” Ebb says. “I think I might have been a little selfish, too worried about losing him once he knew. But you’ll keep him here and safe, won’t you, love?”

Do I have that sort of claim on him? I hardly dare to hope, for fear of jinxing things. But I will certainly be there for him as long as he’ll let me. And I don’t think he’d leave Penny and Ebb.

“I think you should tell him, Ebb. He deserves to know. It might clear up some things for him, help him fully embrace his identity and understand his body. I think he’d want to know where he came from, even if he’ll always belong here, with you and Penny.”

Ebb starts on a new round of sniffling and fussing with the tea. I gaze into the fire, my chest feeling full and tender. What a strange turn of events, that our stories would end up being so entangled. Two tragically motherless boys. Two fierce women betrayed while fighting to bring justice to the world. Two lost souls trying to control magic we don’t understand. We really do match.

Ebb interrupts my thoughts. “Basilton, may I ask you something?”

“You may. I hope you won’t mind if I decline to answer.”

Ebb nods but asks her question anyhow. “Do you have a confidant in the vampire world?”

Christ, can Ebb read my thoughts?

“I do not seek company of that kind, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“They’re not all bad, Basilton. Look at yourself!”

I scoff and fold my hands in my lap.

“And there’s my Nicky…never hurt a soul. There are plenty of people who are willing to share. Drinking doesn’t have to be fatal.”

No, murdering my mother was a choice. Turning me was a choice.

“He’s like you now, you know. Gets his blood from the butcher nowadays. Daren’t hang around the vampire haunts anymore. Doesn’t want any trouble.”

“I’m not interested.”

“It could be a comfort to have someone who understands your trials, Basilton! Someone you could confide in. Someone to look out for you.”

“Margaret looks out for me. And I’ve made a career out of helping creatures find their way in the human world. I know what I’m doing. I get by.”

Ebb sighs.

“Nicky gets lonely sometimes. He’s afraid to let anyone get close. It breaks my heart seeing him like that. Not that I see him much anymore. It’s safer for him out in the country.”

I feel a slight pang at that, for Ebb. She obviously misses him.

“He and your aunt Fiona were such lovebirds back in the day. That’s how Natasha knew about him. Thick as thieves they were during the negotiations. Those were high times for us all. I really thought it was going to work out for them. For everyone…”

Ebb turns a watery, regretful smile on me.

“I’m so sorry she was taken from you, Basilton. Your mother’s dream was a beautiful one. I would have given anything to see it come true.”

She reaches over and rests her warm, leathery hand on my knee. I tip my head back against my chair and shut my eyes to keep the tears at bay.

“Sometimes,” I whisper, “I think I’d give anything just to have a mother.”

Ebb is up in a flash, pulling my head tight against her scratchy sweater, murmuring and shushing me. I don’t fight it. I let the tears come and I can’t quite tell whether I’m crying because I miss my mother or because I learned more about her in the last hour than I ever knew of her when she was living.

Ebb draws back after a bit and brushes the hair out of my face before taking my cheeks in the palms of her hands.

“You’ve got people looking out for you, love, don’t you forget that. You have me and you have Margaret and you have Simon. That boy’s mad about you and he’s a good one to have on your side. The very best.”

Is she trying to make me cry again?

“That’s…Thank you, Ebb. For everything.”

More shushing and fussing.

I smile weakly and draw myself up to go. Ebb sees me to the door and when I step out under the streetlights, I feel raw and spent. But also connected and seen in ways I never have before.

I never realised how much guilt I carry over being the thing that came along and ruined everything. That was the only part I played in the story as I knew it. It made me feel doomed to forever be an outsider: not human, not really a vampire. A disappointment to the rest of the creatures, regardless of how hard I work today to help make things easier for them.

By sharing what she did, Ebb has given me some of my story back. I’ll never be anonymous and I’ll never escape my mother’s legacy. But perhaps there is room for me to stand outside of her shadow on my own merit. Not despite being a vampire, but as myself, valued as Nico was, because I have a foot in both worlds.

Maybe some unknown magic did draw Simon and me together. Maybe we are meant to bring each other strength and comfort as we uncover the truth about our origins and chart a new path forward. Maybe our future is as knotted together as our past.

Chapter Text

Not ‘healthy’

Obviously, I’m trying to devise a healthy scone…that’s not a secret. But it shouldn’t have to taste healthy. At least not as healthy as that last batch. It’s time to up my game.

After some additional internet research, I’ve committed to the added trouble of soaking the cherries. I strain off the soaking liquid to thin the yoghurt even further in hopes of disguising the wholemeal flavour. I put the second egg back in because I was already on the fence about the loss of protein versus the added cholesterol. I panic at the last minute and add an extra half ounce of butter.

Thankfully, the resulting batch is vastly improved. I’m spared the humiliation of pitching a Simon Snow style scone tantrum. It wouldn’t have been pretty.

I think they still need more liquid to rise properly. I’ll never fully internalise how thirsty this flour is, because it just doesn’t make sense. I’ve practically doubled the liquids from the original recipe already. But the added step of soaking the cherries was definitely worth it. They’ve become one with the scones in a most delightful way and the slightly acidic juice has tempered the wholemeal flavour just as I hoped it would.

📚📚📚

Spurred on by the knowledge that Simon likely does have some genuine dragon genetics, I’ve made arrangements for a trip to the British Library to see what additional resources I might be able to turn up about dragon physiology and foraging habits.

The British Library has a number of reading rooms, each geared towards a different portion of their vast collections. You’re allowed to request up to ten books per day, which I did two days ago to make sure all the items I wanted would be paged before I arrive. I’ve maxed out the limit and I’ll need to visit several different reading rooms to see them all.

My first stop is Science 3 to skim a recent thesis on Komodo dragon conservation and whether tracking the relative abundance of three major prey species can accurately predict the presence of local dragon populations. I’ve been trying to think broadly about analogues for actual dragons that would be more thoroughly studied and documented in the literature. The geography for Komodo dragons is all wrong, but the physiology seems like a decent fit.

I have to show my Reader Pass in order to retrieve my book from the reading room attendant. Not to leave the building with the book—just to read it. I am fortunate to have the documents necessary to procure a Reader Pass, despite my creature status. Since I was born human, I have a British birth certificate, making the navigation of British bureaucracy possible for me. Many of my creature clients are not so fortunate; they couldn’t come here to read this information about Komodo dragons for themselves.

Now that I’ve read about Komodos though, I’m thinking that might be for the best…

Komodo dragons are actually rather disgusting. They’re not fast enough to capture their prey outright. So they just bite them. With their mouths full of poisonous bacteria. Bacteria that grow on the food that gets stuck between their teeth. Eww.

Their saliva also contains anti-clotting agents. So whatever unfortunate animal they’re bitten dies a slow, painful death, bleeding out and growing weaker over a period of days. I’m horrified and also regrettably impressed. I can’t concur with their taste preferences however; I like my food fresh.

The Komodos bide their time and wait for their prey to begin to smell. Then they track their rotting quarry by scent, with a range of nearly four kilometres. My heightened sense of smell is nowhere near that sensitive. Thank Varney!

The thesis discusses three major prey species: Javan rusa deer, wild boar and water buffalo. There are a bunch of statistical models and figures I don’t care about. The main take-home points are that juvenile Komodos eat low on the food chain: insects, lizards, snakes and birds, while mature Komodos eat warm blooded animals: rodents, goats and the three larger mammals the thesis focuses on.

I wonder whether Snow would be considered a juvenile? Is his dragon transformation complete or is there more to come? Will he always just be mostly human with unusual appendages or is there more going on beneath the surface that I can’t see?

I file a few additional facts away for later. Apparently Komodos can’t harm one another with their poisonous bite, though they do eat each other if the opportunity arises. Scientists are studying their blood to search for antibodies that may have applications for human medicine. How similar is human blood to Komodo blood? I’ve been wondering if Simon’s high cholesterol reading has any bearing on his actual health due to his likely physiological differences from regular humans.

There are some details about the way Komodo dragons eat that bear an uncanny resemblance to Snow’s dining habits. Ability to consume nearly his weight in food in a single sitting? Check. Alarmingly efficient throat and neck muscles? Uh-huh. Large, agile jaw that can open unusually wide? Gulp.

It’s a bit warm for a three piece suit today.

At least he doesn’t throw up the contents of his stomach when threatened (I don’t think).

After I return the Komodo thesis, it’s off to Science 2 for a bulletin from Forestry England’s White-tailed Eagle Project. Eagles had been largely extirpated from England (and much of the rest of the British Isles) by the end of the 18th Century, through a combination of habitat destruction and persecution. I can’t help but wonder how these same forces have impacted dragon populations.

It turns out native British Eagles have a decidedly coastal bent to their diet and habitat. I’m not sure if that’s a good analogue for Simon. European dragons of lore have always been associated with mountains, forests and fields. Eastern dragons prefer watery habitats but don’t appear to eat much of anything in popular legends. I’ve been pondering those differing habitat associations between Eastern and Western dragons and what that would mean for Simon’s ideal diet.

The problem is I don’t know if any of it is real.

So much of what people believe about any predator species is false and based in fear. The White-Tailed Eagle report yields much of the same. Half of the report is devoted to the results of a public opinion survey done to gauge changing perspectives and public support four years into the eagle reintroduction project. It’s St. George and the Dragon all over again. But the results of the opinion survey were largely positive. None of the livestock or pet attacks people feared have transpired. And people love observing the eagles, reporting sightings and submitting photos.

The eagles eat a lot of carrion, fish and shore birds. In inland areas, they sometimes prey on small mammals such as muskrats and hares. One fan in Sussex submitted photos of an eagle pulling a carp through a hole in the ice with its taloned foot. The way the eagle was moving reminded me of some of the illustrations I’ve seen of historical dragons. But somehow the fish part doesn’t feel right to me.

Of course, I could just swallow my pride and call Margaret. It’s the obvious answer. But there are a number of reasons why I don’t want to do that, starting with Simon’s privacy as my patient, obviously.

The low-hanging fruit taken care of, I decide it’s time to rip the plaster off and face the Manuscripts Room. It’s a shame that the Manuscripts Room causes me so much anxiety. The materials there are my undisputed favourites to consult. It’s the people who are the problem.

The manuscript librarian hates me for some reason. I’ve been nothing but pleasant to him over the years. Still, even after dozens of incident-free visits, he’s never warmed up to me. I think he has some sort of bone to pick with my thesis advisor. I wish I’d known that before I asked her to write my letter of introduction. But I can’t take it back now, that letter is too precious.

A Letter of Introduction is required to obtain permission to handle the most irreplaceable treasures at the BL. The letter must vouch for your qualifications, explain the purpose of your work, and justify the relevance of the requested items. It’s an extremely sensitive business. The letter I currently have on file dates back a couple of years. I was without one for over a year (my former letter from when I was writing my thesis expired after I sat for my examinations).

When a human client of mine presented with a rare genetic disease known to have roots in a medieval village, I saw an opportunity to build a case for a new letter. I argued that combing through the records and writings of the monks and nuns of the local abbey for accounts of the sick, herbal remedies and traditional foodways could yield critical breakthroughs in care for my modern-day client.

It wasn't strictly necessary but it was a safely human-centric example and close enough to my thesis research that I knew my advisor would provide the new letter and that it would get approved. I convinced her to add in some verbiage about how my ground-breaking approach to researching cases is becoming the new gold standard for my field. That she believes it should be applied more broadly and hopes this letter will suffice for future visits.

What I really wanted access to was the medieval bestiaries, those strange and wonderful amalgamations of fact and fiction that fascinated scholars and nobles the world over. Written in a time when the distinction between reality and fantasy was blurry, perhaps wisely so. A time when people didn’t think believing in dragons was foolish and anything seemed possible. So far my new letter of introduction has been working, but I still get anxious about it. I worry I’ll be turned away or someone will grow suspicious and expose one of my clients.

Each and every visit, the manuscript librarian pulls up my letter and acts like he’s never seen it before. He pretends to notice my advisor’s name and pronounces it in a voice dripping with scorn. He lowers his glasses into place and goes on to read out portions of the letter itself—a shocking breach of patron privacy. Then he recites the list of titles I’ve requested, peering suspiciously and humming incredulously all the while. It’s a struggle not to throttle him.

I stride confidently into the Manuscripts Room. There’s no point in being subtle; the librarian has seen my request and knows I’m coming. I’ve chosen a three-piece suit today: a rich toffee brown with a subtle check pattern on the waistcoat. My pale blue shirt is all buttoned up with a rose pink tie on top.

The desk appears empty at first but then someone I assumed was an attendant turns away from the shelves and takes a seat at the librarian’s desk. This could either be a fortuitous, if unexpected, turn of events or it could be a complete and utter disaster. As much as I hated the old librarian, he did eventually hand over the books.

As I step towards the counter, the librarian’s face lights up. I don’t think I imagine the way his eyes dart across my body.

“Well, hello,” he drawls.

Oh dear. I’m not sure this is an improvement.

“Good day,” I say, attempting to set a formal tone. “I have several items on hold.”

“Do you have a reader card?”

“Of course,” I assure him as I draw the card from my pocket and set it face down on the counter.

“You seem to know the drill,” he observes, turning my card over to read my name. “You must be a regular.”

That depends on how painful you make this process, I think to myself as I take his measure. I did not come here to flirt with the librarian. I can see how that could be someone else’s idea of a good time...but not mine. I’m eager to get my hands on those manuscripts and after that, I’ll be eager to get on the train home so I can text Simon.

“Tyrannus?” he says with a smirk, as if no one has ever thought to tease me about my given name before. Obviously, I don’t engage.

“I trust everything is in order,” I state in a bored tone while looking around for an attendant.

“Let’s see what I’ve got for you…”

It takes forever for him to pull up my account. I think he misspelt my name two times.

“Ah, there’s a restricted item…” He furrows his brow and pecks some more at the keyboard and clicks around with the mouse for what feels like an eternity. “I see you have a letter on file. I just need to read it real quick.” He looks up after a moment to add, “since it’s your first visit.”

“Since it’s your first time assisting me,” I correct. “The letter has been on file for two years,” I mutter under my breath.

“A doctor, eh? We don’t get many doctors in here…”

I do not appreciate the suggestive lilt in his voice. I sigh and put on my disappointed doctor face. “Will that be all?”

He ducks his head and has the decency to look contrite.

“Sorry. We’re attempting to strike a lighter, more welcoming tone with our patrons. We received some feedback that indicated it would be appreciated. I may have taken it a bit far?” The look he gives me is a question, not an apology. My flat expression should read as a decisive no but he looks me over again appreciatively anyhow.

“Well, it’s certainly a pleasure to have you here today,” he smirks. “Polly will meet you at the desk over there with your first item. Let me know if I can be of any assistance,” he adds in a hopeful tone.

Good lord. I suppose this is an improvement over the way the old librarian used to give me the third degree. But I don’t really relish having this man’s eyes all over me while I do my research. When Polly arrives with the first box I ask if I can sit in the back where it’s quieter. She happily obliges and I trail after her, nodding and humming obediently as she walks me through the handling procedures.

Once she’s gone, I carefully lift the lid off the plain grey box. The slow drag of the cloth covered box as the two precisely fitted halves slide apart is intentional, to prevent the box from falling open and spilling the unbound pages hidden inside. A four-flap buffered paper wrapper provides another layer of protection. I fold back each flap one by one to reveal the stack of pages.

The top sheet is deceptively plain. You wouldn’t want to waste ornament on an outer page that could very easily get damaged. I lift the stack of pages out onto the table and begin leafing through them. The subsequent sheets are crowded with hand-written text, illustrations and diagrams. On some, there is writing from several different hands, interspersed and spilling into the margins.

I have to remind myself to stay on task. It would be easy to have the sun skate clear across the sky and the closing announcements echo from the loudspeakers before I turned more than a handful of pages. I make a list of the creatures covered in this particular bestiary for future reference and then find my way back to the dragon pages.

I examine the illustration first. The artist has chosen a red pigment for the dragon, no doubt an expression of Brittonic pride. It was the red dragon of the Brittons that was victorious according to the legend of Vortigern’s attempt to build a castle at Dinas Emrys in Wales.

I wonder if all extant dragons are red or if there is still a range of colours? Are Simon’s wings and tail red because he actually is Welsh? I’ve never seen Margaret’s dragon form but I suppose that wouldn’t clear up the Welsh thing if she’s also his mother.

The dragon’s bulging gut, evidence of its gluttony, drags on the ground beneath it. It looks an awful lot like a Komodo in this respect. The wings are skimpy. Disappointingly undersized for a creature of its girth. I’ve become somewhat of an expert on these matters. I’m no artist, but I’m fairly certain I could reproduce Simon’s magnificent wings scale for scale.

I move on to deciphering the text. It’s slow going, as it’s written in Latin as well as in script. I can’t puzzle every word out but I get the gist. It opens with a whole lot of fear-mongering and ends with incantations and a recipe for an herbal repellent. Fascinating stuff but nothing particularly useful to me. I’m certainly not looking for repellents.

I carefully arrange the loose leaves of the bestiary manuscript back into the paper wrapper and lower it into the box. Polly comes over to exchange it for the second item I requested. It’s quite similar to the first, though the illustrations are much more vibrant. This dragon’s neck is drawn back and its wings are caught mid-flap. It’s looking right at the viewer with one wild eye and it appears ready to spit fire.

The text is more of the same, which is not unexpected. It was common practice to copy text from other sources right into these books. Each new version represented the most comprehensive knowledge to date on a given topic. Unfortunately, the goal wasn’t a meaningful understanding of the elements necessary to a dragon’s wellbeing. Just rubbish recommendations about how to placate and deter them. Anything to keep the dragon from demanding a maiden sacrifice.

It’s always maidens. I sigh and massage my face for a moment. I have a sneaking suspicion the dragons were being scapegoated. I’d be willing to wager that most of those damsels fucked off to join a traveling caravan or something more exciting than the life of boredom and drudgery their parents and future husbands had in mind for them.

The one consistent element in both the illustrations and the text of each bestiary I’ve consulted thus far is sheep. Eating maidens is not up for discussion with Simon for obvious reasons…but sheep I can work with. I wonder if there’s a way I can ask Margaret about this without betraying Simon’s confidence?

I pack up the last batch of pages and thank Polly for her assistance. As I make my way towards the exit the librarian calls after me.

“I hope we’ll see you here again, Tyrannus!”

Several researchers’ heads pop up at the disturbance. How mortifying. I come to a stop with my hand on the door and pivot slowly around to face the desk at the far end of the room. There are still researchers glancing between us, watching the show. I’ve my most imperious sneer on as I gesture around the room at the gawkers who should have their heads in their books, then yank the door open and depart.

I huff all the way to the Members’ Room and fume as I stand in line to order. It’s not until I’m sat at my table, sipping my drink that I can see the humour in the situation. It’s harmless really. For years I’ve dreaded dealing with the old librarian and now that’s a thing of the past. I can handle a little shameless flirting. He’ll get the message eventually. It does make me miss Simon though…

Me (12:45):
What’s for lunch?

Scone lover ❤️ (12:46):
shep brought nandos by

Scone lover ❤️ (12:46):
hes my saviour

Me (12:48):
I thought *you* were the one with the hero complex.

Scone lover ❤️ (12:48):
even heroes need help sometimes

Me (12:48):
After all I’ve done for you…

Me (12:49):
Some rando swoops in with a burrito and HE’S the saviour?

Scone lover ❤️ (12:49):
i don’t want you to be my saviour

Scone lover ❤️ (12:49):
i want you to be my bf

Me (12:51):
Did you know you bear a disturbing resemblance to the Komodo dragon?

Scone lover ❤️ (12:51):
oh fuck off

Scone lover ❤️ (12:52):
wait are you flirting with me?

Me (12:53):
What gave you that idea?

Scone lover ❤️ (12:54):
idk it sorta tracks

Scone lover ❤️ (12:55):
is it the tongue that does it for you?

Me (12:55):
Don’t be ridiculous.

Scone lover ❤️ (12:55):
or the ability to swallow huge chunks of meat whole?

Me (12:56):
Shut. Up.

Scone lover ❤️ (12:56):
or is it the tail?

Scone lover ❤️ (12:56):
it sure likes *you*

Me (12:57):
How flattering to be clung to by a needy appendage.

Scone lover ❤️ (12:56):
u dont need to be a tit about it

Me (12:58):
Do you also puke up your lunch so you can run away faster when you’re stressed?

Scone lover ❤️ (12:59):
um…not usually?

Me (12:59):
That’s a relief.

Me (13:05):
Snow?

Me (13:08):
Fuck. I’m sorry.

Me (13:09):
I shouldn’t joke about stuff like that.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:10):
u really shudnt

Me (13:11):
I might have been deflecting.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:11):
ur such an arse sometimes

Me (13:12):
I’m looking forward to our meeting tomorrow. I’ve learned some interesting things about dragons.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:12):
im not a dragon

Me (13:12):
You’re not NOT a dragon either.

Me (13:13):
I think we should at least consider it.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:13):
fine

Scone lover ❤️ (13:14):
just so long as I dont have to eat any virgins

Me (13:14):
Don’t be absurd. That virgin stuff is a bunch of nonsense.

Me (13:15):
Even *I* don’t do that.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:15):
u dont?

Me (13:15):
No. I eat lamb like a normal Egyptian.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:16):
yum

Scone lover ❤️ (13:16):
is that what were cooking this week?

Me (13:16):
I think so. I have to find a recipe simple enough for you to handle.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:17):
or we can just cook together…

Me (13:17):
Usually lamb is stewed for several hours, Snow.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:17):
so?

Scone lover ❤️ (13:17):
sounds perfect to me 😉

Me (13:20):
We can discuss it tomorrow.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:20):
thats NOT a no

Me (13:21):
It’s not a yes either.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:21):
no no not a no

Scone lover ❤️ (13:22):
NOT no…

Me (13:22):
You’re impossible.

Scone lover ❤️ (13:24):
not no 😁

Me (13:25):
🙄

When my drink is gone, I head for the Rare Books reading room, to look at a few bound volumes. I’ve got no trepidation about this stop. In fact, I saved it for last, to end on a good note; the librarians here have always been very welcoming and helpful.

“Hey Baz. Be with you in a minute,” the librarian calls when I enter.

“Take your time, Jules.”

“Alright, Baz?” Jules greets me after a moment.

“I’ve been well, and you?”

“Keeping busy as always. A couple of the titles you asked for are available as reproductions from the open shelves,” she tells me, gesturing in the direction of the 398s as she simultaneously greets someone who came in behind me and nods at another researcher who just set a return on the desk.

I’m trying to hide my disappointment about not being able to handle the original versions of the items I asked for, when Jules turns back to me.

“So…I took the liberty of pulling a couple alternate titles…”

I quirk my eyebrow in response. I love this woman.

“I know you have eclectic interests and I wasn’t quite sure what you were after today…But I had a good feeling about this one.”

She sets an unassuming volume on the desk in front of me. It looks old. It looks like a diary. I raise my eyes to her in shock.

“Not many people know about that one,” she says with a wink. And then she’s stepping out from behind the desk to help someone else find something on the shelves.

I can hardly contain my excitement as I look around for an open table. I’m torn between seizing the nearest one so I can get the book open faster and seeking out the most sheltered seat so I can protect my prize.

It’s not every day that Jules hands you a book you didn’t ask for. She regularly performs wizard-like feats of book retrieval, knowledge retention and multitasking. But this is different. She used her actual book magic to help me. She told me once on a rare quiet visit that she has a limited supply of book magic or ‘tingles’ as she calls it. She doesn’t use it on command, just when the mood strikes. She can get tapped out if she uses it too much.

Jules’ family is from Egypt, like mine. She wears a lot of leopard print (and somehow manages to look good in it). I like to think of her as a descendant of Seshat, the Egyptian goddess of writing.

I take a seat and an attendant brings over a book cradle. I set the diary upon it and gently splay the cover open. I spend a minute peering at the script on the inside cover trying to get my bearings and glean information about the author. I can’t quite make out the name—Isabel? Whoever it was made sure to note their connection to the convent of St. Mary of the Black Ladies.

The earliest entry is dated March 20, 1489—the spring equinox—an auspicious day to begin a new diary. The entries are short but the author was very consistent. She seems to have made time to record the events of each and every day. It’s more of a day book than a diary. The first entry reads: “Gleamy and ceald. Saturion in blosme. Weschyng of auter-clothys. Eighte pilgrim.” As always when reading old texts, I understand the gist: it was cold, something was blooming, she washed clothes. The fact that she counted the pilgrims is likely a sign that the visitors were more work than pleasure.

I read several pages filled with entries like this, interesting details of daily life, but not what I’m looking for. I start flipping faster, seeing if something jumps out at me, when I come upon another title page that begins: “The most wondrous and hair-raising travails of…” I have a feeling things are about to get good.

The entries that follow are much longer. The economical shorthand gives way to flowery prose that spares no detail. It seems the author was journeying as an intercessor, seeking divine healing on behalf of the ailing prioress of her convent. Her destination was the newly completed chapel at St Winefride's Well in Wales.

Each day the author fills several more pages, marvelling over the changing landscape and customs of the people that she meets. She recounts stories of salvation and mercy shared by fellow pilgrims in addition to her own adventures.

Her donkey falls lame and she spends several weeks in Oswestry, doing washing in exchange for her keep and learning new medicinal recipes from the women tending to pilgrims at the hospice. Back on the road, as she’s winding along a hillside in Wales, she spots something in the distance.

She tells of the creature’s flight across the fields, soaring, looping and free. She watches it roost on a rocky summit with its tail curling languidly. She describes the wonder of its scales glinting in the morning sun. It’s a dragon, she’s fairly certain.

Then she watches as a second beast streaks past and lands upon a heap of something to the side of the side of the road just ahead of her. It grips the carcass in its talons and attempts to haul it into the air, but the first dragon (now she’s certain that’s what they are) screeches and strikes the second upon its back, knocking it loose. The two grapple on the ground and then in the air, until finally the interloper is chased away.

The first dragon hops upon the carcass, tearing off a few gruesome mouthfuls before picking it up and flapping laboriously into the air. It carries its prize back to its perch and spends a few minutes scanning the horizon before settling down to rest.

I turn the page, eager for more and when I gasp audibly, heads turn my way. I meet Jules’ eyes and she smiles, a small, secret thing before another researcher claims her attention. I drop my attention to the page in wonder.

My narrator has filled the entire spread with drawings of the dragons.

The left side is a detailed portrait of the main dragon perched on its rocky summit. Its body snakes amongst the rocks and its head is alert, though its eyes are closed. What’s truly remarkable is the wings. Most of the other dragon illustrations I’ve seen have depicted the wings as skimpy, stunted things that couldn’t lift a pigeon into the air. Their makers very clearly never have seen a specimen themselves. This dragon has magnificent wings, stretched wide and angled to catch the afternoon sun which the author has shown streaming through a gap in the mountain behind the dragon’s perch. I’ve seen cormorants sun themselves in precisely this way.

The right hand page contains a bunch of quick sketches that attempt to record the action of the two dragons as they tussled over the meat. They’re crude but leave me in no doubt about the veracity of the narrative on the preceding pages. My narrator did indeed observe dragons in the wild and record the sighting. I turn back to read her words again.

Unfortunately, she does not name the prey with conviction. It’s clear that the kill was not fresh and that the second dragon had no qualms about eating what was, for all practical purposes, carrion. The location of the carcass so near to the road suggests that it could perhaps have been a beast that died of natural causes in the service of human travellers, another donkey perhaps.

My narrator did not admit to any fear that the dragons would come after her own donkey, or herself for that matter. That feels like the sort of dramatic detail that would have been included if that were the popular sentiment of the time. I am left to conclude that the author did not experience fear. Perhaps she was an exceptionally brave individual, or perhaps the fear-mongering came with later generations, after dragons had passed into obscurity, leaving only mythical tales behind.

I would love to stay and read this volume cover to cover but the reading room will be closing soon and I have a few more texts to consult. Jules is swamped with visitors at the desk, so I return the diary to the attendant and locate the bestiaries in the open shelves. Jules catches me as I’m setting the last volume on the reshelve cart.

“That’s one hell of a story, yeah?”

“Yes. Extraordinary.”

“Such an imaginative mind! It’s a shame women didn’t have much of a voice until recently. We would have been spared all the overwrought nonsense in those bestiaries…”

Jules breaks into a chuckle before catching herself. She must remember that I specifically came here to see the bestiaries.

“Did you find what you were looking for then?”

“I did. Our intrepid Sister was very informative. Thank you.”

She gives me a quizzical look. I quirk my eyebrow and then turn to go without further explanation. It angers me sometimes that humans refuse to acknowledge the existence of beings beyond their understanding, even when they’re right in front of them. How would Jules respond if I told her I’d seen a dragon myself? That I’m practically dating one?

My heart beats a little faster as I think of the two dragons grappling. The pic I took of the Sister’s sketches will certainly be joining the photos of Simon LARPing on my camera roll. I guess I can understand how even someone like Jules would find it hard to believe. Simon was like something out of a fairy tale crammed into my mundane flat with his wings unfurled and his tail tugging at my calf. I haven’t been brave enough to ask him about flying. Can you imagine?

Now, more than ever, I want him to know Margaret. I want him to know that craggy mountain top in Wales. I can see him there, thanks to the courageous Sister.

Chapter Text

BAZ

Not caked in icing and full of weird shit

Even though the heat wave ended after that first baking day, I still refuse to watch the oven while the scones bake. I can’t handle the heartache when they sit there like lumps of coal refusing to rise. I hide out in the living room until the timer sounds.

I have a tentative hope that this might finally be the last batch. I remove the tray from the oven and after they’ve cooled a minute, I approach them as Simon would. I heft them, I sniff them, I turn them around in my hands. I break one open and examine the crumb. My fangs pop in anticipation of taking a bite and I view that as a good sign.

Mmmmm. Perfection.

Soft and light and flavourful (in a good way). No icing necessary. Now where did I put that butter?

🐐🐐🐐

It’s judgement day and I’m a nervous wreck. I had set out a casual outfit the night before. But when I put it on, I felt unhinged. I’ve buttoned myself into a full suit and tie, the better to contain the ball of nerves that I’ve been reduced to.

Normally, stepping through the doors of The Goat sets me at ease. But today it’s the source of my woes. I take a deep breath as my hand reaches for the door and then I push on through (the door and my inner turmoil).

“Hello Ebb,” I drawl when I reach the counter.

“Oh, is it that time already?”

“I came early because I have a favour to ask of you.”

“What is it, love?”

“Can you skip Simon’s scones when he comes in?”

Ebb gives me a questioning, somewhat concerned, look. I’m more than a little worried about how this conversation is going to go.

“I’ve been working on a scone recipe that Simon can bake for himself. One that’s a little healthier for him. I brought samples for him to try.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, Ebb.”

I really am. Their bond is very important to both of them. I hate that this thing that they share has to be clouded in any way.

“He loves your scones and he loves you. They’re really good scones,” I assure her. “For a normal person, that’s just fine—a nice treat. But Simon, he just, well, he just eats so many of them. I wanted him to have an option he could eat with impunity. Without me worrying.”

Ebb’s face softens and she reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand.

“You gonna give us a taste then?”

Oh Christ. I certainly wasn’t planning on being judged by a whole panel of scone experts…but I did bring plenty (in case Simon actually likes them). I rummage in the bag and hand Ebb a single scone. She tilts her head appraisingly when she sees it but doesn’t waste time examining it the way Simon surely will. She breaks it open, nods at the crumb structure and takes a bite, chewing as she rings me up for my standard order.

“Just a smidge more sugar and they’ll be perfect,” Ebb pronounces with a wink and turns to make my drink.

I feel a wave of tension drain from my body. I’ve been so worried about how Ebb would take all of this. I’m extremely relieved that I haven’t offended her. And I’m increasingly hopeful that Simon won’t hate my scones. I hear the bell at the door tinkle and glance over my shoulder. Speak of the devil…

SIMON

Baz is at the counter when I come in. He does that now. Actually chatting with me before we sit down. No more breezing in with his aloof expression and waiting until he has his papers out on the table to greet me. It feels more like meeting a friend for coffee now, instead of a performance appraisal—much more to my liking. Hopefully soon I’ll be allowed to kiss him on the cheek and watch him blush while we wait for our drinks.

Not today though. In fact, Baz hurries off to our table before I make it to the counter. He’s all dressed up and he’s got another carry-out bag with him. I wonder what he’s up to?

“Simon, you go on and catch up with Baz. I’ll have your order out in a minute,” Ebb says.

“You sure, Ebb? I can carry the scones over at least.” I mean, there’s a fresh tray right there…My mouth’s watering just looking at them.

“That’s alright, love,” Ebb calls over her shoulder. “I was just about to run to the back and grab something. It’ll just be a minute.”

I cast a wistful glance at the scones before heading empty-handed to our table where Baz is already setting things out. I drop into the chair across from him and grin as I watch him bustle about. He really is a sight for sore eyes.

“Hey, Baz. Whatcha up to?”

He finally stills his hands and takes a deep breath.

“It’s time for the final reckoning.”

My heart jumps into my throat. What is he on about, the dramatic git?

Ebb brings our drinks and an empty plate over. She gives Baz’s shoulder a quick squeeze before heading back to the counter where she sets to work cleaning the espresso machine. No scones.

Alarmed, I turn my attention back to Baz. He’s taking something out of the bag and setting it on the plate. It’s a scone, with cherries in it.

He’s watching me with wild eyes, his hands fidgeting on the table in front of him.

I’m frozen in place with my stomach in knots. I can’t screw this up. I’ve got to do better than last time. Even if this scone is horrible, I have to be nice about it. I wish he’d given me some warning…

“For Christ’s sake Simon, put me out of my misery!”

“Alright. Okay.” With a trembling hand, I pick up the scone.

I’m relieved when the weight of it feels right. It doesn’t look anything like Ebb’s scones but I know that’s because of the wholemeal flour. Baz already explained it to me, that the fibre in wholemeal helps your body shed excess cholesterol.

When I bring the scone to my nose, it smells rich and I begin to feel a tiny flicker of hope. I glance at Baz and his eyes are locked on my mouth. It looks like he’s holding his breath. I lick my lips and he blinks. It’s electrifying, the hold I have over him at this moment. I think I could watch him watch me forever. But I force myself to open my mouth.

I sink my teeth into the scone and my senses sing. There’s just the right amount of resistance as my teeth pierce the crust and then it’s all tenderness and it’s melting in my mouth. The cherry flavour is all melded into the floury bits somehow, and it’s so good. I release my own breath with a contented sigh.

Baz is a scone wizard.

I make him wait while I chew but he knows he’s won because I’m smiling around my half-chewed bite. Ebb appears at my shoulder and slides a dish of butter onto the table.

“Not bad, eh?” she prompts, shooting an apologetic shrug at Baz over the butter dish.

“Be even better once I slather it with butter,” I tease, reaching for the knife.

Baz rolls his eyes. But even so, he’s preening, the smug bastard. God, I like him so much. Wanna eat that smirk right off his face.

I settle for another bite of scone, this time loaded with butter. Not that it wasn’t buttery before. It was. I noticed. It was everything I told Baz a scone should be. Different than I’m used to, but still perfect. Just like him.

“So…these things so healthy I could eat a dozen if I wanted?”

“Simon, no…”

“I’m just teasing. I’ll go easy for your sake. I do want to though. Remember how I said I couldn’t eat more than one of those other ones?”

“I do recall a fair amount of criticism.”

“Yeah, I was a bit of an arse.” I grimace. “But these? I could eat a lot of these.”

“I may have one or two more in the bag.”

“You gonna hand them over?”

“Yes, you nightmare,” he quips, dangling the bag by its handles in front of me. “They’re yours to dispose of as you see fit.”

I snatch the bag and stick my nose in the top. I think he might have packed up the entire batch for me. I hope not. I hope he kept at least one for himself…

“Alright, Snow. While you sit over there drooling over your baked goods, I’m going to fill you in on what I’ve learned about your kin.”

BAZ

Snow looks instantly uncomfortable and I wish I’d chosen a different euphemism for talking about how he might be at least partly a different species…I don’t think Ebb has had a chance to talk with him yet. I need to tread carefully.

“Baz, I don’t know anything about where I come from. I don't—”

“Snow, it’s ok. Nobody can pinpoint their genetic origins exactly. But it helps to consider any clues we may have. There is a lot of science that confirms the health benefits of eating more closely to one’s traditional foodways.”

“That does makes sense, I just—”

“Snow. Let me just share with you what I learned, ok? You can take advantage and eat every last one of those scones while I’m distracted.”

“Fine,” Simon huffs.

“Terrific. So, I went to the BL the other day—the British Library. I consulted a number of different references, starting in the science section and moving from there into what most would consider fantasy.”

“Is that why you were going on about Komodo dragons?” Simon asks around a mouthful of scone. (I will never get over the thrill of watching him eat something I made with my own hands.)

“That’s correct. I was looking for analogues that might be more fully researched and documented, if you catch my meaning…”

I don’t think he does. Bless him.

“Anyway, as I mentioned the other day, the Komodo has some interesting parallels to your situation. Aside from the absolutely horrifying things they do with their mouths…they have the common reptilian behaviour of gorging on food when they can, because food availability tends to be sporadic in the wild. In captivity however, where food is abundant, species that exhibit this gorging behaviour can become unhealthy if they’re fed too often.”

I hear the clink of the butter knife hitting the plate and look up. Despite being apparently absorbed in his scone, Simon appears to have heard every word and understood exactly what I was hinting at. I should’ve led off with something less loaded, but it helps me to cover things in order so I can follow my train of thought to its conclusion. I rush to soften the blow.

“This is a common behaviour with people too, when life circumstances are less predictable.” I smile reassuringly. “It’s just something to keep in mind. There may be things about your unique physiology that enable you to eat more than the average person in a sitting. But it might not be healthy for you to do that too often.”

Simon nods but casts his eyes down at the table.

“There’s also the matter of what they eat. Am I correct in presuming you don’t have an appetite for grasshoppers?”

“Ew, gross, Baz!”

“I didn’t imagine so,” I say with a smirk. “That’s alright, I suspect you’re no longer a juvenile anyhow. You’ve probably progressed, in dragon years, to eating birds and other warm-blooded animals. Chicken would be a good choice for you and goats are traditional, but…” I lower my voice and glance at Ebb, “I’m guessing that’s a no-go.”

Simon shakes his head emphatically.

“There’s also venison and buffalo—”

“Baz, they don’t sell that at Tesco! I can’t afford to buy wild-caught game at the market every week.”

“I know, I know. I’m just laying out some options. I also looked into what eagles eat.”

“Eagles are cool.”

“Yes. They are.”

I lose a second (or several) thinking about Simon’s wings curling around my back. When I catch myself probably looking altogether too lovesick, I lash out to compensate. “They eat a lot of carrion apparently.”

Simon groans and rolls his eyes. “You’re so amusing, Basilton.”

“Also, a lot of fish, the occasional rabbit, and a fair number of shore birds. So, that’s another vote for chicken or duck as an ancestral food. I’m not sure what to make of the fish, to be honest. It doesn’t feel like a dragon food to me for some reason. But that might just be all the dragon fairy tales clouding my judgement.”

“You talking about the virgins?”

“No, I’m talking about sheep, Snow. That’s what the farmers in the legends were always worried the dragons would eat: their flocks.”

“Sure. That and their daughters.”

“Nobody is eating virgins!” I hiss at Simon under my breath.

Simon just laughs at me.

“I wish you’d take this seriously,” I snap.

Simon holds up his hands, feigning innocence.

“I am, Baz, I am. I liked the fish when I made it. I felt good after I ate it. Full but not heavy, you know? Satisfied.”

“Interesting. Let’s try some other meats and see how they compare. It’s important to listen for cues your body may be giving you. Fish is certainly the go-to for a low-cholesterol diet. It has all the right kinds of fats.”

Simon looks thoughtful.

“Virgins too high in LDL fat then?”

SIMON

I think Baz would incinerate me with his glare right now if he could. I can’t help myself. I like to rile him up. I shouldn’t joke about this particular topic though. He seems really techy about it.

I grimace and mouth a silent, “Sorry,” at him.

“It’s fine. I don’t know why I’m bothering, if it’s all a joke to you.”

“Baz. Come on. I just like to tease you.”

He sniffs and scowls into the distance.

“You mentioned cooking a lamb dish together this week?”

“You were the one who decided we would do it together,” he huffs. “I had other plans.”

“On Sunday?”

“Yes, on Sunday.”

Why did he make plans on Sunday? He knows that’s the day we always cook together. And why is he just now telling me? He’s not even trying to reschedule. Is he done with me, now that he’s finished with his scone quest? Now that he knows I’m not human and apparently have weird lizard habits?

Baz huffs and gestures impatiently at the bag of scones.

“Have you already forgotten what you’ve been stuffing your face with for the past thirty minutes?”

Oh.

“I thought we could bake scones together...” he says, still looking annoyed with me.

“Like together together?”

Baz nods his head almost imperceptibly.

My cheeks hurt, I’m grinning so hard.

“You should come to my house,” I gush. “I’ll send Penny away—to Shepard’s house, or something. That way you can make sure I have all the right pans and stuff and you can make sure I do it right. I’ve never baked anything before. It’ll be fun! It’ll be like GBBO!”

Baz finally cracks a smile. God, it’s a relief when it happens.

“Will you come to mine, Baz? Please?”

“Sure, Snow. I’ll come to yours. I might bring my own bakeware, just in case what you have turns out to be rubbish like the rest of your kitchen equipment.”

That’s been a running joke between us ever since the first time we cooked together. Baz was teasing me for not knowing the difference between a pot and a skillet. He was being all flirty and confusing about it. Did he like me even then? I sure liked him (even if it took me a while to realise why I wanted to flirt back.)

“I don’t know…I have a decent skillet,” I say now, biting back a grin and hoping Baz blushes instead of walking out the door.

He sort-of does both. He blushes and starts packing up his things.

“Here’s the scone recipe so you can do the shopping,” he says as he slides a stack of papers across the table. “Also a lamb stew recipe. It’s up to you whether you want to try that one on your own or save it for next week. I’ll wait to hear from you about what time on Sunday.”

Baz chances a glance in my direction. His hand is still lingering on the pile of papers and I let my fingertips rest on top of his as I pull the recipes towards me. He sways forward a bit with the motion.

“Hey.” I say. “Can I call you later?”

“If you want to,” he breathes.

And then he slips his fingers out from under mine and he’s gone.

Ebb catches my eye and motions at my empty mug. That’s her way of asking if I want to stay a while. I nod in agreement and she brings me a refill.

🪞🪞🪞

I slip my LARP tunic over my head and stare at my reflection in the mirror as I lace up the front. When I’m done, I let my hands drop to my sides. This is the moment (usually) when I wish my wings would appear. I’m not sure I do wish that today. I don’t know.

It’s weird. You’d think knowing more about them would make me less self-conscious. But back when I didn’t have a clue where they came from, I could put them on like a costume and not think about what it meant. Now, letting them out is complicated. Also, more than a little worrisome. I’ve always known that I needed to keep them secret. I mean, no one else is walking around with wings or a tail. But now I know why.

I’m glad Ebb finally told me. I think she could tell that the not knowing was starting to eat at me. I’m also glad I had that conversation with Baz about what I should be eating at the back of my mind when I was talking to her. It helped me keep listening when my brain just wanted to run away from what she was telling me.

That fresh fish did taste really good…

It never occurred to me that I might be different on the inside too. Let alone what that might mean for my health. I mean, it’s not like I had much choice over what I ate for most of my life. I just did what people expected of me and ate what was there. As I grew up, I just kept eating what was easy, even after I started making my own choices about other stuff.

After Baz left, I sat in the cafe just thinking and looking out the windows until closing time. I helped Ebb wipe the tables down for old-time’s sake and then she invited me to keep her company while she did some paperwork in the armchairs by the fire.

I shared my last two scones from Baz with her and she complimented them again. I promised her I would never stop visiting her at The Goat no matter how good Baz’s scones were. She got a little teary telling me how lucky it was that we found each other. And then she said it was probably fated.

I was scared to ask Ebb what she meant by that, but I didn’t have to because she just jumped right in. She said, “Simon, I think it’s time for you to know about your parents.” I was stunned.

“You knew my parents?”

“I know your parents. At least, I think I do.”

And then she told me everything. She told me about meeting me for the first time and how there was just something about me that made her offer me a job at The Goat, even though she wasn’t looking for help at that time. How I would get a look on my face or gesture in a particular way and it would remind her of someone.

About that day in the storeroom when the door slammed shut and my wings burst out…

About her friend Margaret…

And boy did I feel like an idiot. Margaret. The dragon. Why did I not put two and two together when Baz mentioned her? That must be why Ebb said Baz and I were fated to meet.

Margaret comes by The Goat all the time. She’s a bit strange and gruff. But sometimes I catch her watching me and chuckling to herself. Or looking sad. Honestly, she looks pretty sad a lot of the time.

Ebb told me that’s because she lost her eggs. A long time ago. Around the time I was born.

She thinks Margaret is my mum.

I don’t know what to think about that. Usually I try not to think about where I came from, who I belong to. I got used to not knowing, not caring. I don’t really need a family. I have Penny and I have Ebb. I wouldn’t know what to do with a family…how to act. Especially not a dragon family!

But Ebb says my dad is a human. He’s still around too. Lives on the other side of London with a wife (who isn’t Margaret). He owns a butcher shop and sells specialty items to creatures (like Baz).

Just as I was wondering how he’d feel about having someone like me for a son, Ebb answered my unspoken question. She said he knew about Margaret being a dragon. That he thought she hung the moon and would have done anything for her, until she disappeared to search alone for her missing egg. That he found out about the nest much later, after she’d given me up as lost. That Margaret never let him close again.

It hurts to know that my existence (and disappearance) drove them apart like that. That I came so close to being part of a happy family, only to have it end in tragedy. My heart aches for them and I feel guilty somehow (even though I know that’s stupid) (I wasn’t even born yet).

I’ve been around Penny’s family enough to know that it’s not like the movies. Sure it’s comical at times, and dramatic and loving, but not in the grand gestures and happy endings way people like to believe in. Family is messy and it hurts sometimes. The laughter and love come out in lots of little moments that are only possible when you know someone really well. When you’ve spent a lifetime together.

How could I ever get to know my parents like that? Starting now, when I’m already an adult?

I look in the mirror and I try to see Margaret, tilting my face side to side. Maybe I have her neck? Is that a dragon thing? I might be built like her too. Sort-of wide in the shoulders, hips low to the ground.

I have no idea what my dad looks like. Jerry is his name. A butcher. I picture large hands, a barrel chest with an apron, and round cheeks. He’s probably nothing like that. I probably just want him to have strong and able hands because I do.

That’s it, isn’t it? I want to see myself in them, see them in me. I don’t know why it’s so important all of a sudden, it just is. As my wings take shape on my back, I regard them with a new level of scrutiny. In the mirror I see how they complete my silhouette, balance me out. They soften the line of my shoulders that used to jut so awkwardly under my shirt when I was skinny. They soar over my head, giving meaning to the thickness of my thighs. They belong to me as sure as night follows day.

I raise my chin and set my jaw and—there it is! Margaret's expression when I tell her the espresso machine is broken. I burst out laughing.

My tail comes up behind me and taps at my phone to remind me of the time. I make to slip my phone in my pocket but my tail grabs me by the wrist and pulls it back towards my face. I sigh and get in position for a mirror selfie, my tail up and looping into a heart shape above my head. So embarrassing. I wonder if that’s my dad’s influence. Is he a joker too?

My tail continues to needle me until I send the selfie to Baz. I think Baz does enjoy seeing my LARP photos. He always likes the ones Penny posts to her Insta.

Me (9:23):
[photo attached]

Dr. Baz ❤️ (9:24):
I suppose you’re going to blame this on your tail.

Me (9:24):
absolutely

Dr. Baz ❤️ (9:25):
Ridiculous. Both of you.

Me (9:26):
when r u coming round tomorrow?

Dr. Baz ❤️ (9:26):
I don’t know.

Dr. Baz ❤️ (9:28):
You were supposed to invite me properly.

Me (9:29):
ur such a stiff

Me (9:29):
are we shooting for elevenses? or afternoon tea?

Me (9:33):
baz?

Me (9:36):
come on i need to leave for larp in a minute

Me (9:40):
omg fine

Me (9:41):
Baz will you please come to mine tomorrow at 9am so we can bake scones together and eat them for elevenses?

Dr. Baz ❤️ (9:41):
I thought you’d never ask.

Me (9:42):
🙄

Dr. Baz ❤️ (9:42):
I’d be delighted to join you at 9, Simon.

Me (9:42):
ok good ur a real arse but im excited

Dr. Baz ❤️ (9:45):
Same.

Chapter Text

SIMON

I’ve just stashed the hoover in the cupboard (and thrown the shoes that had been piled by the front door in after it) when Baz rings the buzzer. Baz would be precisely on time.

I glance nervously around the flat. It’s certainly been tidier, but it’s also been worse. I owe Penny a round at the pub in return for cleaning the bathroom last night while I scoured the kitchen. She could tell I was panicking.

I figured the kitchen was the most important part since Baz is coming over to bake with me. Didn’t want to be working around last week’s dirty cereal bowls or balancing things on empty pizza boxes like I sometimes do. I wanted the kitchen to be comfortable (though I wouldn’t mind if we ended up on the sofa together later.)

Baz’s step is light on the stairs, even as he hits the fourth floor (must be the vampire strength) (I’m always panting by the time I reach the top.) I’m crossing the room before he even knocks. He’s here!

I fling open the door and…

It’s—well—I don’t even know what I’m looking at. It’s definitely not what I was expecting. I mean—it’s who I was expecting—but—everything’s all wrong.

BAZ

I smirk at Snow from behind the box of bakeware I brought from home. I brush past him and head towards his kitchen, not waiting for a verbal invitation. Thankfully his initial enthusiasm to see me is a sufficient enough welcome, despite his subsequent lack of manners. Simon remains stalled at the door, frowning.

You see, I am not an idiot. I know very well that Simon thinks this is a date. He thought our last scone adventure was a date, and we certainly hadn’t agreed on that. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. So, I planned accordingly.

A few years back, my father took up golfing. A couple of his cronies at the club were getting a little crotchety for tennis, so the lot of them pivoted to something a bit easier on the joints. In an effort to encourage father-son bonding, Daphne gifted me a golfing outfit last Christmas (in the modern style–no flat caps or plus fours–thankfully). It’s still every bit as appalling as you’d imagine it to be. Simon obviously agrees, which was exactly my aim in choosing it.

SIMON

What the fuck? Did he do this on purpose?!

He’s acting normal enough. It’s just–his clothes. He’s wearing a fucking polo shirt. And the most disappointing pair of chinos I’ve ever seen. I guess chinos don’t really flatter anyone…but on Baz? They’re an absolute tragedy. I’m devastated.

“Coming, Snow?”

I sigh and trudge over to join Baz in the kitchen, where he’s already piling baking trays and bowls on the table. He glances at me and I swear he’s laughing under his breath.

“Shall we get started?” he asks.

His eyebrow is doing its thing. (At least his face is still meeting expectations.) I smile weakly. I’m being a shit host. I just thought maybe—

Baz snorts and rolls his eyes. He reaches across the table to ruffle my hair.

“Come on, Snow–Look lively,” he says with a playful push to my forehead. “Some scone lover you’re turning out to be…I thought you’d be quite eager to get started. Did you manage to find the flour I specified?”

Baz’s touch breaks my sour mood and I lurch into action, my scalp still tingling where he touched me. That’s more like it, actually. I’ve had loads of thoughts about what today might be like. All of them included casual touches and playful banter. Most of them ended with me crowding Baz up against the refrigerator.

And the scones of course. When Baz said the word ‘scone’ just now, my mouth watered a little bit. I should probably be concerned about that. Baklava’s dog, wasn’t it? Baz would have a field day with that.

BAZ

Get your hands out of his hair, Basilton.

That is exactly the sort of antic Snow is apt to get up to today and you must stay above the fray. You are here in a professional capacity to instruct your patient in following a prescribed treatment regimen.

It doesn’t matter that Snow is wearing the softest-looking joggers you’ve ever seen and that damnably attractive Henley shirt.

SIMON

After I fetch the ingredients I take a break to put on some music. It’s a playlist Penny plays when she’s washing dishes. It’s nothing like what Baz was listening to at his place when I was there, but Penny has good taste. And if he doesn’t like it, I can blame Penny. (She’ll never know.)

“Ah, music is a good idea,” Baz agrees as I pick up my phone.

I start off with a classic, and I hear Baz snigger as soon as the guitar comes in. “Really, Snow? Wonderwall?”

I roll my eyes. “No one asked your opinion. You’ll survive.”

“I’m barely alive as it is, Snow. How do you know this won’t be the thing that finally does me in?”

“Gimme a break, Baz. It’s just a pop song.” I hop in place a bit to get psyched up. “So?” I prompt, “Where do we start?”

Baz smiles at me as I jump up and down (probably despite himself) and takes a package from his box. “I brought some cherries. You’ll need to put the kettle on so we can soak them in boiling water first”.

While we wait for the kettle Baz gives me the rundown on the recipe. It sounds fussy if you ask me, but he assures me even a child could make them.

We turn the oven on right away so we can check that it gets hot enough. Baz gives me a whole lecture about how the oven temperature is the most important factor for making perfect scones. He brought a thermometer from home to check it with. Such a swot.

Once the cherries are soaking, we move on to what Baz calls the ‘dry ingredients’. First he drags out the kitchen scale that came with the flat. He tries to show me how to zero the scale after I put the measuring bowl on, but I elbow him out of the way.

“I’ve used a bloody scale before, Baz,” I mutter.

I weigh out the flour carefully, then make pointed eye contact with Baz as I press the Tare button and add the baking powder. I almost forget the salt in my eagerness to demonstrate that I’m not the hopeless fool he thinks I am.

Baz has brought a contraption for tossing the flour around as we add it to the larger mixing bowl. He shows me how to use it, holding it steady with one hand while he fluidly turns the crank with the other, sending a gentle shower of flour into the bowl. It looks fun.

“Lemme do it,” I say, grabbing it from him, confident that I can mimic his motions.

But the joke’s on me. The crank catches almost immediately and when I bear down, it jolts forward, sending a volcano of flour into my face.

Baz cackles as I blink furiously to clear my eyes. He pushes a tea towel into my hands and watches while I dust myself off. He could be helping get me cleaned up. That would be the chivalrous thing to do.

“Real funny,” I mutter as I swipe at my face. I’ll get him for this.

“Perhaps we should add another ½ ounce of flour, just to be on the safe side,” he drawls.

Arsehole.

I manage to get the rest of the dry ingredients into the bowl without too much trouble. It’s not that hard to use the sifty thing once you get the hang of it.

“Well done, Snow,” Baz tells me. “Aside from the small hiccup at the start.”

I roll my eyes and growl. “We can’t all be perfect like you, Baz.”

“Naturally,” he smirks. I’m really going to get him…

My eyes fall on the open bag of flour and I have an idea. I ease around to his side of the table to put my body between him and the flour package so he won’t see—

“Do you know what time it is?” Baz asks me just then. There’s a teasing tone in his voice and I worry he’s seen right through me. I spin guiltily around to face him.

“What?” I reply, like an idiot, both because Baz interrupted my plotting and also because even though he’s wearing those hideous clothes, his face is still his face, and for a second I want it to be time to crowd him up against the refrigerator.

“It’s butter time,” he announces, with a lift of his eyebrows for emphasis.

“Butter?” That’s a distracting thought. (He’s also distracting, basically any time he moves his eyebrows.) But I can’t afford to get distracted! I was about to get even…

I turn back to the table and pretend to consult the recipe, reaching my hand into the flour as subtly as I can. I close my fist around a handful and whirl around, ready to throw it all over him and his stupid outfit. But he’s disappeared without a trace.

I wait, listening, holding my breath. I hear him in the hallway.

“Baz?”

I hear the sink in the toilet as Baz calls back. “Just washing my hands before the next step. You might want to do the same.”

I look down at my hand and consider my options, eventually dropping the handful of flour back into the package and doing as I’m told, washing my hands and getting the butter out of the freezer where Baz had me keep it until we were ready to use it. It’s cold as ice on my palm.

Baz returns and starts pulling all of the knives out of my knife block, looking for the perfect one for hacking at frozen butter (admittedly, they’re all a bit dull). I sidle up next to him and lay the block of icy butter against his neck, right inside the collar of the cursed polo shirt. Baz yelps with a start and the knife he was holding goes clattering to the floor, just missing our socked feet.

Whoops!

Baz is glaring at me. He snatches the block of butter from my hand. “You’re lucky no one lost a toe,” he hisses.

I bite my lip and mutter an apology.

After the close shave with the knife, I try to behave myself. Baz has me cut the butter into little cubes and then he shows me how to rub it into the flour, putting his hands right into the bowl to do it. I’m shocked by this development – it goes against everything I thought I knew about Baz. (I guess that’s why he made a point to wash his hands.)

Apparently, I’m a natural at working with butter and flour. Baz was having trouble breaking up the little icy cubes. The process goes a lot faster once I get my hot hands in there. Baz whisks the bowl into the fridge to cool down once I’m done. He’s obsessed with keeping the butter cold (apparently this Vera character is a real tyrant about that).

“Next up is the liquids,” he announces.

I think what he means by ‘liquids’ is wet stuff. I start pulling more ingredients out of the fridge: yoghurt, eggs–I wonder if it’s time for the cherries? They’re wet, now that they’ve been soaking.

I ask Baz about the cherries and his “No” sounds unnecessarily grumpy. When I straighten up and close the refrigerator door, he’s got my cupboards emptied onto the kitchen floor.

“How is it that you don’t have a measuring jug?” he barks.

“I don’t know…” I shrug. “I usually just eyeball it with a jar or a mug or something.”

Baz’s eyes nearly jump out of his head. “Scones will never turn out properly if you’re just–guessing! Honestly, Snow…” he sighs.

I shrug again.

“You have to be precise when baking,” he insists.

I nod mutely. Baz is really intense in the kitchen.

“It’s fine,” he sighs. “I brought a measuring jug from home just in case. I don’t know how you live like this,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I bristle. I wish he wouldn’t do that. Comments like that cut to the quick, what with how I grew up. There’s a lot of things I can live with, have had to live with. I get angry real quick when people are so sheltered and oblivious.

But before I can explode, Baz says, “I’ll just leave this one here for you. I’ve got a second one at home. I don’t even know why…I only ever cook for myself.”

He sounds mournful, like we’ve tapped a deep well of sadness. My anger melts away. I know better than to poke at deep wells of sadness.

“Hey,” I say gently, taking the cup from him. “What do I put in here?”

He meets my eyes.

“Yoghurt first. Then we’ll squeeze the juice out of the cherries.”

I do as he says and scoop the yoghurt into the glass cup. He’s right. It’s easier to work with the wide mouth jug and there’s little marks so you can tell exactly how full it is. He has me crouch down to look through it to make sure the yoghurt is level with the line. I ask him to double-check it for me, but he just smiles.

“You’ll have to do it, Simon. I didn’t bring my reading glasses with me.”

He didn’t?! Fuck.

I’d been looking forward to seeing him in his glasses, seeing him in his nice clothes. Did he do all this on purpose? I scowl up at him. His eyebrow twitches but he stays smiling. He’s so fucking pretty.

I fuss with the yoghurt a bit more. I don’t know how to measure something so gloppy. Then I pull the cherries out of the fridge. Baz has me use my hands again to scoop the cherries up and squeeze the liquid out, back into the bowl. It runs all through my fingers, staining them red.

“It looks like blood,” I joke.

Baz rolls his eyes. “It looks nothing like blood. And, before you say something else idiotic, it doesn’t taste like it either.”

“You’re the expert,” I agree with a smirk.

Then, before Baz can get prickly, I reach dramatically for him with dripping hands full of shrivelled cherries. He hops out of reach.

“You can drop those in the flour bowl now and wash your hands, you heathen.”

I chuckle, but decide not to push my luck. No way I’d actually dare to stain Baz’s clothes, even if they are the absolute worst.

Baz tosses the cherries to coat them with the flour while I wash the juice from my hands. Then we finish off the wet ingredients. The cherry juice turns it all a pretty pink colour.

Baz is a little uptight about the next part. He has me watch while he mixes the yoghurt mixture into the flour. He’s adamant that he’s NOT mixing. He’s folding, whatever that means. When it’s mixed to his liking, he asks me to hold the bowl while he cleans the table. (Apparently I got too much cherry juice everywhere.)

The first plucky bars of TEXAS HOLD ‘EM come through the speaker and Baz snorts. I catch his eye and twirl my invisible lasso over my head, bowl balanced on my hip, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.

I start high stepping around the kitchen and singing along just to annoy him.

“This ain't Texas…”

Baz’s scrubbing only gets more aggressive.

“Ain't no hold 'em…”

I shoot a finger gun in his direction and get no response whatsoever.

“So lay your cards down, down, down, down…”

I’m not giving up.

“So park your Lexus…” I sing, circling around to his side of the table.

I finally get an eye roll when I lean in on the Lexus part. (Baz is a car guy, which is unexpected and fucking adorable.)

“And throw your keys up…”

I want more than an eyeroll. When I make it back to the other side of the table I drop my hand to my waistband and put more hip into it.

“Stick around, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round…”

Baz’s scrubbing finally stills. I’m right in his line of sight–at least, part of me is…Baz is working his jaw. Is it his fangs? God, I hope so.

“And I'll be damned if I can't slow-dance with you…”

I advance on his side of the table again. His eyes flick up to mine and he looks so vexed. Like he wants to kill me. It feels like winning.

“Come pour some sugar on me, honey, too…”

I run a finger along the brim of my invisible cowboy hat and roll my hips as I chug towards him. I’m never this cheeky, but Baz makes me feel bold. He makes me feel alive.

It’s a step too far.

Baz flings the wet flannel at my face. I bat it out of the air, laughing, almost dropping the bowl and lunging to catch it.

“It's a real-life boogie and a real-life hoedown…”

I straighten up, victorious, and twirl, bowl over my head, swinging my hip out to bump Baz.

“Don't be a bitch, come take it to the floor now–”

But my hip connects with nothing but air, sending me stumbling against the table. The bowl lands with a thunk where Baz had just been just standing. He’s at the sink already washing out the flannel. I hear him snigger. He is such a killjoy!

“Snow, we’ve got to get on with things if you want scones sometime this century.”

I sigh. I am getting hungry. And Baz is obviously never going to play along…

“Alright, alright,” I gripe. “What next?” I prompt, skipping to the next song.

“Fetch the flour back over, will you? And sprinkle some on the table?”

While I flour the table, Baz checks the oven temperature. He gives an exasperated huff.

“See?! It’s a full 10 degrees off! Is this dial just for show?”

He makes me come see for myself and rants all over again about the perils of low oven temperature. It’s more than a little dramatic. I think he might be deflecting some feelings...

“We’ll need to crank it hotter,” he mutters, glowering at the oven.

And I finally manage it. My hand is still covered in flour and I flick a shower of it onto his face.

He straightens up, lips pursed, already brushing at his cheek, glaring at me.

“Baz, relax,” I tell him, suddenly feeling bad for teasing him. He’s really worked up. “What temp should I set it to?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “275 should do.”

“Alright.” I reach out and wipe the last little smudge of flour from his cheek. “275 it is.”

His eyelashes lower and for a second I think he’s going to follow the retreat of my hand right into my arms. But then his weight sways back onto his heels and his face shutters closed.

“You can dump the bowl out onto the floured table now,” he directs me. “But don’t do anything drastic. You have to treat the dough carefully from here on out.”

I take a slow breath. Back to business, then.

BAZ

I just want them to be perfect.

I can’t give Simon what he wants today. Not a kiss, anyway. But I can give him perfect scones (I hope).

I almost gave in there, for a moment (it’s been a constant fucking struggle). It’s not like I don’t want it too, want him. I just have the discipline to control myself (barely).

He’s been trying all the tricks in the books to flirt with me and I’ve dodged every last one. He’s impossible! He’s had flour stuck to his left eyebrow ever since the sifter incident and I should get a fucking medal for resisting the urge to wipe it off for him. (Don’t even get me started on the dancing.)

If I can just get through today, maybe…

Maybe I’ll let him have it his way. But not until he masters this recipe. I can’t let my personal feelings get in the way of his health. (I’ve never resented my professional obligations more.)

“We’re going to gather the dough gently into a ball and then pat it out to the right thickness,” I tell him.

Simon grabs for the dough and it squeezes out between his fingers.

“Not like that! Gently!”

I shoulder him aside and gather the dough back up with the palms of my hands.

“See? Like this. I’m folding it back on itself just until it barely holds together.”

“OK. Lemme try again–”

“No, I think I’d better–”

And I’m such a fool. Because now Simon’s reaching around me, boxing me in with his arms, placing his hands over mine, following my motions, as I fold and press, fold and press.

His hands are scalding in contrast to the chilled dough. The hair on my arms is standing on end and I’m practically swooning from his proximity. I’m tempted to knead this dough into a leathery ball just to keep feeling his palms pressing into me. But that would be short-sighted and I'm nothing if not disciplined.

I cease my kneading and Simon follows suit, waiting for my next move. I carefully extract my hands from beneath his and begin prodding the dough out into an oval shape. Simon copies me. There’s a damp warmth seeping through my shirt where Simon is breathing into my shoulder.

“We should stop now,” I say. It comes out breathy and uncharacteristically noncommittal.

“Mhmm...” Simon hums, still poking at the dough.

“They’ll be too thin,” I protest. (Anyone could tell that my heart’s not in it.)

“Still be good…” he rumbles, the sound sneaking inside my collar and skittering along my shoulders in a delicious shudder.

My next excuse dies on my parted lips. Why am I fighting this?

Simon must think better of ruining the scones, because he does eventually stop poking the dough. But he’s still right there behind me and I can’t think of anything but his breath on my neck. (Curse my vampire ears for being certain he’s breathing through his nose and not his mouth as he usually does). (And curse my vampire nature all over again for nearly whimpering at the realisation that he’s smelling me.)

He’s nosing at my hair, tracing circles just behind my ear and we’re both sighing (in the best way). There is nothing ambiguous about what’s happening right now. Nothing ambiguous about Simon’s intentions, or the effect he’s having on me. I’m losing the battle to support my weight.

“You smell like you…” he whispers.

Any moment now, this will be considered kissing. He’s running his parted lips across my neck and I’ve never felt so warm, so wanted, so alive. So much like a complete and utter failure.

The only way out of this is down. I surrender to the weakness already threatening my knees and I drop to the floor, slithering out of the circle of his arms, and scrambling to my feet.

“I’m just going to grab the cutter,” I state with as much dignity as possible, my cheeks flaming as I smooth my pants and turn to rifle through the box of supplies that I brought.

SIMON

Shit. I didn’t mean to get so lost in him...

I know Baz thinks I’m an idiot, but I’m not really. I’ve worked out that he’s determined not to kiss me today. And I won’t kiss him. Not until he’s ready. I want it to be perfect when we do.

But I’m having trouble not pushing my luck. Can you blame me for wanting to crowd into his space a little bit? Soak him in. Soften him up, like a sour cherry. His cheeks have gone all pink like cherries. It’s fucking adorable.

When he comes back with the cutter he brought from home and positions himself on the opposite side of the counter, I duck my chin and mutter an apology. He waves me off. Pretending nothing’s wrong is Baz’s way, but I’m still glad I said something.

Baz shows me how to flour the cutter and how to press it straight down and lift it back up again without twisting. He lets me try after he does the second one. When I go to cut my scone right in the middle of the oval of dough, he gently catches my hand and guides me over to the edge.

“You can fit more this way,” he explains. “You want to roll the dough out as few times as possible so it doesn’t get tough.”

He leaves his hand on mine and we press down and lift up together. We do a few more that way. Then he watches me do the rest, his elegant hands resting patiently on the table.

“Nice work,” he says, beaming, as I place the last scone on the tray.

I look down at the scones and shrug as my face grows warm. I am impressed with myself, always am whenever I pull off one of these new recipes. Praise from Baz means a lot to me. I just don’t always know how to handle it. Makes me feel funny.

“Will you brush the tops of the scones with this bit of egg we set aside while I check the oven temp one last time?” Baz requests.

I take up the brush and start dabbing at the scones, relieved to have a new assignment. But Baz is hovering.

“What now?”

“Just the tops,” he frets. “The sides won’t rise properly if there are drips.”

Oh my God. These had better be fucking amazing after all this work. I bite my tongue between my teeth to keep my hand steady and Baz turns away to mess with the oven.

When we finally slide the tray of scones in and set the timer I realise how hot the kitchen has gotten with the oven preheating all this time. I fill two glasses with water and head for the living room.

“Come on, let’s sit for a minute.”

I hand a glass to Baz and take the armchair so he doesn’t have to decide whether to sit next to me or not. I yank my long-sleeve shirt off, leaving just a t-shirt underneath. Baz perches on the sofa and sips his water, attention still wholly on the kitchen.

“You alright?” I ask him.

“I am. I just–” Baz looks down at his lap and rubs his thumb across the pattern on the glass a few times. “I just want them to be perfect.”

“Baz, I’ve never baked a damn thing in my life. I have no expectation that they’ll be perfect.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I just wanted them to be. For you.”

“Baz…”

He finally meets my eye. He’s looking at me a hundred different ways. Defiant, fretful, hopeful, fond, embarrassed… It’s a goddamned kaleidoscope where usually there’s only monotone. And I think—

I think I might not like Baz the way I thought I did. It’s getting worse by the day, today especially…or better all the time, depending on how you see it. I think I like to see it that second way: Better. It’s so fucking good. I think I might even—

Baz bolts upright when the timer goes off. I’m left staring, stunned, at the place he just vacated on my sofa. The place where I think I want to install him permanently.

“Simon, you have to come look with me!” Baz shouts from the kitchen.

He opens the oven door as I stumble in and the smell engulfs me. I think I can be excused for drooling this time. They smell like heaven.

“The tops look good,” Baz tells me, head nearly brushing mine as we lean in from opposite sides. “I’m just going to lift one up to check how brown the bottom is and see how light it feels.”

He flips a scone up onto its side and frowns.

“Hmph. A little pale still in the middle. And heavy,” he adds, handing me the spatula. “You try.”

I’m sceptical that I’ll be able to tell what he’s talking about, but as I balance a scone on the spatula, I do feel it. Turns out all that experience I have lifting scones to my mouth is really paying off. I nod in agreement.

“Flip it back the way it was and we’ll cook them a bit longer,” Baz directs. “Three minutes I think.”

Baz is buoyant as we wait. He regales me with tales of all his failed scone attempts. Apparently, the bottoms of these scones would have gone black before the insides cooked if we hadn’t turned the oven hotter. Which makes absolutely no sense to me, given that the bottoms are the part we’re waiting on now. But Baz is the expert here.

We check them one more time and Baz declares them done. We slide them onto a cooling rack that Baz brought (yet another piece of equipment I didn’t have) and watch the steam rise. He says we should let them crisp up just a minute before we eat them.

“Do you even like scones?” I ask him while we wait. It’s something I’ve been wondering about.

He laughs. “I do. Just not as much as you do,” he says, pushing me playfully on the shoulder.

“Hey!”

“I like them a normal amount,” he adds with a roll of his eyes. “You love scones more than life itself.”

“Do not,” I grumble. “Did you even have a recipe before now? I would have been making these every day if I knew how.”

“I had to call up Vera for the recipe. I’d sort-of forgotten about them, after I left for school.”

“Forgotten about scones?” I splutter. “That’s just sad, Baz.”

“It was actually. It was altogether a terribly sad time.”

“I’m s–”

“Let’s drown our sorrows in butter, shall we?”

“Right.” I grab my first scone right off the rack and shove it plain into my mouth.

“Mmmmmngh.”

It’s even better than the ones Baz brought to Ebb’s because it’s warm. I know the secret now to how he gets the cherry flavour all melded in like that. It’s magical.

“God, Baz. You really are a scone wizard. These are so fucking good.”

Baz is breaking off dainty little pieces and nibbling them like a squirrel behind his hand. Must be because of his fangs popping and getting in the way (and him feeling shy about it). I wonder if it always happens like that?

Shit. It probably does. He told me once that it did, but we were arguing at the time and I thought he must be exaggerating. I can’t believe I was such an arsehole about making him eat in public the first time we met.

“Why did you let me bully you into eating at Ebb’s that time? That was a real dick move on my part.”

Baz shrugs. “I don’t know. I was afraid you’d leave.”

“Pssh. Good riddance, I would think.”

“I didn’t think so,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, Baz. Admit it—You hated me when we first met.”

“I really didn’t,” he insists. Then, “Why don’t you believe me?” he asks, laughing.

I give him a sceptical look.

“I hated…” he announces solemnly, before breaking into a grin, “how much I liked you.”

Now I’m laughing too.

“And…” he adds with a wicked smirk, “I liked how much I hated you.”

“Tosser.”

I give his chest a little shove and reach into the fridge for butter and preserves. We each slather up one more scone and eat them standing in the kitchen while the kettle boils. Then Baz finds a plate for the rest and carries them into the living room. I follow with the tea tray, grinning.