pBAZ /p
pI'm worried, looking at Simon standing in my room, eyeing the gargoyles on my bed, that he will be a liability tonight. In more ways than one. I know I'm planning to bring him into a situation he is unprepared for. Crowley, this is a situation I'm unprepared for, and I have certain advantages. Simon can't see in the dark, he can't smell where his enemies are, and his instincts are quick for a human, at best. I'm afraid he'll stick out like a sore thumb and be so jumpy he won't be able to resist summoning that ridiculous sword of his at the first sign of trouble. And then where will we be? I sigh audibly, and Snow whips his head away from the bed, instead fixing his gaze on me, brows lowered. /p
pDespite my concerns about his utility, I find the second problem more worrisome. I don't see any way I can take him with me this evening without fully admitting to him what I am. I've been avoiding this moment for years. I was hoping to avoid it indefinitely. If Snow knows, no matter what the terms of our truce are, the minute it's over, the minute we've found out who's responsible for my mother's death and he's free to choose his own allegiences again, I know he'll be running straight to the Mage with more proof than he's ever had before. And then I don't stand a chance. There'll be nothing left for me. /p
pI am keenly aware that Snow already knows about me, he has since our fifth year, and he's made no secret of it. But this is different. Bringing him with me to a bar that caters exclusively to vampires will be the equivalent of handing him an engraved card that says 'emYes, I'm a vampire/em,' on a silver platter. And yet (embecause I'm weak, so weak/em) I can't shake the feeling that I'd rather do this with him at my back. Why am I trusting him with this? And, if it comes to that, why is emhe/em trusting emme/em? He knows where I'm taking him, and he knows what I am. /p
pI shake my head imperceptibly and turn to my closet, lifting my hand like I've seen Snow do so many times, trying to make a choice. The least I can do is help him look the part. If you're going to walk bold-faced into a roomful of the undead it helps to be well dressed. Frankly, it helps to be well dressed in any situation that puts you at a disadvantage. You have at least the appearance of superiority to hold you up. I should know. /p
pI can almost feel Snow behind me, starting to get agitated. Any ordinary human, Mage or otherwise, would run a thousand miles away before walking into this with me. As I've said before, Simon is stupidly brave. I suppose he's willingly joining me because this is a matter of honor for him, the truce and all. That, and his incredibly poor sense of self-preservation. /p
pAn even bigger question might be, why am I willing to trust him, when a large part of me is certain it will be my undoing?/p
pThere's a much smaller part of me that believes we can both somehow come through this unscathed, that hopes that whatever happens tonight might bring us just the tiniest bit closer together, closer to an honest truce, one that doesn't require the guarantee of magic. /p
pI pull out a midnight blue suit and curse myself, I know I'm choosing it because it reminds me of the lighter blue of Simon's eyes. I also select one in standard black, it's always good to have a choice. Or at least the illusion of one. I lay the suits on my bed and look at him pointedly while I pick up my own and go down the hall to change in the bathroom. "Pick one and put it on. We need to look good tonight. I'll be back in five minutes," I call over my shoulder as I leave./p
pWhy emam/em I trusting him? Besides the hopeless idea that we'll actually become better friends, or at least milder enemies, if we put ourselves in danger together (in danger together emagain/em, this won't be the first time), the practicality of bringing what amounts to a ticking bomb with me must be where the appeal lies, I think. Maybe I'm so eager to trust him with tonight because I'm afraid not having him there could be an even bigger calamity. /p
pSnow's magic is unpredictable, but if push comes to shove, he can always be counted on to go off and save the day. If our trip doesn't turn out to be as...cordial, as I'm hoping, an uncontrollable wave of magical fire and brimstone will be a handy tool to have on my side. If the circumstances don't push him there on their own, I know how to goad Simon until he's right on the edge. Once in a while I have purposely nudged him over, our fight with the chimera comes to mind. One of his blasts tonight, and we'll be surrounded by harmless piles of ash. /p
pEven though I'm just as vulnerable to fire as any vampire, I'm not worried about Snow taking me down. I've survived him before and, if it comes to it, tonight will be no exception, largely because I'm certain he'll protect me, even if he doesn't fully realize he's doing it. I've seen it before. No matter how focused he is on other things, he can tell if someone he cares about is in the vicinity, and he diverts enough of his magic to shield them. Perhaps I should say 'emsomeone he knows/em' rather than 'emsomeone he cares about/em,' because he's protected me in the past, and I can't imagine a world where I rate even at the bottom on the scale of People Simon Snow Cares About./p
p /p
pSIMON/p
pBaz leaves the room suddenly. I've been pacing, staring him down, ever since that sigh, trying to figure out what his game is. He seems lost in thought, I guess I would be too if I were in his shoes. I was just watching him without thinking and didn't really hear what he said when he left, but he had the nicest suit I've ever seen in my life slung over his arm. I don't know why he always feels the need to be dressed to the nines. Maybe it has to do with being a Pitch, you can't go out into the world without doing something to show that you're just a little bit better than everyone else in it./p
pHe's left a black velvet waistcoat and shiny blue tie on the bed. It's silk, I think, the tie, alongside two suits, one blue, and one the same deep, glossy black as his hair. Even though I wasn't really listening, I'm pretty sure he expects me to change into one of them, which is bollocks. I'm not a Pitch, I don't have anything to prove. I'm comfortable in my Watford uniform (I think someone must have spelled it clean while I was sleeping last night), and I have no plans to start behaving like Baz just because we're in his territory. /p
pI sit down on Baz's bed and then, realizing what I'm doing, jump up again, even though he's not in the room to see me. I would never sit on his bed back in our room at Watford. Except, I guess I did it the night after the dragon, but that was different. Even though I sometimes push the limits just to get under his skin, I feel more comfortable staying out of Baz's personal space, and the feeling is clearly mutual. /p
pBut if that's entirely true, why am I here? Pitch Manor is, by definition, Baz's personal space. /p
pI guess this hunt for his mother's killer is personal too, and I sure as hell got myself involved in that. Even though I'm mostly enjoying this new relationship with Baz, specifically the not constantly trying to kill each other part, I'm also a little unsettled by it. It's new, and I'm not quite sure why I did get involved. It was for all the reasons I told him, that when his mother was killed it was an attack on Watford, that it was wrong for anyone to have to see their mother killed in front of them. And, I guess, it was for one reason I didn't tell him too, the fact that watching someone I've tried to bring down repeatedly for the past seven years finally be reduced to a raw shell of himself by a childhood photograph and the news that his mother came through the Veil for him and he wasn't there, didn't give me any satisfaction. At all. It nearly broke his heart, and watching that happen nearly broke mine, and I wanted to do any little thing I could to help him rebuild it./p
pBaz reenters the room looking dazzling in a soft charcoal grey suit with shiny black shoes. He's carrying another pair of shoes in his hand, for me I suspect. He stops and arches an eyebrow when he sees me, still in my Watford uniform. I realize I've been pacing back and forth in front of his fireplace, running my hand through my hair until it is probably a worse mess than it was before. "What's the problem, Snow, don't know how to put on a decent suit?" he drawls./p
p"Come off it," I reply, "I'm already dressed. This is fine."/p
p"It isn't fine, and for Crowley's sake, your school uniform barely counts as being dressed."/p
p"Well, I didn't bring my full wardrobe of clothing along with me when I ran out to tell you about Nicodemus, did I?" Who am I kidding? Even if I had brought my full wardrobe, it would have consisted of another pair of uniform trousers, another white Watford button-down, a grotty pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and we both know it./p
p"That's why I'm trying to help you Snow." He rolls his eyes back and his head goes along with them, as though maybe looking at the ceiling will help him understand how I can be so completely idiotic. "Just choose one. You can go put it on in the bathroom."/p
p"No." I say. I don't know why this is so important to me, but the idea of changing into Baz's clothes is suddenly the last straw. There are enough new things to deal with here in his house, and this evening will only bring more. Just for starters, we'll be driving to London together, which is definitely new, before visiting his horrifying aunt, Fiona (he's said I don't have to actually go into her flat myself, thank magic), not to mention how the two of us are going to kill time together in London until midnight. And then there's the vampire part of the evening, or at least the part of the evening with more vampires than I'm used to. I don't even want to think about that. It's enough to be worrying about without trying to ignore how smooth I imagine the fabric of Baz's trousers will feel on my legs, or how they'll be just slightly too long for me./p
pAnd his insinuation that I don't look good enough in my Watford uniform is insulting. emI/em may not look like I stepped out of the pages of GQ, but Agatha certainly never had a problem with my appearance. I can feel myself jut my chin out, a combination of tension and wounded pride making me feel unreasonably stubborn./p
p /p
pBAZ/p
pI don't need the confrontation right now, I'm on edge enough as it is, but I can't have Snow out there surrounded by vampires in his damned Watford uniform. It's just too much. It makes him look too desperate, too vulnerable, and I'll start to feel sorry for him. Tonight I need all my focus to be on the task at hand, and that means talking to Nicodemus and keeping us alive (or only half dead, in my case). "Ok Snow," I try again, forcing my voice to be calm, "skip the suit, but at least put on a different jumper. You look twelve in that uniform."/p
pThank magic, that does it. I don't know why, but I can see the belligerent expression fade from his face, replaced with what looks almost like embarrassment. I roll my eyes again, but I'll take it. I turn and lift some of my favorite jumpers out of the armoire. I hope he decides he can at least change that much in front of me. I deserve emsomething/em after all of this./p
p /p
pSIMON/p
pBaz is holding out a selection of three neatly folded jumpers. As uncomfortable as I'm feeling about this, I don't want him to think I'm stalling (maybe I am) because I'm nervous about what the next few hours hold (I definitely am). I don't take my eyes off of his as I reach out and grab one, too roughly, out of his hands. Only then do I break eye contact, turn my back, and take off my red school jumper, replacing it with this one of Baz's. /p
pIt feels soft and well-made as I pull it over my head, and I don't realize until after I've put it on that I chose this one on purpose, because it reminds me of the deep gray-green of Baz's eyes. I guess being here, surrounded by Pitches, and wraiths, and gargoyles has unnerved me to the point that I'll grasp at anything remotely familiar. Which is why I refused to take my school uniform off in the first place. /p
pEven though the idea of wearing one of Baz's posh suits did have a certain appeal. Aside from the clothes that Agatha's mum gives me at Christmas every year (Will she again this year, even though I'm not there?) no one's ever offered me anything so nice to wear before. Merlin, I'm beginning to think that half the reason I didn't accept a suit was that I was afraid of ruining it. Baz, with his perfect hair and perfect looks, his damned raised eyebrow, makes me feel like I don't have the right to go touching anything that's his, anything so nice I'd need to worry about how I'm going to take care of it. /p
pI realize that I've been looking at myself in the mirror, and he's watching me over my shoulder with an expression I can't read. I square my shoulders, turn, and look him in the eye as I stride towards the door. He brushes an imaginary fleck of lint off his sleeve, and strongClap on Clap off/strongs the lights as he follows me out of his room./p