Carry On Countdown 2018 Nov 26 prompt Nostalgia

Simon

Baz wants to leave soon, to get to the city in time to question his aunt about Nicodemus.

I'm going to go with him, of course. I told him that, straight away, last night. I can't stay here, not by myself, without him. The thought of staying here alone to wait for him, with his family, in this house, makes me ill.

But it's more than that.

I won't let him search for the vampires without me.

Baz didn't argue when I said that. Just gave me a strange look and said "Well, of course you're coming with me, Snow."

I want to be right there with him. For once, strangely enough, it's not because I think he's plotting. I'm sure he's plotting something but it's got nothing to do with me this time.

All I know is that I don't want him to confront the vampires alone. I think that would be a terrible idea.

I've been thinking about this, thinking about it a lot, now that I know more about Headmistress Pitch and her death.

I know Baz is a vampire, even if he won't fully admit it. He came closer than ever to speaking about it yesterday.

I think he hates it, hates being one. I think he's ashamed and conflicted about it. The things he said last night, when we were talking about Nicodemus, I think he believes them.

I don't believe them. And I don't want him to, either.

I'm worried about how he'll be with other vampires, real vampires.

I know he's a real vampire but he's also a student at Watford, a bloody brilliant football player and a first-rate git. Not to mention top of our class.

He's not like normal vampires.

I don't know what normal vampires are like. I just know I've run into a fair number of dark creatures since I've come to Watford. They all have this aura they give off, a sense of not-rightness. I don't know how to put it into words. It's just a feeling I get.

But I don't feel that with Baz. Never have.

He's a right arse, don't get me wrong. He's vicious and cruel and not above intrigue and scheming. He's exasperating, infuriating and downright nasty sometimes. But I don't think he's really out to harm anyone.

Not even me.

I say that knowing full well about Phillipa Stainton and the chimaera but even then. . . I think he meant to scare me, not kill me.

I don't know. None of this makes sense.

I tug at my hair. I don't know what I'm thinking. But I know he can't go alone. I don't know what it will be like for him, being around them. Thinking about them. Remembering his mum. Knowing he's one of them, even though he doesn't want to be.

Has he been around vampires before? I don't know. I'm not sure I want to ask.

I don't know if it will make it any better, having me there with him. It can't make it worse, I suppose.

Scratch that. Things can always get worse when I'm involved.

But at least he'll know he's got someone in his corner.

Am I in Baz's corner?

I haven't really thought about what this truce means. I said I'd help him find his mum's killers. Does that mean we're on the same side now? Working together.

I don't know. I can't think about it, it ties me up in knots trying to figure out what this all means. Why I'm helping him.

Why he's letting me help him.

Why I don't mind being around him so much. Why he doesn't make me as angry as he usually does.

I can't think about this.

After breakfast he takes me up to his room again. So I can change into something other than my uniform. Which he says makes me look twelve.

"I can't take you with me to a vampire lair if you're wearing that outfit, Snow. It will look like I'm babysitting you. How can I come off as imperious and menacing with a child in tow? Come on, now. I'm sure I've got something that fits you."

I stomp up the stairs after him. I don't look like a child in my uniform. I love my uniform. It's comforting and comfortable. I don't want to wear his posh clothes. I'll look right foolish in them, I will.

His first suggestion is a suit. There's no bloody way I'm wearing a suit. Not one of Baz's suits. They're all tailored and sleek and I would look even more ridiculous in one of those than my uniform.

I also think the trousers would be too tight.

I can just see myself, fighting off a vampire in its lair and splitting my trousers. No, thank you.

"No way."

Baz rolls his eyes and sorts through his shirts before handing me one. I don't think that'll fit either. He's taller than me but I'm broader in the shoulders.

"That won't fit me." It's a really nice shirt. I can tell by the way the fabric drapes over his arm.

"Snow. Take the shirt. I'll step out while you try it on, to preserve your modesty." His tone is laced with condescension but for once he's not actually sneering at me.

I take it and he steps out, drawing the door nearly closed as he does. This is our unspoken rule. Eight years in the same room but we don't change in front of each other. The thought of it always seemed to make me feel too vulnerable, defenceless if he chose to attack me while I was trying to shimmy out of my trousers.

It's a bit stupid, now that I think about it. Why would he attack me while I was getting dressed and not while I was asleep? Anyway, our aggressions usually end up playing out far more publicly.

This shirt's too tight across the shoulders. I can button it up to mid chest but any more ends up straining the fabric. I certainly can't close it at the neck. I'll choke if I do. I'll likely tear this one by the time we get to the car. It's fitted and tailored to him, not me.

The fabric is soft though. Smooth and silky.

"Too tight." I call out to Baz.

He steps back in, eyebrow raised in question and just stops in the doorway. He blinks at me.

"I told you. It's too tight. Can't wear this. I'll look like the Hulk, splitting my clothes if I raise my arms."

He's still blinking at me. It's surprising to see him speechless for once. Probably thinks I've already ruined it by stretching the seams.

"I should just wear my uniform jumper. It'll be fine."

"No." Baz's voice is raspy. He clears his throat and then continues. "I've a rack of jumpers right behind you, Snow. Surely you can find something there. Or in one of the boxes under the shoe rack. Those are ones I don't wear as often." He clears his throat again. "I'll be downstairs. Don't take all day."

And then he sweeps out of the room, leaving me amidst the bounty of his wardrobe. It's like being in a haberdasher, he's got so much in here.

I take his shirt off and hang it up again. I think it's in the right place.

Then I start poking about in his wardrobe. I'm a bit nervous about it actually. I've got no idea what all he's got in here. Might be hiding something sinister.

His room is absurd, like it's out of a film of what you'd expect for a vampire's bedroom. All dark paneling and red lamps and plush curtains and his creepy bed.

And of course, he's got a walk-in wardrobe. Typical. I can't believe how many clothes he's got. I mean, I knew he had a lot of clothes because I've seen his wardrobe at Watford. We wear uniforms five days a week but Baz still has all these posh togs for weekends.

But here at home he's got even more. And jeans. I'd never seen Baz in jeans before coming here.

He looks good in jeans. He looks good in everything, which is really bloody tedious, honestly.

But he looks really good in jeans.

I can't think about that either.

He said the jumpers were on the shelves and there were more in boxes at the back.

I find the shelf. These are too posh for me. Fucking cashmere, they are. In practically every colour. Baz is such a wanker. I touch the soft wool. There's a wine-colored turtleneck one.

I wonder what Baz would look like in that.

What the fuck am I going on about? I shake my head and narrow my eyes. I can't wear any of these. Maybe the ones in the box he mentioned aren't as fancy.

I poke around the back of the wardrobe. They're a few boxes on the floor back there, tucked under some shelves that house an absolutely absurd number of shoes and boots.

I look around again. No hats.

That strikes me as odd until I really think about it. He was probably the only one of us who actually looked good in the boater we had to wear our first years at Watford but I know he hated it as much as I did. Maybe more.

Baz would look like even more of a villain in a fedora.

He must not like hats. He won't even wear a beanie in winter, when it's cold. Probably doesn't want to muss his perfect hair, the wanker.

I think he'd look good in a beanie. Not one of the skullcap types, but the looser ones, the ones with the excess material that just flops to the side a bit.

I shake my head. What the hell am I doing? I banish the image of Baz in a beanie from my mind and focus on the task at hand. I need to find something to wear.

It's certainly not going to be one of those cashmere jumpers.

I pull one of the boxes out from under the shoe racks and squat down to look at the contents.

It's not full of jumpers.

I know I should put it back, put the lid right back on and look at another box. Or just put on one of those bloody cashmere jumpers and go downstairs to find Baz.

But I don't. I stare down at the box in fascination. It's large and deep, deep enough to hold an assortment of vinyl records, cassette tapes, what look like some photo albums and notebooks.

I can't help myself. I flip through the vinyl. Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Bowie. Some more recent, if you can even call them recent—Elvis Costello, XTC, Police, Prince.

I'm surprised. I mean, I know Baz is musical. He plays the violin. But I guess I somehow thought all he listened to was classical music. Isn't violin all classical? I don't know. He never plays in our room.

I've heard him though. When I've followed him to his lessons. It sounds classical to me, the bits I managed to hear sitting in the gallery.

I don't know why I never thought of him listening to other music.

Music is a huge part of magic. Lyrics and such. But the Mage won't let us have electronic devices at Watford. Miss Possibelf has an iPod and speakers she brings in just for Magical Words. She's got special dispensation and it's only for that class.

I pick up one of the photo albums. I really shouldn't be doing this. I don't know why I am. I just can't help it.

It feels like I'm seeing a different side of Baz right now. Looking through this box. And I can't stop myself.

I look at the photo album cover and that's when I freeze. It's got Natasha Pitch blazoned on it.

Fuck.

These aren't Baz's things. They're his mother's.

I've got no right to snoop in his things in the first place but it's absolutely out of line to look at a box of his mother's belongings.

I go to place the album gently back in the box.

"Snow? What the devil is taking you so long?" Baz steps into the wardrobe. I can't push the box away from me fast enough.

I can't pretend I'm not looking in it. The lid's off and I'm sitting on the floor next to it.

Baz's face is paler than I've ever seen it when I finally look up and meet his eyes.

Baz

I'm getting impatient. I want to catch Fiona before she recovers from the hangover she's likely nursing this morning. It will be easier to pump her for information if she's feeling fragile.

How long does it take Snow to find a jumper? He throws on the first thing he finds in front of him at Watford, whether it's clean or not.

He's probably just overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. I should have just stayed and found one for him myself.

But I really can't be up there, in my wardrobe, searching through my clothes to find something for Snow to wear. It feels too intimate. Too much like something I've fantasized about.

Snow in my bedroom. Snow borrowing my clothes. Snow taking his jumper off and putting mine on.

The sight of him, in that shirt, half his chest on display and his broad shoulders straining at the fabric. I had to leave before I said something stupid.

Before I did something rash.

I have to stop thinking about that. It's too much. I still haven't gotten over the fact that he's here. That he's in my house. That he came to find me.

I look at my watch and end up stomping upstairs to find him. Really, it can't be taking this long to find something that fits him. We're not that far off in size. I'm taller and he's broader in the shoulders. That's it. A jumper should be just fine.

I sweep into my bedroom. No sign of Snow. The wardrobe light is on. Crowley, is he still in there?

He is still in there, seated on the floor next to a box.

Not my box of old jumpers.

The box that holds my mother's things.

He looks absolutely unnerved at the sight of me.

I'm staring at him. I can't speak.

He schools his features, swallows thickly. I'm gaping at him, I'm sure.

"Snow? What are you doing?" I've found my words again but my voice sounds hollow.

"I'm sorry, Baz. I was looking for a jumper and . . . and I thought you said there were some in a box. I guess . . . uh . . . I guess I opened the wrong box." Snow stands, wipes his hands on his trousers and shuffles the lid back onto the box. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked at it."

"You looked in the box?" Crowley, I'm just repeating what he said. "You looked through my mother's things?" I'm almost too shocked to be angry. No one looks through my mother's things.

Even I don't go through them much anymore.

I used to. I used to go through them all the time, touched every record, pored over every photograph. The ones from her years at Watford. The pictures of her with Fiona.

The Pitch sisters. Unstoppable and irresistible. So cool, the two of them. Matching raised eyebrows, sardonic expressions on their faces.

Looking through her things wouldn't bring her back. Nothing would bring her back and after a while it just hurt to see it all. The evidence of the music she'd never listen to again. The journals she'd never write in again.

The photos of her, strong and powerful, ageless now, because time stopped for her. Stopped in that nursery all those years ago.

I'm still staring and Simon is shuffling from one foot to the other looking acutely uncomfortable. I should say something but my mind is blank.

"I'm sorry." He says it again and it shakes me back to the present. "I had no right."

It's my turn to swallow. I step into the wardrobe and walk past him to kneel down next to the box. The lid is askew and I pull it off for a moment and gaze into it.

It's all there, just like it always has been. I put the lid on properly and push it back under the shoe rack, my grip lingering on it for just a moment.

I stand up and narrow my eyes at Snow. "I should have come back up and found something for you myself, Snow. I should have realized you'd get easily distracted with so many options."

He frowns at me. I don't want to talk about my mother's things. I'm not prepared to have a conversation about them, not now. Not with Snow.

I pull out another box and toss the lid aside. Perfect. I pull out a cream-colored jumper with a Scandinavian design. "Here. Wear this. I've never been all that fond of it. I won't matter if you stretch it out."

I thrust it in his direction and he takes it. I briskly put the lid back on the box and stride out of the space. "Come along now, Snow. We haven't got all day."

I'm not angry at him. I don't know why not. I should be. I would have been, a few weeks ago. By all rights I should be shouting at him right now. But I'm not. I don't know what I'm feeling.

Exposed. Vulnerable.

I should hate that Snow has seen something so personal. But I don't.

I don't.

Snow's here. He took a chance. He took me at my word, about coming to Hampshire. He let himself be vulnerable, coming here, to his enemy's home.

But we're not enemies now, are we? We're not friends. We're not allies. I don't know what we are.

But it's better than what we were.

I'll take it. I'll take this over fighting. I'll take this look of confusion over the looks of suspicion he used to give me.

I'll take anything Simon Snow gives me.

And I'd give anything to have this last. To have us stay this way.

I've been able to talk to him. About Mother. I've never done that with anyone before. Not anyone other than Father or Fiona.

I'm not angry about the box.

Simon

I don't know why Baz didn't shout at me. I expected him to be angry. To punch me, like he used to when we were younger.

To throw me out of the house.

But all he did was stare at me. Then he put the box away, found me a jumper and hasn't said a word about it since.

I won't bring it up. Baz doesn't want to talk about it, that's clear. I feel terrible about snooping around like that. I don't know why I even did it.

I do know why I did it.

I want to know more about him. I want to know why he is the way he is. What he thinks about. What he's like when the war and his mother's death aren't on his mind.

I follow him out of the house and we get in the car to look for vampires.

Title of fic from Naked Eyes Song Always Something There to Remind Me