SIMON
Penny would call it an obsession. (In fact she has. A number of times.) But I just can't erase images of Agatha and Baz from my mind. Holding hands like they were about to sing, or snog.
I wouldn't blame Agatha, of course. It's over now, and I suppose everyone has a right to go through a rebellious stage. And if I'm really being honest with myself, we were never that close.
It's Baz who worries me. I don't think he's made a move on Agatha - yet. But I don't know for sure. They keep giving each other these looks – and then looking away. I can't figure out if he's plotting something or if they really are secretly snogging each other behind closed doors.
The uncertainty is driving me crazy. I could barely concentrate on studying with Penny today, and now I keep tossing and turning in bed.
Sleep is an elusive beast that doesn't even have the decency to nip at my toes tonight. It's nowhere near.
I glare at Baz's still figure. The light of the full moon shining off his dark hair. His face in shadow beneath it, irritatingly elegant even in sleep.
This is all his fault. It always is. If he weren't constantly up to something, I'd have peace. But I can't ever seem to stop thinking about him and worrying about what trouble he's brewing.
"That's it," I growl, throwing off my covers and sitting up abruptly. A flash of anger surges through me and I only dimly register how cold the floor is on my bare feet. "Baz," I say sharply, "this has gone on long enough."
Baz's only reply is to groan and pull the covers over his head.
"Tell me. Now. What's going on with you and Agatha?"
"Fuck off, Snow." His muffled reply is groggy and when I glance at the clock, I belatedly realize how late it is. He must've been well and truly asleep.
I don't care. I won't be able to sleep until we've settled this. Better to confront him now and get it over with. "Are you using her?"
He throws the covers back a bit, pushing himself up on one elbow. "For what?" he demands.
"You tell me!" I toss back.
He groans and falls back onto his pillow. "Normally I'd refuse to answer on principle, but it's 1 a.m., for Crowley's sake. There's nothing going on between me and Agatha. Never was. Never will be. Now go to sleep, you fucking twat." He rolls over to face the wall. The wanker.
I take a deep breath, anger still coursing through my veins. "I see all the looks you keep giving each other."
He's still for a moment. Then he slowly rolls back over, the moon illuminating his glare. His gray eyes flash fire at me. "Snow. Allow me to work through your tortured logic for a moment. You want me to stop looking at Agatha?"
Without waiting for an answer he shakes his head incredulously, rolling his eyes and muttering, "Simon bloody Snow doesn't want anyone to so much as look at his precious ex-girlfriend - and he'll make damn well sure they don't sleep if they do."
"No!" I lean back a bit, my neck and shoulders throbbing from holding them so rigid while I fretted all day (and half the night) over this. "That's not it. You bloody well know what I'm saying."
He finally sits straight up and throws up his hands in exasperation. "Enlighten me."
Before I realize it, I'm shouting: "You're plotting something! You're always plotting something! And if you plan to use her-"
"I have no intention of using Agatha! I care nothing for her," he declares, shooting me a death glare. "The only reason -" he cuts himself off and I point at him.
"Aha! So there is a plot," I gloat at him. I knew it. And clearly bringing this up in the middle of the night was brilliant, because he's tired enough that he's making mistakes.
"I didn't say 'plot,'" he bites out.
"So what is it then? Tell me!" I insist.
"Why the hell should I?" There's no doubt he's fully awake now. And furious. His forehead is wrinkling with an intensity that should scare me off, but he can't bloody well hurt me in our room.
"Because I won't let it drop until you do." I cross my arms over my chest defiantly. I can be right stubborn when necessary.
His expression turns to ice. He scratches the side of his forehead, deliberately, before running a hand through his tousled hair. He rests his forearms on his thighs and looks up at me through strands of dark hair. "If I swear to do you a small favor, will you drop this and let me sleep?"
"Why would you do that?" I ask, becoming even more suspicious. He must really not want me to figure out his plan.
He sighs. "I'm too tired to fight you tonight." The light catches his eyes again. I realize that he does look bloody miserable. Exhausted, and pale.
I'm so surprised that I whiplash quickly from rage to concern. Suddenly guilt is pulsing through me, unbidden, and I find myself making a noticeable effort not to feel bad about bothering him. "Fine," I murmur.
"Do I need to swear it, or-?" He holds up his wand halfheartedly, looking like he doesn't have the energy to cast the spell.
I sigh. He hasn't looked right since he's returned. More pale than usual, even for him, and with a noticeable limp. (Well. Noticeable to anyone who watches him as closely as I do.) Whatever he'd been up to had really taken a toll. I'd feel bad for him if I weren't sure he'd been up to no good.
Fine then. I jut my chin out stubbornly. "If you really want to do me a favor, massage my shoulders," I hear the words come out and realize again how bloody brilliant I am tonight. He'll never do it. And then he'll have to tell me.
His eyes widen and his lips part slightly. I'm opening my mouth to call him on his false offer when he stands.
BAZ
My mouth is dry as I cross the room slowly.
Simon Snow just asked me to touch him. Fuck if I'm going to say no to that.
I nearly flinch each time my weight lands on my bad leg, but I force myself to cross the room without a limp or a grimace. I can't show him any weakness. (Not any more than I've already shown, anyway.)
Luckily, his bed is only a few steps away and I'm able to manage them without looking pathetic. I ignore his gaping mouth and gracefully settle next to him. Then I grab his shoulders and forcibly turn him away from me. I can't do this while looking him in the eye.
I squeeze his shoulders roughly, his muscles rigid beneath my hands. "Crowley, Snow," I murmur. He feels like he's wound up tight enough to snap. And apparently, he has if he's asking me to massage him in the middle of the night.
His head tips forward a bit as he groans.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my tongue. He has no idea what that sound does to me. It's a knife in my heart and excitement rushing through my veins. Out of habit I school my expression, and I force myself to keep on with a steady, even rhythm. As if this means nothing to me. When really I'm bleeding painful passion all over his bed – feelings that only intensify with each stroke of my fingers against his muscles.
Crowley. I'm struggling to breathe. But I'd take this any day over nothing. Every sensation is still magnified after being locked in that coffin for so long – and that goes doubly so for all things Snow. That faintly golden skin. The waves of heat rippling off his body. His smell, smoky green magic and antiseptic shampoo – a shockingly appealing combination of scents that makes my mouth water.
I don't know what I'd like more. To kiss him or to bite into that lovely neck.
As if to taunt me, the moonlight illuminates the curve of his skin beautifully, along with a few freckles and a solitary mole. My enhanced vision could see quite well without the help, without this silvery light shining on him like a beacon.
I shouldn't be doing this while I'm so weak. I shouldn't be doing this at all. If I had any sense I would stop now.
But as I run my thumbs down the length of his traps, he moans – and I don't stop. Instead I tug him closer (but not close enough), rising up on a knee and slipping my thumbs under the neck of his t-shirt, repeating my slow, even movements against his hot, bare skin.
Fuck. This is killing me. I want to bury my face in his bronze curls. I want to consume his hair, his mouth, his blood. Every single bit of him. I don't think I could ever get enough.
"There - right there," he whispers and I keep my thumbs where they are, pressing down while he sucks in a breath. I allow my lips to skim the top of his curls.
It's a shame I'll have to kill him.
No. I'll never kill him. We'll have to fight to the death, that's a given. But he's more powerful than anyone I've ever met, than anyone in the world. One of these days he'll go off – and he'll kill me without even trying.
The sick part is that I won't even be the final boss he battles. I'm not the Humdrum. I'm nothing but a warm up. A fucking half-dead vampire, who loves him more than life itself. And yet when the time comes I'm sure he'll kill me without a second thought. I know he doesn't think anything of me. Only about how to stop me.
He doesn't know he could stop me with one look. With one touch. With one kiss. It wouldn't be hard at all.
I press my lips together as my chest constricts, binding a sob to my ribs. I don't want it to end like that, in a fiery explosion. I want him to fight me with his bare hands. I want him to press them against my cold skin, warming me one last time. I want to bite him just once, just a little, so I could die with his taste on my tongue.
No, that could Turn him. I couldn't risk that.
I suppose I'll have to break his nose. Leave a permanent mark on his face so he'll think of me whenever he looks in the mirror. Maybe I'll fuck him up even worse and whisper, 'I love you' while tracing the moles on his face and down his neck. When the blood run into his mouth I'll lick it off his lips. And then he can do whatever the fuck he wants to me. I'll already have died and gone to heaven.
And that's the only heaven I'll ever taste.
Simon's right. I am plotting now. Visualizing our last battle. Orchestrating the best way to die. But I suppose if I have a right to anything, it's composing my own death.
SIMON
"Promise me you won't go off," Baz whispers.
It takes me a while to process his words. My mind is blissfully blank for the first time in ages. I don't want to think or worry about anything right now. His hands are so strong. I had no idea he'd be so good at this. Then again, he's so bloody good at everything, why wouldn't he be?
"When we do fight, don't go off."
I wrinkle my brow, glancing back over my shoulder. "What are you going on about?"
He stops massaging my shoulders, but his hands rest where they are. He looks concerned about something. Actually, he looks like he's in another place altogether. His gray eyes search mine before he speaks again. "It can't be like the Chimera. Promise me you won't kill me that quickly."
It's late, sure. But Baz has lost his fucking mind.
At the look on my face, Baz shoves my shoulders away roughly and stands. "Forget it," he mutters, limping back to his bed. He tries to hide it, but I know his leg is still bothering him.
"No, seriously. What are you talking about? I can't kill you. The anathema," I remind him.
He's sitting on the edge of his bed now and sneers my way. "Not here!" He kicks his legs up under his covers and angrily falls back against his pillow. "Crowley, Snow, I ask you for one fucking thing!"
I throw my hands out. "I don't even know what you're talking about! Why are we killing each other now? Are you saying I really do have to protect Agatha from you?"
"Why are you so bloody dense?" he demands. "The prophecy, Snow! We have to fight and you're obviously going to win. So as a favor, all I ask is that you try to kill me a little slower than the Chimera. Is that really too much to ask?"
"Where were you?" I practically scream. "What happened to you?" My head is swimming. A moment ago he's massaging my shoulders and now he's asking me to kill him? Slowly? Something is seriously fucked up here.
"Forget it!" he yells back. "Kill me however you want, just let me go to sleep."
I don't like thinking about the prophecy at the best of times. It makes my stomach turn. But after him being gone for so long, and then returning injured and drawn, it feels especially wrong. I have to admit I was concerned about him while he was away. Mostly I was suspicious. But I was concerned as well. And I've never been as worried about him as I am right now.
I stare over at his bed and try to regain equilibrium. I want him to threaten me and bite my head off and call me a wanker. I'm desperate to know what he was up to and I need it to have been something awful – truly appalling - so that everything can make sense again. So that the prophecy is justified. I can't imagine killing him without a really good reason. I can't imagine killing him at all, but I know my magic might if lives were at risk.
I sigh. "You know I didn't mean to kill the Chimera," I whisper. "I don't have any intention of killing you - or anyone - unless I have no choice."
When he doesn't reply I sigh again, involuntarily rolling my shoulders. I realize I feel so much better – loose. "You didn't have to give me a massage." I wait a minute. "But I- I do- I mean my shoulders do feel better, so, umm-"
"Go to sleep, already!" He yells in annoyance.
I fall back onto my pillow, cheeks heating with embarrassment. I never know how to talk to him. I should just tell him what he wants to hear.
"If I kill you, which I would never do unless I absolutely had to, I'll try to kill you slowly." I wince because that sounds like torture. "And painlessly."
He snorts.
"But I'd rather not kill you at all."
I try to get comfortable and find it's a lot easier now. Sleep is finally starting to nuzzle up against me when Baz whispers, "I'll never kill you."
I'm too tired and comfortable to puzzle through that. To figure out – or care – if all of this was just another one of his tricks. I fall fast asleep.
Thank you Idonotthinkthatwordmeans for the editing!