Prompt for this chapter:

Which one tries to make food for the other but burns it all by accident and which one tells them that it's okay and makes them both cookies? Since this is Simon and Baz it's going to have to be scones, isn't it?

Baz

The smell hits me as I walk up the stairs to the flat. For a moment, just a fraction of a moment, I think of Simon and I'm running.

I inhale deeply as I run and the truth slams into me. It's not the burning green scent that is still so familiar to me.

It's not Simon's magic. It never will be Simon's magic again.

By the time I get to the flat I've schooled my face. The odor is quite a bit stronger up here.

I've got my own key now so I let myself in.

Bunce left to visit her American boyfriend this morning. For two weeks we have the place to ourselves. I'd be giddy if it wasn't for the awful stench emanating from the kitchen.

Simon's by the sink, windows flung open, a haze in the air from whatever disaster he's created since Bunce departed mere hours ago.

"Seriously, Snow. Bunce isn't even out of the country yet and you manage to practically burn the place down. She'll likely have my hide for not minding you better." I slip my arms around his waist and rest my chin on his shoulder.

My words still come out sharp sometimes but Simon knows I don't intend them that way. Especially when my physical touch shows what I really mean.

He sighs and I peer into the ruined saucepan that is still gently smoking in the sink in front of him. Simon's head drops forward. "That was supposed to be for you."

I lean over his shoulder. Six eggs, their shells burst and charred, sit forlornly in the pan.

"I know you like hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. I thought maybe, with Penny gone, you'd be staying over, yeah? I wanted to surprise you with eggs all ready for your breakfast tomorrow."

I don't deserve Snow. Really, I don't. I hold him a little tighter as he keeps talking.

"I set them to boil and thought I put the timer on. Must have forgotten to do it. Then I remembered I wanted to launder my sheets so I went and did that. Then Penny was texting me and I totally forgot about the eggs until I heard this right loud popping sound. I suppose they just exploded when the water boiled away."

Simon pokes at the shattered eggs with a wooden spoon. They are stuck to the bottom of the saucepan in a blackened morass, cracked shells and exploded egg white peeking through the char.

The sulfuric smell is making my eyes water. Burying my nose in Simon's curls I let the scent of his shampoo and soap overtake the foul stench momentarily. Brushing my lips to his ear I whisper "Thank you, Simon."

He turns his head. "I've made of mess of it, as usual, Baz."

I hate it when he thinks like that. I hate it when he talks about himself like that.

I drop my lips to his neck and feather kisses along the trail of moles that leads down to his collarbone. I can feel a shiver run through Simon at the sensation.

I give him one last squeeze and then reluctantly pull my wand out. I hate using magic frivolously around Simon but the smell is ghastly and the sooner I get this cleaned up the sooner he can stop fretting about it. "A breath of fresh air," I whisper.

His head drops back onto my shoulder. "Thanks, Baz."

"All right then. Let's clean this up." I move to stand next to him and raise my wand in preparation. "Clean as a whistle" should get rid of the crusted mess.

"Clean as a whistle" is not one of my favored spells but it is remarkably good for cleaning up muck like this. I'm too fastidious to use it on its own—the pan will still need a good washing up after. Whistles are remarkably unclean.

Simon stops my hand midair, eyebrows draw together in a frown. "No, Baz. I'll clean it up." He shrugs. "Not like it's the first time I've done something like this."

I nod and step back, giving him space so he can reach the rubbish bin.

Simon scrapes the egg detritus into the bin and I tie off the bag, heading to the outdoor bin to dump it off.

He tries so hard, Simon does. Those years in the boys homes didn't give him much practical knowledge. Not the kind he'd get with a real family.

And his concentration is still shit.

It's better. Better than it was a year ago. But it's still too easy for him to lose focus.

Simon's at the sink when I get back, ferociously scrubbing the pan. Seeing he is occupied I start rummaging in the pantry. I'm fairly sure all the ingredients I need are here. I should know—I've made sure to have them on hand for just such days.

It takes Simon a few moments to notice my activity. "What're you doing, Baz?"

I just shake my head and smile as I work the can opener.

"Baz?"

Simon drops the pan in the sink, wipes his hands clean and comes to stand next to me.

"You don't have to do that, you sentimental git," he says. "I'm the one who fucked up the eggs, not you."

"I like sour cherry scones for breakfast almost as much as you do, Snow."

I don't really. No one could possibly love scones as much as Simon does. It's literally impossible. Not that I would turn them away if they were offered but I'm not about to write a sonnet about them.

"You're just going to have to suffer through sharing them with me as penance, Snow."

Simon grins and a wave of warmth washes over me.

I'm making scones for Simon Snow. It's pathetic and sentimental and I don't really give a damn.

I'd do anything to make him smile like he is right now. Anything.

Chapter Title from the Buzzcocks song Something's Gone Wrong Again