Thanks so much for the comments and the PM's! There is now a playlist for this chapter at Spotify. Under tbazzsnow account and titled Emergency Dance Party playlist. There is also a playlist for the fic titled Never Tear Us Apart. Take a listen!

Chapter Ten: We Can Dance If We Want To

Baz

I call Father when Simon goes out for a much-needed run.

Now that he's not escaping magickal creatures or fighting for his life on a regular basis anymore, Simon needs some way to vent all his pent-up energy. Running does that for him. I spelled his wings and tail invisible with Bunce's droid spell before he left, so I'm sure to have at least a half-hour to myself while he works out his frustrations on the pavement.

Maybe longer today.

My hands are trembling as I dial Father's number. I'm putting up a good front for Simon but this revelation has shaken me to my core. I'm striving to think rationally but there is an edge of bitter anger and dread tinging my thoughts.

How is this possible? How is Simon the Mage's sole heir?

Why now?

After a prolonged and uncomfortable silence at my revelations, my father is able to provide some insight on at least one of those questions.

The Coven had contact from the Mage's solicitors initially, not long after his death. Apparently, the Mage had failed to respond to correspondence from them (obviously hard for him to respond to mail from beyond the Veil) (they seemingly knew better than to attempt to reach him by email) (the Mage truly was technology averse).

The solicitors had finally contacted Watford and Headmistress Bunce, who sent them along to the Coven. The Coven had temporised until they completed their inquiry and then eventually dispatched the Mage's belongings and files to Wales, after what my father describes as an intense and laborious magickal forensic evaluation of the items.

I don't know what that means.

"It means the books, files, computers, all went through a thorough scan for hexes, charms, magickal residue, before being shipped off. Nothing concerning turned up, according to Wellbelove," my father tells me.

"Who checked them?" This is relevant. Not all mages are cognizant of the more dubious magic that exists. I wouldn't put it past the Mage to have indulged in banned spells and all manner of nefarious activities.

My father sighs. "Mitali Bunce did the first sweep, when she took over his office. Martin had a chance to look them over as well, along with Cressida Irons, and then Aloysius Gore did the final evaluation."

Cressida Irons and Aloysius Gore. They certainly pulled in the experts. Gore is a world authority on dark magic, while Irons has published most of the current research on hexes and banned spells. My grip on my mobile loosens slightly at his words.

"Basilton, I'd like to examine the documents in question. If Simon is agreeable that is."

"He's more than agreeable. He'd probably prefer you took the whole bloody mess off his hands." Honestly, I would too. But I made Simon a promise to sort this and I intend to keep it. "Simon wants nothing to do with this." I pause and then continue. "It's shaken him up a bit."

Father sighs again. "I am sure it has. Understandably. I don't know what game Llewellyn was playing, but he has certainly interfered enough in the boy's life. I hope, if nothing else, sorting this puts the matter to rest once and for all."

"I don't understand how Simon is his sole heir. Surely, the Mage had other family? Simon isn't even related to him. It makes no sense."

"I'm rather certain that's why this letter to Simon has surfaced now. The solicitors have likely chased every other eventuality. I'll understand it better once I see the documents."

"We can come anytime."

"If you come tomorrow, I can look them over with you both and then call for reinforcement if needed on Monday. Will that work? It won't disrupt your weekend plans to come to the lodge?"

"Any weekend plans have already been derailed by this mess." I pause and wonder if I can confide this to my father. Bunce isn't here and there is no one else who really knows what Simon was like last spring. Other than Dr. Wellbelove and I don't intend to call him. "He's regressed a bit, Father."

I hear his intake of breath. "How much is a bit, Basilton?"

"Not as bad as initially. But he's back to blinking out in the middle of a conversation. And staring at nothing. Not as pronounced as it was, but he hasn't been like this for months."

"Understood. Do you need to call Wellbelove or that American counsellor?"

I shake my head and then mentally upbraid myself for it. Father can't see me. "No. Not yet, at least."

"Come to the lodge tomorrow. Daphne and the children will find ways to distract Simon. You and I can sort through the papers." I can hear tapping through the line. It's a tell that my father is more agitated than he is letting on, if he's drumming his fingers on his desk. "I may want a solicitor review the documents."

"I don't think Simon would have any objection. Who are you thinking of consulting?" My father has a few solicitors—personal and business.

"Oliver Salisbury."

"Oliver Salisbury?" That's not a name I expected to hear.

"He's very well versed in Normal law, particularly inheritance. He bridges the gap between Normal and Magickal law better than anyone I know. I think his input would be beneficial."

Oliver Salisbury. Lady Salisbury's son. I had no idea he was a solicitor.

"Whatever you think best. I'll speak to Simon and let you know when to expect us."

"Anytime is fine, Basilton." Father pauses before continuing. His voice is softer when he resumes speaking. "Give Simon my best. Tell him we'll get this sorted."

I end up tidying Simon's kitchen while I wait for him to return. I've got too much nervous energy myself today. The dishes are in the rack, the floor is swept, and I've reorganized Bunce's spice rack by the time Simon returns.

He's a glorious mess. Hair tousled and sweat-slicked, face red with exertion, heat radiating from him like it used to at Watford.

"You have a good run, love?"

Simon nods. "I went farther today but I don't think it did the trick. I still feel like a live wire. Like my skin's too tight."

I sweep the hair off his forehead, ignoring the slick sensation of it, and place a kiss on his heated temple. "Go take a shower and cool off."

"Did you speak to your father?"

Simon's not letting me divert him with the shower. "Yes. Father said to come anytime. He'll look at the documents and let us know what he thinks." I put my hand on his chest, feeling the humid moisture of his drenched t-shirt, the warmth of his skin beneath it, the steady beat of his heart. "We can go whenever you want. Today, tonight, tomorrow. Your call."

His brow furrows in thought and I reach up with my other hand to smooth the crease from his forehead. "You don't have to decide right this minute. Go take a shower and we'll figure out the logistics when you're done. Off with you. You're a disgusting mess." I soften my words with a brush of my lips to his and Simon grasps my shoulders and pulls me closer to deepen the kiss.

I inhale the scent of him—not the familiar, fiery, burnt smell he used to have, but the green, sharp scent he has now. Fresh like new-mown grass, even with the muskiness of his sweat overlaying it. Clean and crisp. As intoxicating as ever, even without the tinge of magic.

He pulls away and scrunches his nose at me. "Sorry. Didn't mean to slime you. I'm all grotty."

I lean in and kiss his nose. "I should be used to it by now."

I get a snort in answer, then Simon heads to the shower to clean up.

It's plain to see he's still on edge. Understandably so. I don't think the run did as much for his agitation as I'd hoped.

I sink down onto the sofa and flick through my mobile.

Should I?

I wonder.

I swipe through my playlists. I know it's still on here. It's the one thing that's remained a constant on my mobile, through every upgrade and iteration.

The Emergency Dance Party playlist.

Of course, it was Fiona's idea, all those years ago. A way to release energy and tension and forget about whatever was troubling me at the time. She filled a playlist with upbeat dance music and when those times hit me—at Pitch Manor or when I'd visit her at her flat in London—she'd turn the music up and we'd dance until we'd drop.

She made me do it last year. After everything. She'd come to Watford on a Friday afternoon and whisked me away to London, completely ignoring my protests and complaints. I told her I needed to be with Simon, that I had no time for gallivanting about with her.

"No way, boyo. Not this weekend. This weekend you're with me. Enough of this moping around. We're going to watch stupid rom-coms and eat crisps and ice cream on the sofa, and dance the night away."

And that's what we did.

It was just what I needed. Fiona has a way of shaking me up and unsettling me. It drives me mad at the time but I always feel better after.

I've not told anyone about the playlist. Even Dev and Niall don't know about it and they've known me forever.

But I think Fiona's playlist might be exactly what Simon needs right now.

He comes out of the shower, hair still damp and curls going every which way. He sinks down onto the sofa next to me but doesn't relax. His leg is jiggling, and he keeps fidgeting at my side.

Right. Emergency Dance Party it is.

I pair my mobile with the stereo and stand up.

"What're you doing?" Simon sits forward to watch me move the coffee table to the far side of the room.

"Making some room."

"Room for what?"

"You'll see."

I click the 'play' button and the opening strains of Dexy's Midnight Runners 'Come on, Eileen' surge out of the speakers.

"What're you doing?" Simon repeats.

I hold out my hand to him. "Get up."

He frowns and stays seated.

"Get up. We interrupt this interval of moping for an Emergency Dance Party."

His eyebrows go up and his eyes widen. "A what?"

"Emergency Dance Party. Get up. I'm not about to do a Billy Idol and just dance with myself." I grab his hands and pull him to a stand.

He gapes at me, mouth open, eyes wide, and I can't help but laugh at his expression. "Simon. For Crowley's sake. I'm asking you to dance with me."

He continues to gawk at me so I shake my head and start to dance along to the music. It's a hodge-podge of 70s and 80s music, but the overarching theme of it all is a strong beat and a danceable melody.

I reach out for his hand and pull him to the middle of the room. "Anyone can dance to this, Simon. Just move your feet and let go."

And astoundingly, he does. It's tentative and off-beat, but he's shuffling his feet and swaying a bit.

I've only properly danced with Simon once. At the leavers ball. He was atrocious. He can't follow a lead to save his life and he's utterly unable to stay on beat. It was simultaneously the most excruciating and endearing dance of my life.

I love to dance. Few people know this. I've never advertised the fact, for obvious reasons. It would have undermined my carefully cultivated persona.

Dev, Niall, and I would head to London occasionally to go dancing in the summers and on some weekends seventh year. There are very few good all-ages clubs in London, but quite a few fantastic over-19 ones. Carefully obtained alternative identification made those accessible to us.

Fiona has connections. You learn not to ask too many questions.

'Come on Eileen' fades into Depeche Modes' 'Just Can't Get Enough' and I let myself succumb to the music. I can see Simon valiantly trying to keep pace with me, flushed and glowing, a fierce look of concentration on his face.

Crowley, he is so fucking magnificent. He catches my eyes and gives me a shrug. I nod my head to the beat. "That's it. Just fucking let go, Simon. Let it all go."

The music shifts again. I throw my head back and close my eyes and let the music take me.

Simon

I try to do what Baz says at first. Dance along to the music. It's a great playlist. I can't believe I've never found this on Baz's phone before. I had no idea he liked ABBA.

Or Def Leppard.

Those thoughts flit through my brain, which has been totally derailed by the sight in front of me.

The music continues. I know Baz said it's a dance mix and that I'm supposed to be dancing, but how can I do that? How can I do anything but stare at him?

He's stunning. He's stunning all the time, the prat, but this . . . I've never seen Baz like this. I've never seen him move like this.

He's got his head thrown back, eyes closed, the long line of his neck exposed, body moving sinuously to the music, shoulders shifting, hips swaying.

Baz said this should help relieve some of my pent-up tension. It's doing fuck-all for my shoulders and everything to create tension somewhere else.

Mainly in my pants.

Baz is breathtaking and all I can think is how fucking fortunate I am that I get to see this side of him.

Fuck.

I've been trying to shuffle around, but it's awkward. I can't dance. I'm shit at it. Ask Baz. He had to deal with my two sodding left feet at the leavers ball. The wings and tail make matters even worse.

But Baz. Baz moves like the music was made for him. I've watched him when he plays his violin. Music does this to Baz. He immerses himself in it but I've never seen him give himself over so completely.

A memory comes back to me with a crystal-clear clarity.

"What are you going to tell her? She'll want to know why you drove up to London. Some reason other than asking about Nicodemus."

"I'll tell Fiona I'm going dancing."

"And she'll believe that?"

Baz had leveled me with a glare. "Of course, she'll believe that."

"That something you do then? Dance?" I couldn't wrap my mind around that at all.

He had raised one eyebrow, the tit. "I do a lot of things, Snow."

Baz. Dancing. I'd wondered then if it was some ballroom dance club he'd go to. Full of posh ponces dancing with socialites.

I don't think it was a ballroom dance club.

Fuck.

It's obvious to me now that Baz likes to dance. Loves it, if this is any indication. He's never mentioned it, never said a word about it, not once since we've been together.

An image of Baz in a club, music throbbing and pulsating around him, the dim lights highlighting his features, his body swaying to the pounding beat, runs through my mind.

I'd like to see that.

I am seeing that.

"You're supposed to be dancing, Simon. That's the point of this. Pent-up energy, remember." Baz's eyes are open now but he's still moving to the music.

It's distracting as hell.

Who the fuck is this singing? It's some deep-voiced, growly singer and the words and music aren't helping with my situation. At all.

This playlist is not what I expected from Fiona and Baz. It's not dark enough. There hasn't even been one Smiths song.

I suppose it's not easy to dance to the Smiths.

He's closer to me now, dancing right in front of me.

"Come on, Simon. It's just us. Loosen up."

"You know I can't dance, Baz." Merlin, this singer is going to drive me mad. It's like lust incarnate, this song.

So is Baz.

"Doesn't matter. Just let go. Move to the beat and don't worry about it. Crowley, just do what I do."

There is absolutely no chance I could ever move my hips that way. None.

He takes my hand in his, cool fingers lacing through mine. "Come on, do what I do."

Baz pulls me closer and I try to shuffle my feet.

"Who is this? This singer?"

"You like it?"

"He should be fucking illegal."

Baz laughs. "It's Terence Trent D'Arby. Wishing Well."

"Well, I know what I'd wish for."

Baz moves even closer. We're practically grinding at this point. I close my eyes and let myself focus just on him, the feel of him against my body, the way he moves, the scent of him.

"And what would that be, Simon?" His words are a breath against my lips.

"You, you fucking sexy bastard. Always you."

Baz huffs a laugh. "I think you're getting the hang of this finally." His hands come to rest on my hips and we're moving together, to the beat. Chest to chest, my leg between his, every nerve alight.

"I could get used to this." His eyebrow goes up at my words.

"Used to what?"

"To this. You . . . you dancing like this."

"Hmm. I could get used to it too, I suppose."

"I never knew you liked to dance, Baz. You've never said a thing about it."

"Didn't seem to come up."

The song ends and another comes on, faster and with a pounding beat that I feel in my chest. Baz throws his head back again and I can't help but lean in to run my lips along his collarbone, up to his jaw and to that place behind his ear that makes him shiver.

He grinds into me and grins. "You're defiling my childhood playlist, Simon."

I pull back. "Sorry."

"Shut up, you nightmare. It's having the intended effect. Now come here and kiss me again." He leans down and his lips find mine. My eyes close and it all drifts away—the Mage, the will, the questions fade into nothingness.

All I feel is Baz.

Chapter title from the song Safety Dance by Men Without Hats