March 17th, 7am
the Story (tells herself)
Baz and Simon wake the next morning, wrapped tightly in one another's arms. They wake up afraid. Both pretend to still be asleep, holding on to the fiction for just a little longer. But why are they afraid of the coming light, of the clearing consciousness?
Simon feels himself held tight in Baz's arms as he lets the memory of yesterday drown him, little by little. He remembers Baz's arms draped around him in the diner. He smiles to himself at the memory of Baz's sharp smile. Baz is all edges and blades. Except with him. With Simon, he is soft. His voice is honey and his eyes are smoke and the iron of his arms is a shelter around them. He lets his posture slip and his eyes roll and his mouth turn up in a smile's curve. Simon's mind wakes up scared, but his body relaxes into the truth: here, with Baz, he is safe.
Baz feels Simon's warmth sear him along every point of contact. He wraps himself more tightly around the heat, until he can feel it through every inch of his body. He feels fierce and gentle and powerful. Holding Simon is being home. Having Simon is having a home, the first he's allowed himself since his world was ripped apart by monsters in the middle of the night. Baz knows Simon. He knows Simon's strength, and he knows the molten core of steel that runs through him like blood. He knows the shield Simon never relaxes. So for Baz, being allowed to hold Simon like this is the clearest signal of being worthy he has ever known. Simon, who refuses to accept anything from anyone else, lets him have this. Him, Baz. Simon believes he is worthy, and so he is.
So why are they so afraid to wake? By now, they've both come to trust that the warmth of the other body next to theirs is real, and not simply a dream. So why don't they know that is safe to abandon sleep? That it will always be safe, now. Safe to wake beside one another, to wake and to remain awake.
This is why: It is not the heat they doubt, but the reflection. Of all the ways they match, they don't dare to hope that this is one of them. Their feelings for each other have the clarity of kindness and certainty. They are the feelings of having and being had, holding and being held.
It is love. They each feel it. But neither thinks it could be the same for the other. It is enough to feel this kind of love at all, they remind themselves. It is greedy to wish for more. Baz knows it is useless to dream of being loved in the way he loves Simon. Simon has seen enough of the world to know that things like this don't happen.
It has, of course, already happened. But neither of them has the capacity to believe it. Yet.
This is what becomes of children who grow up in fairy tales. The old tales, the true ones. The ones populated by monsters and ghosts, evil kings and wicked magicians. Baz and Simon don't know how many chapters are left. They can't know that they've made it through the first part of their stories, and are approaching the end.
They will still be called upon to face monsters, but it will be different now. They are transformed. They have woven a magical binding of love between them that will never fade, nor warp, nor disappear. A love that gives, with no need to take, because the other's love is just as freely given. A love so abundantly present, the usual laws of give and take fade, until all that remains is having.
They have reached true love and happily ever after. They have arrived at the moment of the story where there are promises that will never be broken. They wield the power of storybook heroes, to never hurt one another. Heroes who have won knowledge of enchanted fruits, who have decoded the maps that lead to hidden treasures.
You and I know that it has already happened, but they don't. Which really isn't very fair, is it? Irony is a real motherfucker.
So in this chapter, our two heroes still wake up afraid. Keeping their eyes closed against the day, holding on to sleep and to one another. Until the braver of the two forces himself awake. He tries his earnest best not to wake the wiser of the two. Being brave but clumsy, he fails. Not being a morning person, the other groans in protest.
It is hard to know what lovers say to one another in bed. The words may be overheard, but never with the ears of the beloved. Speech has little meaning without the speaker. Words wait, waves of sound devoid of meaning, until they find the hearer.
Thus, a stranger might peer into this bed just as the dark haired boy groans in protest at the sudden cold. Might overhear him curse the golden one, who has (as usual) pulled away all the covers and (also as usual) promptly tripped over them, sending a stack of books loudly crashing to the ground. As the dark mutters "I hate you" to the light, an observer might be forgiven for not knowing that the words actually mean "I love you."
But Simon knows what the words mean, coming from Baz. And he knows that when Baz follows him out of bed far earlier than usual, and whispers against his ear "try not to do anything stupid," he means "I'm scared to lose you." And Baz knows that when Simon rolls his eyes and says "thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole," he means "I'm yours, forever."
(I said they were heroes; I never said they were poets.)
An hour later (8 am)
They part reluctantly at the corner. Simon heads east, to the bakery. Baz heads south, to the bank.
Baz hardly processes the steps that bring him to bank, or the polite instructions that lead him to the wall of locked compartments that appears now in front of him. In his hand he holds a key. His face is a smirking mask of calm indifference as he inserts it into the lock of unit ZD3K741. The box he finds within it smirks back at him, unimpressed.
And then Baz, his smirk, the box, and its contents (nothing more than a stack of old papers) are in a private room. This is a bank known for its dedication to the comfort and ease of its patrons, as well as its discretion. The upholstery is tasteful and the wifi very secure. Baz relaxes, suddenly curious despite himself. He is at home in rooms like these. They match. The grain of the wood, the glass in the sconces, the clothes he wears and the pen in his hand all signal wealth to those fluent in the semiotics of privilege.
He starts to shuffle through the papers in his hands, quickly, then more slowly. The first few are legal documents; deeds and contracts and warranties, limited liability partnerships and extended public options. Baz recognizes his mother's signature from the nameplates in her books. Under the typed forms are a stack of notes she appears to have written herself. He recognizes her handwriting from shopping lists he stole off the fridge and preserved carefully for nearly two decades.
Tests and reports. Research results. Tenure applications. Unsent letters to Fiona. Notes about Natasha's pregnancy. Observations about the life growing inside her. Concerns about the man standing beside her. Overwhelming joy and love for the infant, then toddler, then little boy.
Pictures and anecdotes. Slips of drawings and stories in his childish hand. Journals filled with the unexpectedly profound things he would say without understanding quite what he was saying.
Then. More unsent notes to Fiona, and letters from Fiona. With increasing urgency. Dots being connected, theories formed, suspicions validated. All related to Davy.
Baz doesn't allow himself more than a couple of minutes with the sudden discovery of a shrine to his life with his mother, filled with documentation of his mother's love, evidence of the reality of it all. He forced himself to turn to the later documents. He tries to decipher what Natasha thought she had discovered about Davy. Why was she telling Fiona? Why suddenly re-enter the world she'd worked so hard to escape?
Baz is startled by the unexpected intrusion of a phone ringing. He knocks over the chair he's been sitting in as he literally jumps out of his seat, scattering his mother's papers everywhere. He is grateful that there are no cameras in these rooms to record his graceless falter. He frowns. The ring is annoying, a jingle from some quiz show. Certainly nothing he'd have programmed into his own phone. But the sound is undeniably emanating from his own jacket.
He reaches into the offending pocket and retrieves the ringing instrument. It's an old-fashioned clamshell phone. Baz flips it open with trepidation. His voice, however, remains even, as he snaps "who the fuck is this and what the fuck do you want?"
The laugh that greets him is somehow familiar and totally alien at the same time. It sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine
"Needn't get your knickers in a knot, mate. Phones don't bite. Though I can't always say the same about my kind."
"Who. The fuck. Is this?" Baz repeats calmly, forcefully. He is unaware of how seamless his imitation of Malcolm has become.
"Now, lad, we both know you're smarter than that."
It clicks. He could be hearing Ebb's voice, if it were filtered through enormous lungs.
"Nicky," he confirms aloud.
"That's better. Now listen with both ears, boyo, because I'll not be saying any of this twice. I don't know what Natasha had figured out before locking away those papers in your hands. When Davy hired me to grab you and kill her, I didn't stop on my way out of the country to drop in for tea and a chat. So I'm going to assume nothing useful was in that box. I mainly needed you at the bank so that I could slip this phone in your pocket."
Baz stores this information away for later, and does as he's told. He listens, with both ears.
"I told him I'd do it, knowing I wouldn't, hoping it would buy us some time. But Davy'd been clever enough to hire three people to do the one job, and it didn't matter. I don't know who he found that was willing to finish her off, but it wasn't one of us, or you wouldn't be breathing that stale bank air and trying to glower at me through a bloody mobile right now."
The rules of engagement come naturally to Baz. When you are at a disadvantage, never offer information. Never even go so far as to phrase something as a statement. Which leaves questions. Questions that must never be so vague as to allow evasion, nor so specific as to answer themselves.
Thus the next words out of Baz's mouth are not what Nicky was anticipating. No outrage about Nicky leaving his mum to die. No questions about why Davy would want to kill her in the first place. No description of what he found in his mother's box, nor of what he didn't find.
Baz's next words were these: "Why are you talking to me?"
Nicky pauses for a moment, possibly surprised. It's hard to know, with Nicky. He recovers quickly. "Fuck if I know. Because I'm a fucking saint. Because your mother asked me to. Because-"
"Asked you? Before she died?" Baz interrupts.
"Like I said, I never stopped off for tea. If she'd known to ask me before she died, she wouldn't have fucking died." Nicky pauses to let Baz connect the necessary dots. Being Baz, he does it quickly. He draws in a sharp breath. Nicky thinks he can speak with the dead.
He is surprised to find himself disappointed. He can dismiss this surreal conversation as the ravings of a lunatic. He should be relieved that he doesn't have to solve this particular mystery. He should most certainly not be mourning the lost excuse to hunt Davy down and enact his darkest revenge fantasies.
At least there's no longer a reason to watch what he says. No need for formality when talking to a madman. And, lunatic or not, this is Ebb's brother. And Ebb is closest thing Simon has to family, which makes Baz protective of her by proxy. Baz is suddenly furious at this man on the phone. He thinks about the broken expression on Ebb's face, after the line went dead the night before. About her saying she hasn't heard that voice in twenty years.
"You're insane," Baz hisses, matter of factly. "But that's not what I meant. I meant, why are you talking to me, and not to your sister? If you can call me, why do you do that to her? Why pretend you're dead to her?"
Nicky is silent for a long time. Baz doesn't know if it's regret, fury, or pure psychotic disconnect. And he doesn't much care. He pinches the bridge of his nose, starts gathering his mother's papers back into their box. He's trying to decide how to end the phone call when Nicky's voice emerges once again.
"Because I don't give a fuck about you, boy. Ebb's better off far away from me. My talking to her can only hurt her. Your safety doesn't mean fuck all to me. Your mother crossed the veil to ask me to pass on this message. That's no small thing for the dead to do. I don't much care why she did it. Maybe she wants to you avenge her murder or some bullshit like that. All I know is that Ebb would want me to do it, if she knew Tasha's reached out from beyond. So I did. It's done. And now this conversation is officially fucking over."
Baz continues the conversation without quite meaning to. "So you'd rather Ebb chat with Davy than with you? You're a fucking asshole."
"You're lying. Ebb holds no truck with Davy."
"What, did my dead mother fail to mention the little reunion yesterday?" Baz asks bitterly. Mockingly. Somewhat manically. Mostly talking to himself. Why is he still talking? He has no idea why he hasn't hung up the phone.
Except he does. Because this painful, twisted conversation about his mother is better than the emptiness that usually fills the space she left. Even the ravings of a madman are better than the total vacuum of death.
Nicky's gone silent again. Baz's phone buzzes. His actual phone. It's a text from Penny.
Worried about S
He calls her back instead of texting. Nicky hears Baz's half of the conversation through the clamshell that sits still open, forgotten, on the pointlessly exquisite mahogany of the small desk.
"… No, it was smart to follow him… The bakery? … When? …How long? …Do you think Davy's there? …Ok, I'm coming. Wait for me. …Yeah, it was weird. I'll tell you when I see you. ...Penny, I'm hanging up on you now." And he does, leaving the box locked beside the abandoned phone as he races out of the building and heads back uptown.
Nicky is silent, calculating. The boy had obviously not believed a word he said. He'd tried to tell Tasha that her son was unlikely to just accept a message from a ghost, especially one carried by so strange a stranger.
Not that he gives a fuck. He's held up his end of the deal, gained absolution for his part in her becoming a ghost in the first place. But. Tasha had held out on him. She'd sent him to this mortal city without warning him that Davy was here too. And if Baz saw Davy shortly before sitting in Ebb's living room as Nicky spoke to her, then Ebb was in danger. And Lucy's boy was probably wrapped up in this too, a rotting fish in day-old newspaper.
Cursing loudly under his breath, he heads toward Ebb's bakery. There might be no help for it. She may have to suffer the pain of seeing him like this, if it means keeping her safe from the devil. A devil that wears a man's skin and calls himself after an ancient Israelite king. Fucking Davy.