#aka swinging in on a rope from nowhere takes practice

[heartsbreaking-migrated]

@hookd sent [ swat ] your muse swatting mine’s hand away from something they’re not supposed to touch . (harry @ cj it is an injury he is forcibly fixing her up)

the blood coming from her cheekbone, and her upper arm was something she'd intended to take care of on her own. that was until she'd bled onto the wooden floor and drawn her older brother's attention when he was coming inside. "i'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself you know!," cj snapped. really though, she was kind of glad not to have to clean this up herself. instead, she used her uninjured arm to reach for the bottle of rum they'd been using to clean her wounds and took a swig from it. "we tell dad i earned this, yeah?" in a fight, or something slightly more worth the effort and rum it took to clean up than her smacking into a wall because of a miscalculation. they both avoided hook as much as possible, but it wasn't always avoidable and if they were both there, cj wanted them to be on the same page.

[thenyouburn]

and when I sleep my soul you keep

pairing: Baz/Simon (aka Snowbaz)

word count: 2,035 words

rating: M

summary: Baz can't sleep, and escapes to the kitchen. Simon finds him. (All fluff)

a/n: am i consistent? no. am i late? yes. in my defense: i don't have internet currently. but in honour of bazzle dazzle's birthday yesterday, here's something i wrote back in october. and the launch of my kitchen series, which is a collection of oneshots in all fandoms that all involve kitchens. requests open of course! as always, i thrive off of sexy feedback <3

ao3 found here

:)

Baz pushed his hair back out of his face with a soft sigh, letting his head fall forward until his forehead rested against the upper cabinet. He was awake, in the middle of the night, again. This was the third time that week, and Baz was starting to get to the end of his rope. He was pretty good at taking things in stride and surviving on nothing but the bare minimum, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. Burning the candle at both ends was bound to burn him down to nothing eventually, nothing but a small puddle of metaphorical wax and a burnt piece of wick.

He wasn’t even sure what brought him to the kitchen, exactly. The flat was empty and still and silent without Simon’s presence to fill it up. He was still asleep in the bedroom - their bedroom - curled up half on his stomach with his wings fully stretched out, toned arm curled around Baz’s pillow the moment Baz had managed to slip from beneath him. The same way he always slept - though usually it was Baz curled up with him, rather than his pillow as a poor replacement. Though with how cold he was, he wasn’t sure how great of a bedmate he made. Still, he wouldn’t have wanted to wake Simon up even when he’d slipped out of his hold to escape to the quiet solitude of the kitchen, strange without the loud, rhythmic sound of Simon’s heavy breathing. (He was a mouth-breather, after all, and it usually meant he snored). Baz was a disaster at the moment, but that didn’t mean he had to drag Simon down with him.

He supposed the kitchen felt the most full of life, even in the darkness. The most comforting, even alone and in silence. The living room felt oppressively lonely in the still, dark silence, nothing but his worst thoughts to keep him company in there. He could feel the weight of where Simon should be when he sits on the couch, another nearly tangible reminder that he should not be awake. There was nowhere else, really, for him to go.

He wasn't entirely sure when the flat started being his as well as Simon’s, anyway. Sometime in the middle of one of the many nights he’d spent there, sometime between when Simon got him his own mug for the cupboard, when his drawer in the dresser became two and he had more clothes here than at Fiona’s. And then, finally, when he’d referred to the bedroom as Simon’s and Simon had given him this look, mouth half full of takeout, his jaw already set and steely, determined glint in his eye (Circe, Baz loved him), and corrected him saying nothing but “our bedroom”. And that had been that. He’d moved everything else he had over the next day (and they’d promptly properly consecrated the flat as both of theirs. Not that it was a new thing, but it was technically the first time since they’d both officially lived there).

But no matter where Baz was, it seemed he couldn’t escape his demons. His sleeping had always been this side of erratic, swinging between mostly alright and completely disrupted, with his sleep schedule flipped to the opposite of what it should be. There was a semester at Watford where he’d survived on post-football practice afternoon naps and been awake most of the night. Simon had been annoyed about it, but really, he was a heavy sleeper, it didn’t do much to him anyway. And since the coffin incident a few years back, Baz’s sleep had been doubly bad. Not always, but he didn’t like small spaces so much now, and if he felt too trapped (if Simon rolled on top of him in his sleep while he was already having bad dreams), he jolted awake and resigned himself to yet another sleepless night.

Tonight, though, just seemed to be pure bad luck. He startled a little at the feeling of arms sliding around his waist, Simon’s very warm body pressing all the way along his back. “‘Ello,” he mumbled against the back of Baz’s shoulder, pressing sleepy kisses up his shoulder before nuzzling his face into the side of his neck, puffing hot air against Baz’s chilly skin. He was always cold to the touch. No circulation sort of did that to a person. Simon was obsessed with warming him up, always pleased when he seemed to retain some of Simon’s shared body heat. And Baz, well Baz was never going to complain about extra affection - or at least never mean it if he did. “What’re you doin’ up? Can’t sleep?” He asked, words slurring together with sleep, muffled with his lips pressed against Baz’s neck.

It was the same side Baz had his vampire bite mark on. Not that it was noticeable to almost anyone unless they managed to move his hair and pay close, close attention. If that was one of the reasons he liked to keep his hair long, well…then that was his little secret. The bite mark was the only scar Baz had, and the only one he would ever have. (For the best, probably - he wouldn’t have fancied seeing what sort of scars the buckshot would have left from their time in America). Simon was the only person who had the privilege of seeing it, and Baz preferred to keep it that way. Simon usually made an effort to kiss over it as often as he could. Like now, when he brushed Baz’s hair away and over his other shoulder so he was free to keep his face in his neck without anything in the way.

“No,” Baz said, voice soft, breaking the silence for the first time. He could feel the silence wrapped around him like a blanket. Comforting, in a way, but heavy with the reminder that he should be wrapped in bed in his not-metaphorical blankets, comfortably tucked beneath Simon’s arm, and perhaps a wing, and not bearing witness to their flat bathed in shadow. Though, if he were half the melodramatic man he’d been at eighteen, he would have thought about how fitting it was - a verifiable creature of the night, perpetually cursed to haunt the night, the darkness, and the shadows by his own body. He was not that man, not anymore, so he didn’t let his thoughts linger on his physical state. He was coming to terms with his vampirism. Really, he was.

Simon nodded, messy curls only getting more mussed up with the action. He squeezed Baz once, twice, three times - I love you, it seemed to say - and pressed another sleepy kiss to the side of his neck before pulling back. He gently opened the cabinet next to Baz’s head and pulled out their mugs, moving to Baz’s other side to start the kettle. Baz pulled his head away from the cabinet - it ached, now, where he’d rested it, like he’d rested too much weight there - and gave Simon a slightly confused look.

Simon gave him a sleepy smile. “I’m not gonna let you stay up by yourself, love. We can have some tea and stay up until you want to try again.”

Baz looked at him for a moment. It was moments like this that caught him off guard more than anything. Yes, Simon was always one for grand gestures - like killing things for him in the name of love - but it was this that reminded Baz just how truly he was loved. Simon, willing to ignore their perfectly comfortable bed that he adored, and sit in the kitchen with Baz. Just so he wasn’t left alone. He felt his throat tighten a little and shoved down the urge to argue. He’d accept the gesture for what it was - Simon telling him he loved him just as plainly as if he’d said it out loud. This was him offering comfort the only way he knew how.

“Alright. Yes. That sounds good,” Baz said, not nearly as eloquently as he would have liked.

Simon stepped forward, hand moving to cupp Baz’s cheek. Baz tilted his head into it, meeting Simon’s gaze. It was intense, sometimes. Simon never did anything by half measures. His love was much the same. He loved with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, all engulfing and fiery. Baz liked to think of it as slipping into a hot, nearly scalding bath at the end of a long day, or burning candles in a home with long curtains. Warm and comforting and reliable - and dangerous if done improperly. He’d gotten over that hurdle, though. He’d once thought loving Simon Snow was like being near an open flame, being in proximity to the sun. That hadn’t changed, even now. It had tempered into something no less powerful, but familiar. He wasn’t scared of being burned anymore, wasn’t attempting to toss himself into the open flame at any moment in a wonton act of self destruction. He’d learned to take everything Simon gave, and give him just as much in return.

His heart didn’t beat, no, but in that empty void in his chest, in place of those things he’d thought he’d lost of himself, was Simon Snow. The human equivalent of everything he’d thought he wasn’t supposed to have. But that was just them, wasn’t it? It wasn’t a star crossed love story like those of old, but one that, by all intents and purposes, should have ended in fire and destruction long ago. Instead, Baz was stood in their kitchen, feeling his boyfriend drag his thumb across his cheekbone, looking at him with so much love in his eyes, it felt like staring into an open flame. Like looking into a fireplace back at his family’s home (that they had since abandoned) - though this time it felt loving and familiar.

Simon stepped closer, fully into Baz’s space, and carded his other hand through Baz’s hair, gently combing out the tangles from his tossing back and forth earlier in bed. His hair was longer now; he’d been growing it out properly. It was taken care of, of course, but it reached past his shoulders. Simon nearly always had a hand in it if they were at home. Simon had been keeping his hair shorn short on the sides, though he let the top grow a little longer (enough for Baz to keep playing with). He was keeping up with it, properly taking care of himself.

“Hey, Baz?” Simon said, voice soft.

“Yes?” Baz answered, just as soft. Whatever he was going to ask, to say, the answer would always be yes. He didn’t think he had it in him to ever say no to Simon Snow - to say no to Simon. His Simon.

“I love you.” He leaned up and kissed Baz, hand still on his cheek, gentle, like he was holding the most precious thing in the world. As carefully as he held his swords, though in this moment, he lacked the tight, possessive hold he used with them. Familiar. Gentle. The way Baz had asked him to touch him. And when Baz rested his hands on Simon’s waist, he squeezed once, twice, three times - I love you - firm and clear, the way Simon had asked him to.

And Simon didn’t pull back until nearly all the water had boiled away, until Baz was well and truly out of breath, until Baz was thinking less about his lack of sleep and more about the man in his arms.

It only took exactly one cup of tea before Baz allowed Simon to lead him back to bed - they’d gotten better at this part, too, with Baz allowing Simon to take care of him, and Simon offering comfort when he needed it, the way he needed him - and allowed him to pull him back into his arms. He rested a hand over Simon’s (shirtless, he never bothered with them at home) chest, right over his heart, feeling it beneath his fingertips. Once. Twice. Three times.

“I love you,” Simon said, leaning in to slot their lips together again. Baz just tapped his fingers against his chest three times in response.

I love you.