Work Text:
“Don’t come in here!”
I’m perusing the Guardian and grimacing at the state of the world, as I do most mornings, when Simon calls out from the kitchen. I’d not planned on going anywhere near our lovely kitchen while Simon is making breakfast in it— he’s an incredible cook but Crowley the mess he leaves in his wake could rival the set of Bugsy Malone after the cream pie fight— but the sound of the electric whisk buzzing on, then off again rather quickly, followed by Simon’s tremulous call out to me has me setting down my coffee and iPad to inspect the damage.
“The oil had separated. I thought whisking it would help but I forgot to hold the side of the tub.”
Our kitchen is full of the delicious smell of pancakes. But currently it resembles the inside of a peanut butter jar. (Technically we don’t have jars of it anymore, Simon gets through it so quickly I’ve started buying it by the tub .) Globs of it are splattered across the countertop, over the kettle and up the wall. The cupboards haven’t gotten off lightly either. Nor has my hand-tufted rug from Anthropologie (this is why we can’t have nice things). At the centre of it all (ground zero, if you will) is my wonderful terrible boyfriend, still holding the whisk while hopping up and down trying to remove his (my) oil-stained pyjama bottoms with one hand. His tail and wings are thrashing around, trying to counterbalance him, but only succeeding in knocking utensils off the counter and spreading the mess further.
I can’t help but feel an infuriating fondness for him. Simon Snow. My beloved chaotic ‘nemesis’. Comfortable enough around me to make noise and mess without fear of retribution. Happy enough not to see his mistakes as failures anymore. Not so long ago he might have cried at this culinary mishap. When he first started therapy, his emotions were like his old magic; so close to the surface they were in constant danger of spilling over. He had no idea how to be at ease here, with me, in our home. In truth, neither did I. (How does one relax when one’s entire childhood was spent being trained for a war? We both grew up doomed by the narrative, then had the audacity to survive.) Even though Simon wanted so desperately to believe in us after Watford, he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like this was all too good to be true and he was sure he’d mess it all up and lose everything.
I was similarly terrified. Watching Simon figure out who he is without magic, without a prophecy, without the bloody Mage, has been a double edged sword. For the longest time I was sure as soon as he figured out who he was, he wouldn’t need or want me at all. He’d find some nice Normal to start a life with. A life that doesn’t involve hunting rats in alleyways or having to break off intimate moments because my fangs have popped.
We were both miserable with doubt, grieving for each other while sitting on the same sofa.
But now (when he’s not chucking condiments up the walls) Simon sings to himself, he puts my books back on the shelf in the right order, he plants herbs in the window box. We repainted our room last week. He picked out the colour; I found curtains to match. I cook dinner with him every night, teaching him how to waltz while waiting for the oven timer to go off.
We’re finally starting to believe this is real. I’m dreaming of a future that doesn’t end in our mutual destruction. Simon’s putting down roots and it doesn’t scare him any more. ‘I love you’ rests constantly on the tip of my tongue, and he grins whenever I say it. (I say it often.)
When he realises I’m standing in the doorway, surveying his work, Snow freezes, looking sheepish. I lean my shoulder into the frame, crossing my ankles and giving him a coy look. “I’m not sure home decor is your calling, Snow.” The ceiling. Mother of magic, he’s got it on the ceiling.
“I’ll clean it up, I promise!” He says with a lopsided smile on his face. He resumes his hopping and I watch for a moment before taking pity, removing the whisk from his hand and setting it amongst the other wreckage on the counter. I flick the stove off while I’m at it, before the pancakes can burn.
I’m readying my wand to cast Clean as a whistle (Penny found a way of combining it with Whistle while you work that actually makes it far more hygienic) when Simon says “Wait, Baz, don’t. I said I’ll clean it up.”
I huff a sigh, but retract my wand. We've had this argument before, Simon not wanting to rely on other people’s magic to get him out of messes he’s created (both literal and metaphorical). I get it, I do. I’m working on not leaping for my wand everytime Snow spills a cup of tea. But old habits die hard, and it’s frustrating to stand by and watch him struggle, when I could right things myself so easily. And currently peanut oil is soaking into my very expensive rug.
Simon finally succeeds in removing the now ruined pyjama bottoms, and starts in on his (actually his this time) hoodie. He has to fold his wings tight to his back in order to slip them through the slits in the fabric (I love that all his t-shirts and hoodies have wing slits in them— there’s enough space for me to slide my hands into them when we’re making out and it drives him wild).
It’s a lot harder to maintain my critical countenance when Snow is standing in our kitchen in nothing but his underwear— my underwear. I didn’t realise he’d helped himself to my underpants this morning. (It must be laundry day.) His golden freckled skin peeking out between the black lace side panels does something to my insides and for a moment I’m back at Watford, stood in front of the crucible with a magical hook in my gut, tugging me towards Simon Snow so hard I have to stop myself from embracing him. How I resisted shaking his hand for so long that evening, I’ll never know.
I’m a far weaker man now, letting myself step towards him, gathering up his tail as I go. It coils around my wrist as I crash into him. I catch hold of his chin and swallow the surprised sound Simon makes before it can fully escape his mouth. He’s solid and warm against me, happy not to question my sudden embrace.
Simon tastes of maple syrup and smells like browned butter. His hands are hot under my shirt, stroking my stomach. I lick peanut butter off his earlobe and he laughs. The sound fills the room and I smile against his skin, replanning our morning to allow for the shower I’m about to pull him into.
The cleaning can wait. The stains up the walls and on the rug are signs that we’re living a life here. A life all our own. One neither of us thought we’d ever get. My ruined rug shows Simon Snow likes to make me breakfast every morning. Neither of us are perfect (far from it) but gradually we’re healing. Piecing each other back together one peanut-buttery kiss at a time.