Work Text:
Simon
“Fuck a nine toed troll!” I curse as I brush the furry grey creature off my shoulder and impale it with my sword. I tend to quote Penny when I do something stupid. Letting this creature get the drop on me was definitely stupid, particularly given that it’s just taken a chunk out of my arm.
The animal is dangling from the tip of my sword, speared like a particularly gristly hors d’oeuvre. I bring it in for a closer look. It’s almost cute, vaguely guinea pig like, with long grey fur tipped in black. Large purple eyes, green whiskers.
Hell and horrors, it’s a polycythema vera.
Penny and Baz are going to kill me. Probably before this bite does.
They’re already angry that I took this job with the coven, rounding up invasive magickal species. Now I’ve gone and gotten myself bitten by one of the very species I was supposed to be hunting. This is just spectacular.
I flick the creature to the ground and stab it again for good measure.
Baz and Penny said they saw a vera in America, trying to get into Shep’s truck when we were accosted by that rogue gang of freakish magical rejects in the dead zone. Somehow, one must have stowed away with us and now they’ve invaded England. Fortunately, the trolls rather think veras are delicious, so they keep the population in check. However, pockets tend to accumulate in the areas with fewer bridges. The Coven stepped in to help eradicate them and they asked me to help. I suppose that makes me a non-magickal-magickal pest control guy.
Veras aren’t particularly magickal. I think they can teleport for short distances, making them tricky to catch. They pack a nasty bite though. Their toxin does something to your spleen, making you bleed out internally, only your body keeps making more blood. So instead of passing out and dying like a normal person, you just sort of slowly fill up with blood til you like, explode or something. I haven’t really worked out the logistics.
Now I’ve been bitten.
I am not telling Penny and Baz.
I’ve finally gotten my shit together (thank you new therapist) and they have only recently stopped hovering over me. The last thing I need is them wringing their hands while I die a slow painful, possibly explosive death. I suppose I’ll say my goodbyes when things get bad and die alone in the woods, like a cat.
In the meantime, I imagine I should live my life to the fullest. Carpe diem and whatnot.
Baz:
Something is wrong with Simon. He’s acting strange. Not necessarily in a bad way, he just seems a bit… much. We’ve been out almost every day, a different activity. Yesterday, a leisurely tour of the British Museum, followed by curry and samosas in the park. (He made me eat with him, even though I still hate eating in public). He also made me return the books I stole all those years ago (I can’t believe he remembered that). Saturday was a visit to Ebb’s grave, deep in the wood. Last week we went to Paris, because he’s never been to France. (He says the Watford sour cherry scones are still better than any French pastries.)
It’s all been enjoyable; he’s been very attentive.
To me.
Loving, affectionate, present.
But it’s weird.
All of this significance. It feels a bit like a bucket list.
I’m trying to enjoy it, but I’ve been feeling off. Not myself. Like I can’t get warm and I can’t get full. I’m thirsty all the time, and nothing I do seems to be helping. I’ve drained all the rats within a 20-kilometer radius and I’ve even resorted to buying blood from the local butchers. Nothing is helping.
I can’t get Lamb’s voice out of my head, telling me I was malnourished.
I refuse to follow that thought. I’m not—that.
But I’m also getting really tired. Like, exhausted. Like it’s a struggle to get out of bed level tired.
I don’t know how much time I’ve got left.
Simon:
The poison is kicking in. I’m so tired.
Exhausted. Like, I feel as if my arms and legs were lead weights- tired. Dead dog tired.
I’m not sure how much time I’ve got left.
I don’t have to think about that right now because I’m actually in bed. With Baz, and there’s no place I’d rather be.
I’m the big spoon, because I’m always the big spoon. With my arm across his chest I pull him closer and hike my leg across his thigh. I carefully brush his hair away from his ear so I can murmur, “fancy a lie in?”
“Absolutely yes,” Baz croaks, voice thick with sleep. He intertwines his fingers with mine.
We both doze off.
Baz:
I wake before Simon. It’s an effort to open my eyes.
I look at his arm, wrapped around my waist. His color is wrong, his once tawny skin is a vague mottled purple, how have I not noticed this?
Simon:
I open my eyes and look at Baz’s shoulder in front of me. He’s so pale he’s almost transparent. He’s thinner, I can see the bones poking through his skin. How have I not noticed this?
Baz rolls over and fixes me with his thundercloud eyes. “What the fuck is going on, Snow?”
“Er—what do you mean?” I’m stammering, this isn’t how I’d planned this to go.
“You’ve been dragging me through this virtual bucket list lately, you’re acting weird and now you’re purple!”
“It’s not a bucket list.” It is a bucket list.
“Answer the question,” Baz is using his “don’t fuck with me” voice.
Time to come clean then. I pick at an imaginary string on the duvet. “I may have been bitten by a vera.”
Baz’s eyebrows go down and he looks like he’s going to finish me off himself. “What? When? When the fuck were you going to tell me?”
My plan suddenly feels very stupid. “Well, I was going to tell you, when I felt… you know, closer to death.”
“Closer. To. Death?” Baz’s voice cracks. He looks extra murderous.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to feel all sad and melancholy just because I was dying,” I reason.
Baz sighs and buries his head in my chest. “Simon, you splendid fucking moron.”
I think it might be safe to wrap my arms around his waist and pull him on top of me. I try it.
Baz raises his head and his fangs are popped. Not safe then. “Er—I’m not ready to die just yet, Baz.”
His hand goes to his mouth, I don’t think he realized his fangs were there. “Merlin, I’m a mess,” he says this giddily. “You’re a mess,” he’s laughing now. “We’re a mess squared,” he giggles; it’s a bit manic. He lays his head back on my chest.
I pat his back and smile awkwardly. I don’t laugh. I might blow.
Baz lifts his head again, wiping his eyes. “You see,” he stammers, “I have a problem.”
“OK…?” I offer.
He sits up a little, straddling me. He traces my scars with a long, pale finger. “I’m—starving.”
“Well, let’s order delivery then,” I grab his thighs to push him off so I can find my phone. He plants himself, hands to my chest and I can’t move. Vampire strength.
“No love, it’s not that,” he looks down, takes a breath then looks back at me. “I’m starving—of thirst. “The animal blood doesn’t seem to work anymore…” his voice trails off.
“Oh,” my mouth is hanging open, even though Baz has thoroughly trained me to close it.
“So here I am, the bloodthirsty vampire, dying of thirst,” he cracks up again, “with my half dragon boyfriend who is literally dying of excess blood.” He chortles and wipes his eyes again, “it’s like a goth Hallmark movie special. A match made in hell.”
He’s giggling, but he also looks a little sad.
“So,” I say, once he’s caught his breath. “Just so I have this straight,” I point at him, “you don’t have enough blood.” I point at myself, “and I’ve got too much of it?”
“Yes, that about sums it up,” Baz concedes.
“Blimey, what are the odds?” I wonder.
“A million to one, I’d wager,” Baz sighs.
“Well, what are you waiting for, you barmy git? Come over here and bite me.”
“It’s not that simple, Snow.” Baz is frowning at me again.
“It bloody well is that simple, Baz,” I say feeling sparks of anger.
“What if I Turn you?” It’s almost a whisper.
“Shepard said that most vampires don’t Turn people, and so what if you do? I’m going to die anyway if you don’t do anything. At least this way, you’ll get a good meal out of it, and we can figure out the rest later. We’ve been through worse.”
Baz pushes my hair off my forehead, “we have been through worse.”
I reach up and pull Baz back down on top of me. He settles on my chest. We’re nose to nose. I run my thumbs along his cheekbones. “Now come on and bite me. You look like shit you know.”
“Thank you, Snow. You’re looking rough and weedy yourself.”
I kiss him then, even though that’s probably not a good idea, given the blood lust.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“No.”
“Will you do it anyway?”
“Yes.”
“I love you, Baz.”
“I love you too, Simon.”
I close my eyes, and then, in a rush of warmth and cedar and bergamot, he bites my neck.