Chapter Text
Simon is sick of Watford. In all the years he’s been here, he never once thought he’d admit something like that—even if it is just to himself, and he wouldn’t actually say it out loud—but… he supposes it’s fair to think it now.
Reliving the same bloody day a million times must do that to a person. And, okay, so it probably hasn’t been that long—he stopped trying to keep track after the twentieth repeat—but the point still stands. Coming to the conclusion that he hates the sight of Watford, hates everything about it, isn’t that bad, all things considered.
It could be worse. He could have gone well and truly mental, but he hasn’t yet, so. Silver linings and whatnot.
Simon rolls over, his face pressed uncomfortably into his pillow, and lets out a deep sigh. The sun is streaming through the open window. The room is empty and quiet. When he eventually musters the energy to get out of bed, he doesn’t step on salt and vinegar crisp crumbs.
It’s like this every fucking day. And it’s getting tiring.
The worst part of it, he thinks, is that at first he enjoyed all this: the solitude, the not-having-Baz-around, the opportunity to explore the grounds and do whatever the fuck he wants without any consequences. But it’s all just so… meaningless, now. He’s already done everything; there isn’t anything that could possibly be new or exciting.
Simon’s tried to kill a merwolf (it didn’t go well, thank fuck his injuries don’t last) and sneak into the Cloisters (no spell worked for that) and map out the Catacombs (to no avail; everything he writes down just disappears when the day resets), but that was so long ago, he can’t even remember how many days have passed since.
(The only thing he hasn’t done is talk to Ebb, because he knows he’d end up having a breakdown and sounding like a complete lunatic. And he isn’t quite ready to cross that line.)
Honestly, it’s just… well, lonely. And this is another thing he’d never admit, but he kind of misses the crumbs on the floor, and being able to eat buttered toast that doesn’t get cold (he can’t do the spell himself), and passing other people when he walks on the Lawn.
Crowley, he can’t even find it in himself to get enjoyment from having the curtains open anymore—it’s just another sad reminder that this day is never going to end, and Baz will never snap at him about it again, and there’s no bloody point to anything.
Well—at least, Simon thinks, there are probably worse places to be stuck in during a time loop. A care home, for instance. Or—or Agatha’s house, that’d be awful. That’s the only thing that keeps him going sometimes: imagining what this would be like if he was at the Wellbelove manor, sitting through the same endless, awkward dinner, having to put up pretenses.
Today, just like he’s been doing every day for the past however-the-fuck long, Simon takes a shower before heading down to grab breakfast. He’s been doing that ever since the realization hit him that he could, now that Baz isn’t here to snipe about it.
(Every time he does, though, he hopes to find Baz waiting outside the bathroom, sneering, because that would mean it’s a new day. And, Crowley, he wants nothing more.)
And then, once he’s used up all the hot water—he can do that, since there’s literally no one else who needs it—and spent a ridiculously long time air-drying on the toilet (Baz hates that, too, always starts banging on the door), he breaks into the kitchen and fixes himself a meagre plate.
(He forgot to ask Cook Pritchard for the key before the break started, but it’s no issue. He simply learned how to pick the lock.)
Like always, it’s toast and stale, leftover scones and orange juice. There are some sausages too, but he burnt them so badly that they were inedible when he tried to cook them, and he hasn’t bothered to attempt it again. If Baz were here, he’d say it’s pathetic.
(It is, though. Obviously.)
Over the course of these insufferable resets, Simon’s built a nice, safe routine. Eventually, when doing stupid shit and going on little adventures stopped being fun, he figured that, maybe, what he needed was to just… go through the motions. It seemed like a good idea: act out a normal day, do predictable things, and sooner or later, the resets would end. Everything would be just as it was. Simon hoped that would be all it took to break the cycle.
This has to be over at some point, right? Maybe the universe just needs to catch up or something.
(That’s what Simon tells himself. He repeats it like a mantra, until he falls asleep, and then repeats it again and again.)
But it’s been like this for a while, and now the routine’s grating on his nerves. It used to be a bit comforting, not having to really think about what he’d do that day. Shower, sad breakfast, sad walk through the Wood, sad lunch, and so on. Occasionally, he’ll hit up the library, but he never finds anything he hasn’t read before.
Anyway, Simon feels a little weird doing that without Penny and Baz. It isn’t right to work on the Watford Tragedy all alone—he did, once, but he felt so guilty the entire time, like they were about to barge in and demand to know why he hasn’t involved them, that he dropped it immediately.
And every day, no matter what he’s doing at the time, Simon finds himself back in bed at midnight on the dot, staring at the same bloody ceiling as his alarm clock rings like a fucking herald of doom.
Simon’s in the middle of his third toast when he gets the—probably terrible—idea to leave. Just… leave. He could hop on any bloody train and go wherever the fuck, he’s not picky. As long as it’s not here. As long as he doesn’t have to spend one more fucking day wandering through these empty halls—anywhere would be preferable. Hell, he might even stop by Agatha’s, if he feels like it.
Actually, this might be the greatest idea he’s had since this fiasco started. Maybe the only way to break the time loop is to get out of Watford; maybe it’s tied to the school, like a cursed magical object. Maybe this magic—it is magic, it has to be magic—can’t extend beyond the grounds.
Simon’s half-eaten toast drops onto the floor, and he doesn’t bother picking it up.
The realization hits him like a blast of cold water: this could solve all his problems. This could be how he finally breaks free from this never-fucking-ending day.
It’s bloody brilliant. How has he never thought of this before?
Simon jumps off the seat so suddenly that he nearly trips over it, stumbling to catch himself on the table. He still has some food left on his plate, but he can’t find it in himself to care about that—besides for the one scone he shoves in his mouth on his way out. It feels so unimportant, now that he has a way to potentially end this. Everything seems inconsequential in comparison.
It’s chilly out, like it always is—just enough to make Simon’s breath come out in puffs of white air, but not enough for him to need a coat. It’s a good thing he runs hot, because he only realizes he forgot it in his room anyway when he’s already at the station.
Okay. He’s doing this. He’s going to—he’s really about to leave. Just fuck off to wherever and hope it works out.
Luckily, Simon had some spare change shoved at the back of his wardrobe, saved up from the summer. He’d just barely remembered to grab it before leaving Watford—he’d been halfway out the door when he realized he wouldn’t be able to actually get anywhere without it.
It’s barely enough money to get a train ticket, let alone anything to eat, but he’ll make do. Worst case scenario, he’ll magic some more up with that spell Penny told him about.
Well. He’ll try.
Someone bumps into Simon, startling him out of his train of thought, and he picks up his pace, hurrying over to the ticket counter with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“One ticket, please,” he says. “Just for the next train. I don’t care where it’s going.”
And when he gets on the train to Crowley-knows-where, nestled between a stranger (a stranger!) and a fogged-up window, Simon finds himself smiling. Finally, something new. Something he hasn’t done a million times before. Something wonderfully unpredictable.
The train lurches to a loud start, and Simon lets out a breath of relief.
Simon wakes up in a panic. He’s not in his room, like he always is; he’s somewhere else, somewhere darker and smaller, and his legs feel cramped. He reaches a hand out, and it’s only when he accidentally hits the person sitting next to him that he remembers—embarrassingly belated—he’s on a train. This is already a great start: he’s made it this far, and he even managed to catch some sleep without triggering a reset. Maybe his plan did work, then.
Simon stretches and rubs his bleary eyes. They’ve reached their destination; he can see people spilling out onto the platform, slowly emptying the car. He still doesn’t know where he is; he didn’t look at the ticket before he left Watford. It doesn’t even matter, really, as long as it’s far away.
He waits until the crowds dissipate before heading out, and then he looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of something that might—
Right there, on a massive blue sign, it says: Winchester.
Of fucking course. This is just Simon’s luck; he doesn’t bother to check where he’s going, and now he’s in bloody Hampshire. Where Baz lives. Where the entire Pitch family probably lives. Out of all the places he could’ve gone…
Well, just because Baz lives in the vicinity doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll run into each other. Hopefully not. This day has already been going better than it usually does—there’s no need to ruin it.
It’s not that Simon hates Baz’s company, is the thing. He’d never admit it, not even to Penny, but it’s kind of nice, actually, to spend time with him when they’re not actively being enemies. Baz is pretty funny, occasionally, and he’s a lot kinder than he lets on.
It’s—Simon wouldn’t say they’re friends, per se. Just friendlier .
The only reason he doesn’t want to see Baz right now is because they fought on the last day before the break. Which isn’t really anything new—it had felt strangely familiar, to get into a stupid argument—but he’s had a lot of time to think about it, and now he feels a little bad about turning down Baz’s offer.
(It has nothing to do with the fact that, maybe, perhaps, if he’d gone to Hampshire instead of staying at Watford, he wouldn’t have gotten stuck in this time loop.)
Baz had been genuine, Simon thinks. The more he ponders it—and he’s spent countless hours mulling over their conversation; there’s not much else for him to do—the more he’s convinced that Baz had wanted him to come over. Like, as a not-exactly-enemy. He’d asked, and Simon had said no, and now he wishes he hadn’t done that.
At the very least, it would’ve meant not spending every day by himself. Watford is so, so empty. Baz’s place must be nearly as big, but there are other people filling that space. He wouldn’t have had to be so fucking alone.
Simon lets out a sigh. There’s nothing he can do about that now; there’s no point getting all sullen. It won’t help anything.
He passes a café in the station, but he doesn’t stop to grab lunch. He’ll buy something in the city, maybe, if he still has enough money. Even if it’s just a bag of crisps—he’d literally take whatever he can get, because whatever it is won’t be stale leftovers from the Watford kitchen, and just the mere thought of something slightly fresher makes his mouth water.
Hopefully there’s a McDonald’s nearby. Or a Pret. Or, like, a vending machine.
Simon’s never actually been to Winchester before—or anywhere in Hampshire, for that matter. He’s never had a care home here, and he’s never travelled unless the Mage needed him to. It's probably a good thing he's never had to spend a summer here; he would've gone insane, knowing that Baz was so close, plotting away, and not being able to do anything about it. It would've driven him mental.
And actually, how hasn't Simon considered that yet? That this whole predicament is just another one of his plots. This could all theoretically be Baz's fault. He could have caused this whole time loop to mess with Simon. Annoy him for eternity. It does seem like something that prick would—
No. Who's he kidding? Baz wouldn't do this. He'd have no way to make fun of him. And anyway, he couldn't possibly create something like this even if he wanted to. The magic must be insanely powerful, far beyond what Baz is capable of.
Simon kicks a pebble on the ground, hands jammed as far as they go in his pockets and shoes scuffing the pavement. It's a bit of a bummer, honestly. If it were reasonable to assume that Baz is responsible for his shitty situation, at least trying to get him back would give him something to do.
Now he's just back exactly where he's been for the past million bloody days: so sick of the loop that he thinks he might snap and kill something.
The only good thing about this—because as nice as it is to be out of Watford, being in Winchester is decidedly not nice—is that everything in the city is new. The streets aren't familiar; he hasn't walked down them before, hasn't worn the soles of his shoes beating the same tired path. It's like—it's like finally getting a breath of fresh air after being cooped indoors for so long.
Having a place to explore that he doesn’t already know as well as the back of his own hand will get him out of his rut. It has to do that, if nothing else. And if it doesn’t solve the time-loop-issue, then he’ll just do it again—he’ll take every single train that leaves Watford today, over and over, until he’s gone everywhere he possibly can. And then…
Simon shakes his head, pushing away that particular thought. It’s a little depressing to think of being stuck in these resets for so long that he’d have time for all that. He doesn’t want to waste the entire day being gloomy; he could’ve stayed back at school to do that, there was no need to come out here.
He finds himself on a busy street lined with restaurants and shops—all old, stone buildings, like a less grand version of Watford. There's an ice cream parlour and a pub and what might be a bookstore, and a church spire in the distance. It's kind of picturesque, really.
Maybe, if he ever gets out of this loop, and if he survives the year, he'll come back. He'll bring Penny, and Agatha, if they're still friends, and—
Baz.
Simon freezes, eyes wide, doesn't even budge when a harried man jostled him. He blinks once, twice, but it doesn't help—he's not imagining this. He's not mistaking anyone. It's definitely Baz, and what must be his family, leaving a café down the street.
Simon would know him anywhere: that sharp profile, that sleek black hair, that ridiculously expensive coat.
It's Baz. For fuck's sake.
Well, at least he hasn’t seen Simon yet; he’s too busy helping his sister zip up her jacket. It’d be easy to just slip around the corner and blend—
Baz is staring at him, hands curled into fists at his side, already sneering. Shit. And now he’s stalking over, looking far angrier than Simon’s ever seen him—which is saying something, because Baz always looks somewhat pissed—and it’s too late for Simon to turn around or pretend he didn’t see him without making a complete fool of himself.
“I—” Simon starts, not entirely sure what he’s even trying to say.
He’s cut off by Baz fisting a hand in his jumper, hauling him into the nearest alleyway, and slamming him against the wall with a dull thud.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Baz spits.
He’s fuming. His hand is trembling, ever so slightly, and he’s looking at Simon like he’s prey: eyes hard and cold, snarling, the barest hint of sharp teeth.
Simon tips his head back and swallows. He tries to push Baz off, but his grip is too strong. “None of your business,” he says, hoping to match the venom in Baz’s voice.
Baz slams him into the wall again and sneers. “It bloody well is, Snow. Because I’ve lived this day a thousand fucking times, and never, not once, have I seen you.” He yanks Simon forward by his jumper—and they’re so close now that Simon can see every dark streak in the grey of his eyes. “So let me ask this again: Why. The fuck. Are. You. Here?”
Simon feels like his brain’s short-circuited. What does…? There’s no way Baz meant—he couldn’t have. He couldn’t. It’d be—it’s—shit.
Slowly, not sure he heard right, he says, “You’ve been reliving this day too?”
For a long, torturous moment, Baz doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring at Simon. And then he sighs, low and exasperated. “What do you mean, too? ”
This is the worst possible thing that could happen.
“I mean—”
“You’re fucking with me,” Baz interrupts. He hasn’t let go of Simon’s jumper yet. A lock of hair falls into his eyes, and he doesn’t bother pushing it aside.
Simon lets out a huff. “No, I’m not. Why would I do that?” Baz opens his mouth to answer. “Shut up. What I mean is—can you just let me go, for fuck’s sake?”
Baz glares at him, but he does drop his hand.
"Look," Simon continues, averting his gaze to a spot just above Baz's shoulder and smoothing out the folds in his jumper, "I've been reliving today, just like you. I don't know—"
"Oh, fuck off," Baz snaps. "Crowley, Snow. Fucking—" He pauses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a huff. "This… this is cruel. What a sick fucking joke."
Simon frowns. "Well, it's not been easy for me either."
Baz is pacing now, absent-mindedly running a hand through his hair and messing it up, but he stops as soon as Simon talks. He whips his head up to glare at him again, eyes narrowed and lips set in a harsh sneer, and jabs a finger at Simon's chest.
"No," he says, and it comes out more like a growl. "No, you know what—as if it hasn't been difficult enough to spend all this time with my fucking father, now I find out that I'm stuck with you, too. Of all the people in the world. Fuck off."
"Shut up," Simon grunts. "You think I like this any more than you do?"
Baz ignores him. He just goes back to his irritating pacing and mumbles, under his breath, like he doesn't intend for Simon to hear, "What have I ever done to deserve this?"
And that's what it takes for Simon to snap. He hadn't intended to get mad, didn't want to start yelling at Baz, not when things between them were already so tense, but fuck that. If Baz is going to snipe at him, then there's no reason for him not to do the same.
"What did you do to deserve this?" Simon echoes, mustering as much sarcasm as he can. "Oh, I don't know, maybe just by being a shit roommate? And an even shittier person, in general?"
Baz scoffs at him, but he doesn't reply. He keeps clenching and unclenching his hands, though, like he's trying to hold himself back. Simon kind of wishes he wouldn't. He's never been as good at this, at the arguments, as Baz has; it'd be a lot easier and quicker if they just fought. There's no Roommate's Anathema to stop them. Maybe he'd be able to break Baz's nose a second time. Or maybe Baz will bash his head into the wall. Either way, it'd be preferable to this. To the pacing and the glaring and the words.
"You think I deserve this, then, do you?" Simon asks.
Baz shrugs. "Probably," he replies. "You're always getting into stupid shit, Snow. This wouldn't be the first time. It's just my fucking luck that I got drawn into it."
Simon really, really wants to punch him, but he doesn't. "Oh, fuck you, Baz. This is not my fault, I didn't do anything to—"
"You must have," Baz snarls. For a moment, Simon thinks he's going to hit him, but he jerks his hand away and kicks the wall instead. "Because no one else is enough of a moron."
"I—" Simon stops, his breaths rapid and shallow, and shakes his head. He can feel his magic simmering, building up, but he can't go off now. He has to control it. "I didn't—if you weren't being such a prick—"
"I'm being a prick?" Baz scoffs. "I'm not the one who got someone else stuck in this fucking mess."
That's unfair. It's so uncalled for. How was Simon—there was no way he could've known. He never even considered the possibility that this could affect other people. How would it have occurred to him?
"That's not fair," Simon says, so quiet that it's barely above a whisper. His hands are shaking. He can't stop it. "I didn't know, Baz."
Something he can't quite pinpoint flashes in Baz's eyes, and for a split second, it almost seems like he might actually attack. But he just… steps back. His shoulders drop.
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Baz replies. He looks tired, mostly, now that he isn't slamming Simon into the wall. "You never know."
"I—" Simon doesn't really know what to say. He can't think, not beyond the anger boiling in his veins and the need to just let it out and—and— "Fuck you."
Baz laughs humorlessly. "Learned to use your words, have you?"
Simon balls his hand into a fist, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. But before he can even think to swing a punch, Baz hauls him forward by his jumper again and says, "Just sod off, Snow. I don't need you here, making this worse."
He sneers, lip curled up so high that Simon can see the sharp point of his canine, and then pushes him back and leaves the alleyway. Simon watches him go until he reaches his family, and then it feels too weird to keep track. He's almost certain that Baz turns to look at him, but he ducks his head before he can catch his gaze.
Whatever. Let Baz be this way if he wants. It's not like Simon needs him, or anything. It's not like he'd even want Baz's company. Honestly—
Fuck Baz.
Simon goes back to Watford as soon as he grabs lunch, and then he absolutely does not spend the rest of the day in bed. He’s not sulking. He definitely, positively, is not. That’d be ridiculous. He’s just—he’s just mad, is all. At Baz, and his stupid fucking face and his stupid fucking coat and that they’re stuck in this loop together.
Baz was right. Out of all the people in the entire world. This really is a sick joke.
Another day passes. Maybe two. Simon can’t muster the energy to do anything, besides grab some toast for breakfast. He keeps thinking of Baz and what he’d said, and he hates it, because—the thing is, the problem is, he isn’t even pissed at Baz anymore, not really. It was just—it had been so nice to talk to someone else. To find out he’s not entirely alone in this, even if the fact that it’s Baz he has for company isn’t exactly comforting.
Simon lies under the covers, watching the light fall on Baz’s empty bed, and he hates it, because he can’t stop wishing that Baz were here.
Fuck Baz. Fuck him for being so far away and still ruining Simon’s life.
Simon doesn’t need him. He’s just fine on his own; he’s managed so far. Baz can fuck right off.