Work Text:
Everything is fine.
Everything is perfectly fucking fine.
Heat crackles beneath my skin - I run hot, it’s fine. The measurements in this recipe are jumbled and the batter looks like shit. Is that what’s bothering me? Is it the oven heat? Neither of those matter. Everything is fine!
Reaching temperature, the oven beeps and I slam my phone onto the counter. Fuck that recipe. My nerves are on fire and my nostrils fill with green smoke. I yank my curls, pacing across the kitchen. “Calm down. You’re fine, Simon. Nothing is wrong.”
What’s wrong? Have I not been eating enough? Am I missing Pen while she’s visiting her family? My bare feet are blazing against the cool floorboards. The oven is on, beeping at me to put something in it. I’m not done mixing the batter. Breathe, pull yourself together, it’s not hard. Why is this so hard?
I jam my thumb against the oven to turn it off, throat burning hot at the disappointment of defeat. I can’t do this (Why can’t I do this? Has work been too stressful?).
My wings knock Penny’s stuff off the shelf as I rush into the washroom, turning the shower as cold as possible and shoving my joggers down. My brain is on fire and everything is blurry through the smoke (what smoke? I was never magic). My wings rumple at the icy sensation when I step in the spray, but I’m gasping for the breathable air it offers.
Not smoke. Air.
My hair plasters to my face, the water runs too thick to open my eyes. But I can breathe, and the buzzing beneath my skin eases. I’m not about to go off. I can’t. I’m a twenty-three-year-old sham, not a seventeen-year-old Chosen One.
But I was. I was the Chosen One. My magic poured out like a gas leak until I got frustrated or angry, sparked, set everything ablaze. Set myself ablaze. Fuck. I remember it. Being at the mercy of my own emotions, entirely out of control.
My face is still ember hot. I lean my forehead against the glass and try to stop crying. The pane is soothingly cold.
Eventually my tail stops whipping against my calf. My skin has returned to a bearable temperature, numb to the steady beat of water. I’m on the shower floor, one wing crumpled uncomfortably (when did I sit down?). I don’t move. I don’t turn off the water. Droplets fall from my ear, from the spines of my wing. The crackling in my brain is silenced, but I’m exhausted as though I did go off. I just sit in the booth, not ready to leave yet, not risking the feeling coming back.
I’m almost drifting off when I hear my name. Baz is standing in the doorway (he was still in class - I didn’t bother shutting the door). His hair is loosely tied back and he’s wearing a pale blue-grey shirt. His footsteps are soft, his voice is soft - he can see I’m fucking pathetic. “Simon… are you alright?”
I shake my head. Baz opens the stall door, rolls up his sleeve and shuts the water off. He kneels on the tile, taking in the scene with concern creasing his eyes. His hand reaches for my shoulder, and my tail coils around his wrist, needing his cool touch. “Circe, Snow, you’re freezing. What are you doing in here?”
“I- I needed the cold.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. Baz’s chilly fingers brush my cheek, moving my hair away from my face.
“Do you still need it?” I don’t know, but when Baz brings me a towel and strokes it over my hair, my shoulders, it’s calming. I can feel the cold seeping into my bones, I’m not going to overheat again. I let him dry me even though my wings drip water onto me again anyway.
When he’s satisfied, he leaves the towel draped over my midsection, preserving what little dignity I have. We’ve seen each other naked before, but it’s humiliating like this. He’s probably tired from lectures and hungry and in need of a good juicy badger, but instead he’s here taking care of his nightmare of a boyfriend. “You’re too nice to me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m making up for seven years of being a prick to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life doing so if you let me,” he says it sharply, but his words are sweet, and I chuckle. “Did something happen, love?”
“No.” Baz waits a moment for an explanation. I don’t understand it myself.
“Okay,” he said gently, unfolding his long legs and standing up. “Let’s get you dressed, then I can finish your banana bread and order us something to eat.”
I don’t care what he says. Baz is too nice to me.