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I wrap my arms around Baz and stroke his silky hair. His head tips forward until it's nestled on my shoulder. He's shaking.
"We'll spend the day together," I whisper into his hair. "How about it? I was thinking we'd make biscuits, then we could watch the Muppets' Christmas Carol?"
Baz is shyer, sadder, than I could ever have imagined him being. He nods into my shoulder, his arms by his sides, as if he's afraid to touch me.
He's frigid. Last night, when he Turned, he'd shivered so hard that I thought his bones would shake apart. "Simon, you have to go," he'd said. "I'm starving. Please don't let me hurt you."
But I had corralled him gently against my side, his chilled body encapsulated in the refuge of my arms, like a flame housed in a lantern. I'd called Natasha, who'd of course been prepared, and who had entered with a mug of blood from the butcher's.
After his transformation, he'd cried in my arms for a long time. I'd held him, and held him, and held him. And the chill, at last, had released him.
Now he's newly freezing, and it shatters my heart. Because this other life he lived was so much worse than this one—which has already been tragic—and I wasn't there for him. In that life, I hated him for some unbelievable reason.
But I can be there for him now. I hold him a little more tightly before letting go. "First, hot chocolate. Of course."
"Of course," he says, a softer echo. His smile is immaterial, almost completely invisible—but I catch its hesitant edge as it makes an appearance.
Natasha and Malcolm are giving us some space. We'll leave in a few hours if he's comfortable with it, but the house is big enough for them to go into another wing and celebrate. Meanwhile, I'll attempt to make Baz feel safer here.
The hot cocoa doesn't take long. I bring the steaming mug back to him, proffering it with a lot of fanfare. "Your drink, milord."
He flinches a little at my approach. "You didn't have to do that, Snow."
I've never heard him call me by my last name before, and it shocks me so much that I almost drop my drink (though, if I'm being honest, it doesn't take much to startle me). Even before we started dating in Fourth Year, he called me Simon. I keep having to remember that this is a slightly different version of my boyfriend. He looks greyer and sicker than I've ever seen my Baz look. After he Turned and drank all that blood, he was flushed with vitality. He'd touched my cheek and said, "Now we match. We're both rosy." For ten years, he'd been living in limbo waiting to fully Turn, and it was hard on his body. This Baz looks like he hasn't eaten or drunk enough at all.
But he's still mine to protect. I'll do it—I want to, so much.
"It's okay," I say, extending the mug. "I made it for you. It took me two seconds."
He reaches out to take it from me, his voice soft as he murmurs, "Thank you."
I smile and settle beside him on the couch, turning on the DVD player. "Christmas Carol is still your favorite movie, right?"
He blinks up at me, surprised. Then he smirks. "It's a cinematic masterpiece, Snow. Obviously it's my favorite."
At that moment, we hear a sliding door open and close, followed by skittering claws. Patch is a farm dog, but Malcolm lets her in on Christmas as a treat. Baz goes completely still.
"You have Patch in your timeline, right?" I say hesitantly.
He blinks, and it seems to take an eternity. He's not quite looking at me. I reach out and take his hand, something I'd do to calm him before—he's a pretty touchy person, believe it or not. But he flinches, whipping his head around to look at me with wide, frightened eyes.
"I'm sorry!" I say quickly. "I won't touch you unless you say I can. I forgot."
"It's all right," he says quickly, just as Patch barrels into the room, sits down in front of him, and lays her head on Baz's knee.
She loves Baz completely, unfalteringly. She really only listens to him, but she'll allow me a tail wag or two at times, probably because she knows Baz loves me, and I love him. She seems especially excited to see him, gazing up at him with big, adoring eyes.
He's shaking all over again. His trembling hand reaches out, then falls back to his side. Patch, unused to the withdrawal of affection, launches herself onto the couch and climbs into his lap.
He seems to unfreeze, reaching out and petting her head. Her eyes slip closed, and her tail wags furiously. Meanwhile, I watch in shock as a single tear slides down Baz's cheek.
"Are you scared of her? I can take her outside."
"No, no." Patch leans her head up into his touch, and he scratches behind her ears. She's like me; she doesn't like a too-light touch. And I never knew Baz to be wary like that around her.
"What's wrong, love?"
He turns haunted eyes to me. Then, he silently reaches out an arm. I understand the cue immediately, scooting close to his side and letting him wrap his arm around me. He holds me tightly for a few seconds before quickly letting go. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice gruff. "It's a lot."
I curl into him like I always do. His shoulders shudder a little with his breath.
I look at Patch. "Story for later?"
He inhales. Exhales. "Yes," he whispers.
"I still love you," I say. "No matter what. Whether you want to be friends or boyfriends or strangers, I'll love you. That's really not going to change; I am one stubborn sucker."
I get the strand of a laugh from him before he stares back into his lap, cautiously stroking Patch's fur. She's on her way to sleep.
"Enemies," he says softly. "We were sworn enemies."
My heart jumps like it's been burned. "Why?"
"My family hates the Mage, and the Mage hates them."
"So…" I try to wrap my head around that. "We just hate each other?"
"Well." Baz's smile is edged with something sharp and wistful. "Partly."
I don't nudge him with more details. Instead, I burrow deeper into his side. He lets out a little breath. "I was the one who—" He coughs. "—who had feelings for you."
"Well, I didn't hate you," I say, playing idly the the cuff of his sleeve. "I could never hate you, not in any universe."
"You did." He's still smiling that sad little smile. "Bitterly. You made it very clear.
"But I can understand why. I wasn't exactly a saint to you either."
I grin at him. "I don't want a saint. I just want you, Baz Pitch, lover of the Muppets."
I feel his breath catch against my side. His hand lifts and gingerly lands on my curls, carding through them slowly. I lean into the touch.
"You were very confused," he says, voice overflowing with warmth. "You had a lot on your plate. And the Mage always told you to hate vampires."
I wince. "The Mage… he's complicated. He accepts creatures who aren't violent. And he knows you're not; I'd vouch for you if he ever found out."
His eyes are misty again. He clears his throat, a pale flush crossing his face. "And… how did you find out?"
I know I should tread carefully, but I'm not exactly the king of tact. "You told me a little while after we started dating. You wanted to make sure I 'knew what I was getting into.' As if I didn't think that was dead cool."
He rolls his eyes. "I'm a creature of the night, an undead abomination who feasts on the blood of helpless prey."
His hand in my curls tightens, but not nearly enough to hurt. I lean into him as much as I can without ending up in his lap.
"Baz…" I say coaxingly. "You're one of the best people I know. Do you hear me? You're so good. Vampirism doesn't change that. And it doesn't make it right for that other version of me to hate you."
"Are you always such a sap?" he says, but his gaze is soft and affectionate. I wonder if he looked at Other Simon like that, or if this is reserved just for me.
"Actually, no. But I'm getting better at words for you."
"Don't do it for me. Do it for yourself; you've always been too judgmental of who you are."
A little thrill races down my spine. "You're always saying that! Or… Other You, I guess. But you two are the same."
He huffs out a surprised breath. "Well, Other Me was wise beyond words."
"Yes." I grin. "But I sometimes don't feel like I'm worth the effort. So it's a catch-22, because I want to do better for myself, but I'm not motivated enough to put all that effort into something that doesn't matter, which is a sign of negative self-image. And self-image needs to be improved with self-love. There's no way out."
"Catch-22," Baz muses. "Did I teach you that?"
I nod proudly. "Did I use it right?"
"Well enough. Go on."
"But if I have you to fight for… I know it's not healthy, but it makes me want to be better to myself. For you. Because you want me to, and you're worth everything; all the effort in the world."
His eyes soften. "We can't all be perfectly healthy. Take my teenage fixation with you, for example."
"That's unhealthy?"
"Very. The one-sided obsession, that is."
"I was equally obsessed. Didn't you notice?"
Baz rests his chin on his palm. "I… never thought his dogged determination to prove my wickedness was obsession. But I suppose you could think of it that way."
I want so much to kiss his cheek right now. Then I realize that I could ask.
"Baz…" I venture. "Could I—kiss your cheek?"
His face does things that I can't quite decipher. Then he looks over at me, cool and detached. "I suppose that would be fine."
I snort with laughter. Then I tilt up my head from his shoulder and press my lips to his cheek. I drag them downward a little, toward his lips, and he makes a desperate little sound that I want to swallow.
"S'okay," I whisper. "It's all over now. All that stuff from your other life."
He shudders.
"I've got you," I say, and I reach out my arms invitingly. Again, he falls into them. Again, I cling to him.
"Kiss me?" he says timidly. I know how brave he's being with me to drop his mask of bravado, but I wish he never had to feel shy around me.
"Of course," I whisper. "There's almost never a moment when I don't want to kiss you."
"Almost never?"
"When I'm eating scones, or… You know what, I could multi-task."
He scoffs. "You complete numpty."
I lean closer. He meets me halfway. We don't have to go far at all for our lips to collide.
I can't believe I get to be his first kiss. Again. He's inexperienced but so eager, his hand carefully sliding up the back of my neck. I kiss him so tenderly, patiently, devotedly. He leans and leans into me, and I catch him. Hold him. Welcome him.
He breaks away after a moment, and I cup his face carefully. He blinks, looking electrically happy. "Other Me gets to do this all the time?"
I grin. "Every version of you, I love. Remember? So he got to, sure, but now you do too. Whatever you want."
His lashes dip. He hums softly and rests his forehead against mine.
"Ready for the most epic Christmas ever?"
His face blooms into a smile. I kiss his cheekbone. "I'm ready for whatever you want to show me."
I make him gingerbread, and the house fills with the scents of molasses and brown butter. Baz curls up with a blanket and Patch, watching the movie intensely even though he's seen it a million times. He looks so perfectly rumpled, his hair mussed and his eyes sleepy. I return to him with a mug and a plate.
"Try some?" I say, wrapping my arm around his shoulder and holding a biscuit up to his mouth. He snorts, but takes a bite anyway. His eyes pop.
"Snow!"
He sounds almost accusatory.
"What? I learned to bake for you, too."
"Oh, come now. This one had to be for yourself."
I laugh. "It was all thanks to you. If I hadn't been invited to your house over breaks, I never would have left the care homes. And I never would have had enough food, much less learned how to make it. For fun."
Baz looks touched. Then something seems to catch up to him. "Care homes? I thought… I thought you went with the Mage every summer."
"Ha! Sorry, that's just—that's unimaginable to me. He's always busy, you know?"
Baz bites his lip. I'm starting to take it as a sign of him suppressing something. But instead of saying what he really wants to, he mumbles, "I know."
"He wanted me to be surrounded by Normal language," I say.
"I'm sorry," he says suddenly. "If I'd have known, I would have—" He breaks off. "I don't know what I'd do. You'd say no to an offer to stay at mine."
"You convinced him in first year," I say softly. "You said I'd be exposed to plenty of Normal language. And he likes you, even though you dislike him. I mean, you're top of the class."
His eyes sparkle, and for the first time, I dare to hope that he's settling in. "What about Bunce?"
"She's right on your tail. But you two are friends, so there's no hard feelings."
He grins. "I never dreamed that it could be this way."
I squeeze his hand. It's soft and warm after being held, and he squeezes in return.
"And I'm glad I kept you safe," he says quietly. His gaze is warm and protective, and a warmth unspools in my stomach. He harbors the same gentle stewardship toward me as I do toward him. We've entrusted our hearts to each other, and we match.
I press a kiss to his temple, just because I can. "Want to open my gift?"
His face falls. "I didn't… I wanted to, but—"
"Oh, Baz." I scoop his chin up with my palm. "Love. How could you have known?"
He stares down at his hands. "I should have."
I giggle a little, hoping that some light teasing won't scare him off. "Literally, how could you have? I'm usually not the one asking for logic, but I'm going to now."
He rests his cheek against the cradle of my fingers. "I wanted to," he says again.
I change tactics. "I know. I wish you could have. I'm sorry."
He exhales, leaning forward so his lips find mine. I kiss him with abandon, stroking his hair.
"Next year?" he says with such broken hope that my heart cracks like an icicle.
"Yeah, babe," I say, hoping the pet name doesn't put him off. He always used to love them. "Next year."
…
I store away my presents for him, hoping that Valentine's Day will see us more settled and ready for that. For now, I don't want him feeling inferior in any way. We play board games (Baz demolishes me in all of them except Battleships), sing karaoke (I sound just as good as McCartney, according to Baz), and make snowflakes out of paper. Baz casts 'Let It Snow' on them so that they dance and drift through the air. One lands in my curls, and he gives me such a loving smile when he sees me that I feel like I'm one of them—light, airy, and falling head over heels.
"My little snow angel," I say, dropping light kisses all over his face. "My darling Turkish delight."
"I'm going to kill you," he says through his giggles, swatting me with a roll of wrapping paper.
I stick my tongue out at him. But when he calls me "Child," it's laced with just as much love as a cup of hot chocolate.
I let my kisses turn languid, drawing a slow line with my lips from his chin down his neck.
"Crowley, Snow," he whispers. "You're going to be the death of me."
"I thought you were going to kill me?" I say into his skin.
He wraps a hand around my waist, and I think he's still getting used to his vampire strength, because the motion is quick. It makes my heart race. I can't believe I get to be with this wonder of a person.
"No," he says. "I wouldn't harm a hair on your head."
"Then what is it?" I press gently. "Why am I the death of you?"
He gusts out a sigh. "This is… You've given me everything. So much. I don't know how to hold it."
"First of all, you've given me everything as well. And second of all—" I kiss his nose, quick and glancing. "—you don't have to hold it. You can let go."
"You're cornier than a Western barbecue, Snow," he gripes, but there are smile wrinkles around his eyes. I kiss his nose again, then pause.
"Wait. Baz, what happened?"
I touch the crooked end of his nose, disrupting his otherwise unmarred face. He winces. "Oh, that? That was a wild… boar… monster… creature."
"It was me, wasn't it?"
"No!"
"Baz!"
"I deserved it," he says quickly.
I draw a gentle finger down the bridge of his nose. "Baz…"
He smiles at me. It's blinding in the best way. "I know, Simon. It's all right."
I gasp. "You called me Simon!"
He laughs softly. "Yes. And?"
"I like it. I like you."
"Good," he says, sounding a little breathless.
I drag my finger down and across his cheek. "You're stunning."
He raises an eyebrow. "This much flattery is unseemly."
I laugh and punch him lightly in the arm. "Is that better?"
"Much." He tackles me, and we wrestle around until we've slipped off the sofa in a heap of limbs. Patch jumps up to check on us.
"Teenagers," a fond voice says from the kitchen. Baz's head pops up, and he smooths his hair down. Natasha Pitch is standing in the doorway, looking as elegant as ever.
Baz looks similarly transfixed as he had when Patch came in. He carefully untangles himself from me and stands, brushing lint from his trousers. "Mother," he says softly, and it comes out sounding like a question.
She smiles at him, her gray eyes glimmering with mirth. "I'm glad you're happy enough to engage in frivolity."
He lifts his hands as if in apology. "I…"
"Not to worry, little puff." She smiles lovingly, and it transforms her entire face. I see Baz in every inch of her face. "There is a time and place for decorum, but it isn't here and now."
He smiles hesitantly. "Thank you."
"Are you gentlemen ready for dinner?"
…
As the meal progresses, Baz's shoulders relax. He warms slowly with every touch of our hands and every smile from Mordelia. He eats with a hand over his mouth, and I wish he wouldn't feel so self-conscious. But I know these things take time. I'm ready to fight for him, fight for us. As long as it takes to make him feel loved.
As the night wears on, everything becomes sleepy and slow. Mordelia lays her head on Baz's lap and demands a story. Of course, he chooses Dickens.
His voice is soft and sonorous as he reads. I find myself spellbound, eyes drooping lower and lower. Mordelia has become uninterested, but I find myself moving closer and closer to hear what he's saying.
Natasha takes Delia to bed, and Baz pulls me again into his side. His touch is surer, firmer this time as he gathers me close, lets me settle my head on his chest. I feel the vibration of his voice against my ear, resounding like a church bell, warm and encompassing.
"Baz," I whisper. "I'm glad you're here with me."
He touches my curls again, his fingers working their way down and coming to rest on my scalp. He hums sleepily.
"I'm glad you want me here," he whispers.
I turn my face into his shoulder. He keeps reading. I fall asleep with the words in his voice wrapped like a garland in my hair.
…
Later, I rouse a little. Baz is carrying me up the stairs as if I weigh nothing. As I stir, he shushes me. "We're going to bed," he says.
I nod in silent approval against his shoulder. He lets out a soft huff of a laugh and settles me onto the bed, drawing the comforter around my torso. I catch his wrist and press a kiss to the inside.
"Happy Christmas," I whisper.
I don't have to open my eyes to know that he's smiling. "It was the best one I've ever had. Thank you."
"Love you."
"I love you, Simon."