(In which my headcanon gets edited... and illustrated.)
I gotta get used to this Tumblr thing where as soon as you post something, you can’t find it again to edit it. So I figured I’d just go ahead and repost the updated drabble and indulge myself with some art to go with it. :)
So, as before, it would be cool if something like this had taken place somewhere between Chapters 67 and 71 of Carry On. Because I dearly love the fact that Simon is sure that Baz is alive, despite Baz feeling sure he’s not. That’s what love does - it gives us life.
My injured leg’s gone numb and prickly, but I’m not about to complain. Simon Snow is above me and gazing at me from under his perfect eyebrows. Gazing. Somehow, dozens of private fantasies haven’t prepared me for the reality of locking eyes with Snow in a way that does not portend my imminent injury. If it didn’t make me so damn happy, I’d find it unnerving.
“For someone who doesn’t think, you look pensive,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’ve just sorted something out, is all.”
My eyes fixate on a small scar below his lip. I bet that was my fault. “Mm-hmm. And what’s that?”
“I was just thinking that you’re definitely alive,” he says, “and I can prove it to you.”
I groan. I wish he wouldn’t keep bringing this up. It’s depressing, and moreover, it’s disrupting my concentration. I’m trying to memorize Snow’s face like this before we both wake up tomorrow and realize the rest of the world won’t let us be together.
“In for another one of your experiments then, am I?” I sigh.
I feel Simon’s fingertips begin tugging at the buttons on my shirt. “Something like that.”
His hand slips under the fabric and comes to rest in the center of my chest. Its warmth seems to radiate all the way down my arms and up into my cheeks.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder if Snow is about to light me up with his magic again, but then I feel his mouth on my neck, and just like that, yet another fantasy is neutralized for its inability to measure up to the real thing. My eyes roll back as Snow’s kisses travel slowly down from my ear to my collar, and a sound I’ve never heard before escapes from my lips. I’ve forgotten how to breathe properly. Or think.
A long moment passes before I feel his lips pull away. “Now give me your hand,” he murmurs.
His hand falls away from my chest, finds mine, and presses it over my heart. I feel my heartbeat racing, hammering away against my fingertips like a drum.
I open my eyes, and Simon is above me again wearing that shit-eating grin he puts on when he knows he’s won.
The way Baz looks at me after I kiss his neck gives me goose pimples. His eyes are partly closed, like he’s observing me from far away. One of his hands is still under my own, pressed against his heart, while the other absently touches the spot below his jaw where my lips had played.
Only now does it occur to me that no one has ever touched him there, much less kissed him.
It’s where he’d been bitten.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I have a chance to say something predictably idiotic and deficient, Baz comes back to life under my hands and kisses me soundly on the mouth. His arms are so strong around me that I’m instantly out of breath. I allow myself one thought: for somebody incapable of warming above room temperature, Baz succeeds in setting my skin on fire every time his lips touch mine.
He’s rolling me onto my back when I feel something wet against the tip of my nose. I open my eyes and notice tears clinging to his eyelashes.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Shut up, Simon,” he says, and with another kiss he makes sure I do.
As he melts against me, I decide I’m okay with that. Baz wins this round.
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