Snowbaz Oneshots

What We Find in the Flames

Hello and welcome back! Kinda just wrote this for fun, a magickal mishap, some fluff and growth, and, of course, music. The central song of this fic is "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen, which would pair nicely with reading, if you want to give it a listen!

And, as always, read as you see fit here- warnings for a nightmare, some anxiety/stress, and mild language. I wanted to explore some of the themes in AWTWB and try my hand at Simon and Baz talking some things out, so while nothing's too deep or dark, make sure to read safe! <33

Enjoy!

"We need to fix the fact that I can count all the names of the vegetables you know on one hand."

"No we don't! People need to stop calling random things vegetables, that's what it is."

I snort at Simon, turning the music in the kitchen down so we can talk more. "What do you mean?"

With an indignant raise of his eyebrows, Simon brandishes Daphne's recipe pages at me. "'Spaghetti squash', Baz? I'm telling you, your stepmum made that up. You can only have one- spaghetti or squash."

I hand Simon a packet of uncooked noodles from the grocery bag I'm unpacking (perhaps we'll try squash noodles another night). I have no proper refute at hand that will convince Simon such a vegetable exists, so I just turn the music back up, continue unloading things onto the counter, and let Simon talk himself hoarse about each recipe.

As he fumbles with the stove behind me, humming along to the tunes that fill our apartment, I keep my eye out for a familiar look in his eye. Something about cooking- sharing recipes with people, getting the gratification of making your own meals, and, of course, the chance to eat the food- makes Simon light up. And he's brilliant at it, too. Once he really caught on and began to lose himself in the practice, he started churning out delicious meals whenever he could.

I've never really let all of that adulation take to words, but I think Simon can tell how I feel about his new hobby each time I lower my hand from my mouth or chew and talk simultaneously. (The latter is an astronomical rarity, but it's infinitely more feasible than it was two years ago.)

The glint in Simon's eye that I was searching for is there tonight, one of steady happiness and accompanied by laughter. I join in, letting myself brush up against Simon as much as possible as I pick bowls and cutlery out of the cupboards.

Still humming along to his playlist, Simon swats a bowl from one end of the linoleum counter to the other with the tip of his right wing. (A safety hazard on so many levels, Snow, I say, impressed.) His music taste still confuses me- it's almost exclusively 1950-1970s and 2014 to now. My taste resides settled in the 1980-2010 range.

Simon chucks the noodles into the boiling water, and the hissing noise is added to his bum-bum-bum, bum-bum-bum-ba-da-bum.

"Steve walks warily down the street, with the brim pulled way down low, " I duet, easily recalling the lyrics to the classic. Both of our voices probably leave something to be desired melodically- a fact the two of us also disbelieve of each other- but there's something undeniably amazing about singing with Simon Snow. And I know for sure that it's a good day if he's singing.

"You took me for everything that I had ," Simon continues, "and kicked me out on my own. " He bonks me on the head with the ladle. I knock his shoulder with mine.

"Are you happy? Are you satisfied? " I bob my head along to the song, placing napkins on our little breakfast table, but I stop short when my stomach lurches slightly. My head is swimming a bit, but I can tell that the taste on my tongue is unmistakably magic, that the bursting in my chest is undoubtedly from casting.