SIMON

Baz tries to sleep as soon as the plane takes off, but I'm too antsy to close my eyes and relax. My fingers tap against the armrest, and I can tell from the way Baz sighs every few minutes that he wishes I would stop, but won't ask.

I've never flown before, not in a plane anyway. Ask me to sprout wings and a tail, sure? Dangle from the neck of a dragon? Why the fuck not? But the higher we go and the longer we stay in the air, the more nervous I find myself.

"All right Snow-"

"Simon," I correct him automatically.

"What's the problem, Simon?" He turns his head to face me, but his eyes stay shut. I wish he'd look at me. There's nothing I love more than the second right when Baz wakes up, all sleepy and unguarded and mine. "Oh, stop staring and use your words."

I reach up and tap his nose, earning the tiniest of smiles. "I hate flying."

"Tell that to your tail."

I bite back a growl, nudging his shoulder with mine until he inhales sharply and straightens and his eyes open. "Fine, I'll bite. Why do you hate flying Simon?" He doesn't look happy, but he can't hide the amusement in his voice.

I shrug, twisting until my knee touches his. "There's so many things that can knock this plane out of the sky. I could have knocked this plane out of the sky last month."

"Yes, well, we can't keep track of all the things you can do to kill people. It would take far too long," he smirks. I consider kissing it right off his mouth, but then he'd be distracted, and what if the plane goes down? I need him sharp for spells, not for snogging.

I'd rather not die kissing Basilton Pitch today, not when I'd like to be doing it years from now.

"You're pouting."

I feel my bottom lip jut further into its pout. "Am not."

His eyebrow rises, high enough up that it can battle his widow's peak. "You are, and I may have to spell your hand gone if you don't stop fidgeting."

"But you love my hands," I remind him, slipping a finger over his collarbone. He shivers and I can't help the grin that curls on my lips. "Or at least you did last night."

"Aleister Crowley Simon, there are children aboard this thing."

"I'm sure they're all asleep," I brush off his concerns, moving my hand down to play with the button of his shirt. "Anyway, you're distracting me from the topic at hand."

"Which is?"

"My hatred of flying," I say exasperatedly, shaking my head at him. "This is hundreds of kilograms of metal flying through the air. No magic keeping it up, nothing but engines and air propelling it forward."

Baz considers what I've said, swatting away my hand when it manages to slip underneath his shirt. "Normals manage to get around just fine, and it must be doubly true with the Chosen One on board." He says it teasingly enough, but a part of me still flinches.

I don't ask him not to call me that anymore, he and Penny can't help it. I think they need to make light of it sometimes, and it hurts a little less each time, so I let it go.

"That's just inviting trouble," I protest. "I attract it."

"That's how you got me," he agrees sagely.

I hum, and he's so cute in that moment, that I touch my nose to his cheek and sniff. He used my shampoo this morning. "Promise that the plane won't go down."

"Simon Snow, I solemnly swear that this plane will stay right where it should be."

I'd trust him a little more if the plane didn't dip and quake as soon as he was done talking.

BAZ

Simon nearly jumps into my lap, a small squeak escaping through his lips.

"Crowley Simon," I gasp, his elbow landing in my stomach and pushing the breathe from my chest. "It's all right, only a little bit of turbulence."

He looks over at me like I'm a crazy person, the color seeping from his face and his blue eyes dubious. "A little bit of turbulence? Baz, not all of us are indestructible."

"I'll have you know that I got a paper cut the other day."

He rolls his eyes, hassling his hair with two hands. "Well fuck me Baz, I'm surprised you didn't die."

"Undead," I remind him. "God, Simon. We've still got another six hours before we land, you really have to relax."

"I don't want to relax," he says childishly, facing forward and folding his arms over his chest. "I want you to be as scared as I am."

"Not possible, no one in the world is as scared as you, love."

And there's that damned pout again.

I reach over and brush a curl from his forehead, fingering one of his moles and watching as his shoulders relax. "How about I meet you in the middle, yeah?" I offer. "I'll hold your hand and I can be the hero for once."

"Would you even know how?"

"Oh shut up Snow."

I take his hand and stroke along his palm, hoping that will soothe him. If that doesn't work, then there's always those tiny bottle of vodkas.

"Will you talk to me?" He asks, his eyes glued to our hands, his fingers occasionally twitching within mine. He's still nervous, and I bet if he still had his magic, he'd be glowing.

Then we'd all really be screwed.

"What do you want me to say?" I wonder, leaning into him and swallowing back a smile when he does the same. His hair tickles the bottom of the chin, and it's not the first time that day I find myself wishing I could bury my face in it.

"Anything," he shrugs, "to make this god-awful plane ride go faster." I have words for that, but no necessarily for him.

I rummage through my carry-on, finding my wand almost immediately and tugging it out. "It's a bird, it's a plane," I whisper, feeling the plane pick up speed almost imperceptibly.

"Waste of magic," Simon murmurs quietly, nuzzling further against my neck.

"Go to sleep, Snow."

I stay awake, I figure he'd feel safer that way, and take out a book. I'm two words in before it loses my interest, my eyes moving over to Simon like they always do.

I used to think Simon would look different without his magic. It used to surround him, protect him, I suppose. Strangely enough, it's what attracted me to him in the first place, that drawing feeling that came with that much power. But after that first year, he stopped feeling like the greatest mage to ever live, and started just being him.

After all there was no magic when he ate, shoveling as much food as he could into that fit mouth of his. There was no magic when he growled at me, holding that damn sword like a toddler and some ratty stuffed bear, and even less so at night, the moon lighting half his face and casting a glow on his hair.

Simon Snow may have been magic, but it disappeared for me a long time ago.

Besides, his magic didn't give him those moles (I discovered one on the back of his neck a week into our relationship. I've decided it's my favorite), or the sullen look he gets when he's wrong. He would have had those curls I love to tug, magic or no magic, and at least this way I don't have to worry about him bursting into flames or sucking the magic from all of England.

If anything, I may love Simon more without his magic. I know he still feels an ache, I can see it in his eyes when he has to ask for help, or has no idea what to do with those ridiculous wings of his so I'll never say it to him. Bunce says he's fine now, that it's been two years and that he's moved on, but I'm not sure I buy it.

I don't catch him crying in the bathroom anymore, so that must be a good sign. But still, at some point, it must stop being a relief, losing all that power and responsibility, and must feel like loosing an arm.

Simon Snow snores like mad, and it's only manages to get worse at higher altitude.

I watch his chest rise and fall, listening to the gentle thrum of his heartbeat. It's one of the first things I did when we started sleeping together, listened to his heart, got to use to the feel of his pulse. I did it so long that I don't notice them anymore. It's the only way I can lay beside him if I haven't fed. I stop thinking about his blood and how good it must be, focusing instead on his mouth or his neck or the way he curls around me like a kitten.

"Attention passengers, we're beginning our descent into New York."

Christ, how long have I been watching him?

He blinks up at me, his mouth widening into a perfect circle as he yawns. "You kept your promise."

"Don't I always?" I reply with a smirk, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him into me. "Now Simon Snow, are you ready to start our holiday?"

He stares at me wryly, and a smooth a finger along his eyebrow as it lifts. "Do you want an honest answer?"

"Absolutely not."

SIMON

I can hear myself as I complain, my feet shuffling and my hand thrust deep in my pocket, and I want to tell myself to fuck off. Baz, bless him, has bit his tongue, sending me withering glares every few minutes.

"I don't understand what's so great about America," I murmur, kicking the curb as we wait for a cab. "It's far too warm here."

"It's three degrees cooler here, Snow!" Baz cries, taking our suitcases and shoving them into the back of the taxi.

Snow. I must really be in trouble.

"Well it's too crowded."

He levels me with an agitated look, his signature sneer in place. "You live in fucking London."

Shrugging, I flop into the cab and sigh. "It smells better back home. And Penelope's there."

He rolls his eyes, his foot tapping against the floor and giving our driver the address of our hotel. "Like always, you are wrong and whiny."

I huff at that, reaching over a pinching him in the side. "And how so, Mr. Pitch?"

"Penelope thought she'd be bored at home without us or school to keep her busy, so she's visiting Micah. We're meeting them for tea in an hour." I gap at him, and his sneer disappears behind a grin. "Have I offended?"

"I smell better in London!"

"Do you have nothing better to do than complain?"

"For fuck's sake, I've been on a plane for ten thousand hours Baz."

He licks his lips. It's distracting. "So have I."

"Well not everyone can be as perfect as you."

He smiles that smile that made me believe he was evil for seven years, a devilish grin that just screamed plotting. "And you definitely shouldn't forget that," he murmurs, sliding over to my end of the seat. "Don't worry Simon, we can shower once we get to the hotel."

And suddenly this vacation doesn't seem so bad.