Work Text:
BAZ
I can smell her before I reach the final flight of stairs, blood and chocolate and kitchen herbs: Bunce. Fuck. I could have her expelled for being in our room, I could have had her expelled for being in our room years ago. For being the second smartest person in our year Bunce can be complete idiot, all that time spent with Snow must be rubbing off on her; she’s clever enough to break the ward to get into Mummurs House, stupid enough to think she won’t get caught. I won’t have her expelled, not yet, it’s not the time. I cherish the competition, without her (almost) nothing about Watford would be a challenge.
He’s there too, of course he is, Snow and Bunce the great detectives, trying to puzzle out the intricacies of some plot they’re sure I’m masterminding. Little do they know, sometimes the plots have nothing to do with them; sometimes I’m not even plotting. Not that Snow would ever believe that.
Father thinks I’m back here three weeks before the start of term to gather intelligence for the family; Watford thinks I’m here as the family are holidaying without me. None of it’s true, I’m back here for me, this is home. There’s a limit to how long I can spend each summer pretending not to be bothered by father’s attitude; how long I can keep up the Grimm-Pitch façade of sneering indifference. (Father’s much harder to fool than Snow.)
I can feel Snow’s magic now too, scorching the air, it’s always there, a smoky aura surrounding him everywhere he goes. Crowley, I can’t face this now.
The catacombs are as silent as ever, nothing down here but the (un)dead and vermin. I don’t need to hunt and if I did I wouldn’t choose rats. You don’t choose rats, you settle for rats when the dryads are being overly protective of the woods. I’m not here to hunt, I’m here to see her.
I never know what to say to her, I just know I need to speak to her.
An empty wine bottle lies on the floor, I fill it from a puddle and cast a quick Water Into Wine. She wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment, but I think she’d be impressed with my transmogrifying stagnant, murky rainwater into a passable Chateauneuf-du-Pape. We’re not supposed to Water Into Wine anything within Watford’s walls, but no one checks; the Mage figures none of us have enough experience to make it potable, and even if we did we don’t have refined enough tastes to enjoy it. Does he seriously think I would be caught dead drinking those neon, sugar-filled alcopops? Crowley, even Wellbelove won’t drink those (well, she doesn’t drink anything after the Hair Of The Dog incident).
I slump down against the wall opposite her tomb and stare at the two words, the two dates; that’s all there is of her here, that’s all she is here. I raise my bottle in a silent toast, she says nothing as I take a long swig. Her silence is deafening; death does that to everyone, turns them all into an eternal silence screaming at those of us it hasn’t taken yet.
This isn’t right. This isn’t where she belongs, this doesn’t feel like her, we’re all dead Pitches down here; the wine is making me feel alive and I need her to be the same.
She wouldn’t have stood for this mess. The Mage leaves piles of books everywhere, poised to topple with the lightest of breezes, not just in her office, but in every one of her rooms. He's left paper everywhere; maps pock-marked with dead spots covering the portraits on her walls. I guess it's technically his office, his rooms, his walls, but no matter how much mess he leaves, no matter how long his name’s on the door, none of this will ever truly be his. You can't just stick your name on something and claim it as your own.
I crawl in under her desk with my half-empty bottle of wine, it’s considerably more cramped than the last time I was in here, but it’s familiar: warm wood and chocolate mint, her little puff sitting at her feet while she works.
“Sorry, mum” I don’t know where else to begin, “I know you’d have rather have taken me with you than let me Turn, you probably should’ve. Doesn’t matter much now, either Father’ll do it,” (because bloodsucking is one thing, but cocksucking is a step too far) “or the Mage will need me out of the way. He probably wouldn’t even do it himself, he’ll make Him do it; after all, the Mage doesn’t like getting his wand dirty.”
It would be simple enough to make them all happy, I think between mouthfuls of wine; “Tyger, tyger,” I mutter, without putting magic in the words, but that would be too easy. “No son of Natasha Pitch takes the easy way out,” I toast her silence again and finish the bottle.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, long enough for the tears to stop and dry across my cheekbones in salty streaks. I can feel bile gurgling and rising in my stomach; there’s nothing but blood and wine in there and it’s not staying put. I crawl out from under her desk and look for something to throw up in; there’s nothing to hand so I make my way over to the bathroom and puke my guts up in his toilet. I cast a Stone Cold Sober at myself - it smarts like hell - and I leave the mess for the Mage to clean up as I make my way back to Mummers House.
From the moonlight seeping in through the edges of the curtain I can see well enough to get changed and into bed. He’s already asleep and the silver glow is highlighting the constellations running across his shoulders; Crowley, it takes my breath away every single time.
I didn’t tell her about Him, maybe next year I’ll have something worth telling.