Snowbaz one shots!

Taken-part 2

Simon ran.

He didn't know where he was going, but his feet moved on their own, driven by nothing more than raw panic and sheer desperation. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, his mind unable to form anything resembling a plan. All he knew was that he had to find Baz. He had to.

The night pressed in around him as he tore through the wet streets, the cold air burning his lungs. The pocket watch was still clutched in his hand, its metal edges biting into his palm. Simon held onto it like a lifeline, like somehow, it could lead him to Baz.

He thought of the last thing Baz had said to him before he was taken: "You're always rushing in, Snow. One day it's going to get you killed." Baz had smirked when he said it, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something that looked a lot like worry.

Now, Simon was afraid those words would be the last thing he ever heard from Baz. The thought was like a knife twisting in his chest, and he ran faster, his magic flaring up in his blood even though he knew he couldn't cast a single spell anymore. It was like the ghost of his power was mocking him, whispering that if he were still whole, still the Chosen One, he might've been able to save Baz.

But he wasn't the Chosen One anymore. He was just Simon Snow—half-broken, stripped of the magic that had once defined him. And Baz was out there, somewhere, possibly hurt or worse, and Simon couldn't do a damn thing about it.

No, he told himself fiercely. I'll find him. I have to.

A flicker of movement to his left caught his eye, a shadow darting down a side street. Without thinking, Simon veered off, his boots skidding on the slick pavement as he changed direction. He had no idea if it was a lead or just his mind playing tricks on him, but he couldn't afford to ignore anything right now.

The alley he turned into was darker than the others, the air thick with the scent of rot and decay. It reminded him of the back streets in London where they'd taken down rogue vampires before. It was the kind of place where creatures of the dark thrived, where they could hide and hunt in peace.

Simon's grip tightened on his sword. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, a relentless, painful thrum. His magic may have left him, but he still had muscle memory, still had the instincts that had kept him alive all those years.

"Baz!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the brick walls. "Baz, where are you?!"

There was no response—just the oppressive silence that seemed to swallow his voice whole. Simon pressed forward, deeper into the darkness, his sword held at the ready. His mind kept replaying every worst-case scenario, each one worse than the last: Baz bleeding out in some forgotten corner, Baz chained up in some hellish dungeon, Baz already gone, lost forever.

A noise—a faint groan—pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. It came from somewhere deeper in the shadows, and Simon's heart leapt. He knew that voice. He would recognize it anywhere.

"Baz!" he shouted again, his voice raw and desperate.

This time, he heard it more clearly: a pained, ragged breath, followed by a muffled curse. Simon sprinted towards the sound, his heart hammering in his chest, praying that he wasn't too late.

He rounded a corner and nearly stumbled over a crumpled figure on the ground. It was Baz.

He was slumped against the wall, his usually perfect hair matted with blood, his face ashen. His eyes fluttered open when Simon skidded to a stop beside him. "S-Snow?" Baz whispered, his voice hoarse, as if he had been screaming.

Simon's throat tightened, relief and terror warring within him. "Baz," he breathed, dropping to his knees. He wanted to reach out, to touch Baz's face, to reassure himself that he was real, but he didn't know where to touch without hurting him more.

Baz's shirt was shredded, revealing jagged cuts all along his side. His breaths were shallow, pained, and his eyes were glassy with exhaustion and pain. But he was alive. Simon could see the rise and fall of his chest, could feel the faint warmth of his skin.

"Bloody hell, Snow," Baz rasped, his lips quirking into a weak attempt at a smirk. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Never," Simon choked out, his voice breaking. He pressed his trembling hands to the wound on Baz's side, trying to stop the bleeding. The cuts were deep, vicious—like something had tried to rip Baz apart. "I thought—" His voice caught, tears welling up in his eyes. "I thought I lost you."

Baz's expression softened for a fraction of a second before his usual mask of sarcasm slipped back into place. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," he whispered, though his voice wavered with pain.

Simon swallowed hard, trying to focus. He couldn't afford to break down now. Baz needed him. "I'm going to get you out of here," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Can you move?"

Baz let out a harsh laugh that turned into a cough, blood flecking his lips. "Not... sure I have much of a choice."

Simon's heart twisted. He slipped an arm under Baz's shoulders, trying to lift him without causing more pain. Baz bit back a groan, his entire body trembling with the effort. Simon's eyes blurred with tears again, but he blinked them away. He couldn't afford to fall apart. Baz needed him to be strong.

As they struggled to their feet, Baz's head lolled against Simon's shoulder, his breath hot against Simon's neck. "Simon..." Baz whispered, so softly that Simon almost didn't hear it.

"Yeah?" Simon asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"If... If I don't make it out of this—"

"Shut up," Simon cut him off, his voice fierce. "Don't you dare say that."

Baz managed a faint smile, even as his eyes began to close again. "Always... so bloody stubborn, Snow."

Simon's throat tightened, his chest aching with something too big to name. "I'm not losing you," he said, his voice rough with unshed tears. "I don't care what it takes. I'm not letting you go."

Baz didn't respond, his breaths shallow and uneven. Simon's heart pounded as he half-carried, half-dragged him out of the alley. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know if he could even get Baz to safety in time. But he couldn't stop. He couldn't let Baz die.

He just couldn't.

As they stumbled back into the rain-soaked street, Simon's eyes scanned desperately for help. For anything. The world around him seemed to blur, his focus narrowing to the dying boy in his arms.

"Hang on, Baz," Simon whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, just hang on a little longer. I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

But as Baz's breathing grew fainter, Simon couldn't shake the cold, creeping fear that he might already be too late.