SnowBaz Carries On

A Dream Come True

SIMON

     What in the hell?!

     I wouldn't believe what I'm hearing if Baz didn't have the same startled look on his face right now. Why is there a baby, crying, in our room? Why is there a baby in our flat at all??

     Cautiously, I get up and face the doorway. (Cautiously because maybe it's a trap or the baby is evil or an alien or something. Idk. I'm just being careful, okay.) Baz stands up, too, and follows at my heels.

     We leave the living room and approach the bedroom door, which is slightly ajar. To my relief, the wailing has mellowed to a steady murmur of a cry. Upon pushing open the door, the baby's sounds nearly dissipate altogether. Surprising...

     I stop and scan the room for the child only to have Baz push past me and scoop up a little bundle that was lying on the floor in a dark corner of the room. That's definitely odd, as if this situation wasn't already.

     We sit on the bed and cradle the tiny being that was just left alone on the floor. The window wasn't open or tampered with when we came in. Someone would have had to use magick even with the window, since our flat's pretty high up. We always lock the doors before settling down for the night, and Penny performed a house-warming spell or something when we moved in to prevent invaders. Besides, what burglar would leave a baby instead of taking something. (Baz would've heard someone anyway.)

     As if reading my thoughts, he says, awestruck, "How did this little guy get in here?"

     "I have no idea. I mean, it has to be from magick, right?" I ask, hoping Baz will have some theories.

     "Maybe... I just don't know how. This place is nearly intrusion-proof, especially when the owners, us, are sleeping. Bunce's spellwork is quite reliable."

     Yeah, I know that's true; it's just not helping to figure out how.

     "Wait a minute," I say, remembering and realising.

     Baz looks up from the baby and into my eyes, his brow furrowing. Crowley, how am I supposed to concentrate now? The clock also says it's three in the bloody morning. Ugh.)

     Looking away from him and out the window into the night, I explain how I fell asleep on the couch thinking about what he had said. About not having a child of our own. I vaguely remember having a dream about the perfect baby for us. One that was really ours.

     I wished for the baby in my dream and a golden haze covered my vision. That's all I can recall before cries from a real baby woke us up. '

     Eyes wide, Baz says, "Crowley, Simon. Your magick. That's what brought the baby. What made the baby. That means... that means we're fathers."

     His voice broke a little at the end and so did my heart. We're fathers.

     Overwhelmed with joy and shock, I lean in to kiss our son/daughter (um, that's something we need to check) on the forehead. It looks up at me and smiles the faintest, most delicate smile that could be humanly possible. Those eyes are as blue as Baz says mine are, but the first dainty hairs on its head look dark enough to later be ebony.

     Then, I kiss Baz, tenderly and with meaning. We both have stray tears on our cheeks, but we're too stunned, too happy, to think about wiping them away.

     We're fathers.