If You Must

All That We Are Is Loved

Baz

I cup Simon's face in my hands and kiss him. Roughly. One of his hands bunches at the back of my hair, the other grips the small of my back.

I kiss Simon Oliver Grimm-Pitch for all I'm worth. I kiss my husband, who smells like blood and sweat and spent magic. But underneath it all, smelling like Simon. My Simon, who smells like apples and cinnamon and everything worth living for in this world. The blood from his nosebleed is sweet in my mouth, and I think he realizes that I'm tasting his blood but he doesn't care, doesn't pull away. It feels more like the epitome of trust than any marriage certificate. As we kiss, a wave of Magickal energy reverberates out from Simon, sending golden sparks through the air. Around us, the Magickal Atmosphere itself seems to sigh. I don't know what he's done, but it's obviously a good thing.

We break apart, and I look at my watch.

"Shit, Si, we're twenty minutes late to our own wedding." Simon smiles at me, reaching up to brush my hair out of my face.

"Better get cleaned up, then, or Penny'll have a fit." Grinning like a maniac, I use the last of my drained magic to spell the dirt and grime and blood from us, to fix us back up into how we looked before our most current misadventure.

"Are you ready, Mr.Pitch?" I ask him.

"Born ready, Mr.Pitch," he replies.