If You Must

All That We Are Is Feverish

Baz

In a massive scraping of chairs, everyone stands up. We're having the reception right here, in the marquee, so we'll need to clear the floor. While the service was going on, someone already started setting up the food and the bar. Originally, the plan was for Simon to magic the rows of chairs out of the way, placing them around the tables now ringing the marquee. But he looks so unsteady on his feet, his hands gripping my arm like I'm the only thing keeping him upright, that I have Bunce and Micah do it instead. As they slave away (for a grand total of ten minutes), people come towards us to congratulate us. Miss Possibelf, who's grinning and dabbing at her eyes. Coach Mac, who looks terrifyingly tearful. My father is too choked up to speak, just keeps patting me on the back and saying, "Good man"; Daphne is more of the same. Mordelia is jumping up and down, clutching Simon in a tight hug (I fend her off quickly, afraid Simon might pass out on top of her). Dr. and Mrs. Wellbelove shake Simon's hand (Doctor Wellbelove smiles at me, but Mrs. Wellbelove gives me a reproachful look. I don't think she's over the fact that I stole her daughter's boyfriend). The Bunces give us each tight hugs. People from Watford give us polite handshakes and smiles, wishing us luck.

Simon's fingers dig into my arm through my sleeve. I look over at him, using my free hand to gently knock up his chin.

"You okay?" I ask. Lacklustre blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he offers me a weak (albeit genuine) smile.

"I'm not sure... feel a bit like I'm about to pass out,"He murmurs. I kiss his forehead, pulling away in surprise when I feel his skin is feverishly hot beneath my lips.

Looping my arm around Simon's waist, I expertly thread us through the crowd. We manage to leave the marquee unnoticed, slipping out through a flap in the back. Immediately, cool air and sweet-smelling sunshine engulf us.

"Have a seat!" I mutter, magicking a bench onto the soft grass. Simon sits down gratefully, and  I settle next to him. His head rests on my shoulder, both of his hands clutching one of mine. I test the back of my free hand against his forehead. He's still feverish.

"You're burning up," I say, more to myself than to him, pressing my lips into his hair. Simon, to my surprise, giggles.

"That takes me back to Eighth Year," He replies, grinning. I laugh, but the mirth dissipates a little in the wake of Simon's obvious misery.

"Tell me what's wrong so I can fix you?"  Simon's dark brows furrow, and those blue eyes close like it's too difficult for him to keep them open. Worry tightens in my chest.

"I think... maybe jumping between worlds isn't something magic was meant to be used for," He says, not opening his eyes. With my free hand, I begin to stroke his hair away from his face. "I feel a bit like I've got the flu."

Pulling out my wand, I turn so I'm looking into his too-pale face.

"Hold still," I instruct him. Quickly, I cast every healing spell and cheering charm I know over my new husband (Crowley, I love the word 'husband'. It's the best one, in my opinion). Gradually, the colour returns to his face, the shine coming back to his eyes, and soon he's able to sit up straight again. I only stop when he starts giggling uncontrollably from the cheering charms, his skin practically glowing with a healthy golden light, golden sparks of magic twisting and sizzling between his fingers.

"Baz," he says between peals of laughter, "Love, I think that's enough." I tuck my wand back into my suit before cupping his face in my hand. His skin is still warm, but not in a feverish way. More like his usual 'I'm constantly on the verge of literally catching fire' way.

"How do you feel?" I ask, stroking my thumb along his cheekbone, across the moles under his eye. Practically purring, Simon leans into the touch.

"Better. Back to normal-- better than normal," He says, smiling at me and leaning in to brush his lips against mine. I smile, kissing him back.

"Good. Shall we go back inside, then?" Simon shakes his head, smile never faltering.

"One last thing." Before I can ask what he's up to, he grabs me by my suit lapels, pulling me forward and kissing me again, properly this time. I laugh against his mouth, wrapping my arms around his waist.

"There you two are," comes Bunce's voice from behind us, "Why am I not surprised you snuck off to snog?" Simon and I break apart, and I groan, shooting one of my signature withering looks at her.

"Excellent timing, Bunce," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. She sticks her tongue out at me, putting her hands on her hips. 

"The dance floor's all clear, Baz. It's time for your dance," she replies, her tone matching mine. Rolling my eyes, I stand up. Offering Si a hand, I pull him to his feet. I don't release his hand once he's up, and he gives my fingers a grateful squeeze.

As we re-enter the marquee, my breath catches in my throat. In the short amount of time Si and I were outside, the place has been completely transformed. Fairy lights line the edge of the ceiling, casting almost candle-like light over the white-clothed tables. The flower arrangements on top of the tables cast whimsical shadows over everything, making it feel like we're in a sunset-filled, wooded clearing. The dance floor is painted like a golden sky sprinkled with silver stars.

"And give it up for our newlyweds, everybody!" Exclaims a magically magnified voice from the corner of the room. Dave Tortcow, one of the only magickal DJs in Great Britain. He was insanely difficult to book; eventually, my father was forced to bribe him with money (and with the fact that the wedding would be for the great and powerful Simon Snow) in order to get him to work for us.

Applause breaks out around us at the tables and surrounding the dance floor. Smiling brightly at Simon, I offer him my free hand.

"May I have this dance, love?" I ask playfully. He takes my hand, pulling it around his waist before resting his own on my shoulder.

"You may indeed, darling."

Our song begins to play, and I lead him onto the dance floor as the whole room explodes into cheers again.

As we start to move to the music, I'm given a pleasant surprise.

Simon can dance.

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Author's note::

YES, Dave Tortcow, the magickal DJ, is based off of a real person (he's not a celebrity, just kind of a local legend in my town). I'll write a Snowbaz ficlet about anything you want (except maybe smut, sorry) for the first person who guesses what Dave Tortcow's real last name is, or whoever gets closest to it:). Here's a hint to start you off: It's similar to Tortcow; think synonyms and play on words.