#cotta2020

Chapter One- Simone’s job retrieving stolen goods turns out to be more than she bargained for.

Chapter Two- The journey home begins.

Chapter Three- Mispronunciation and late night talks lead to Baz opening up.

Chapter Four- Simone meets an old friend.

Chapter Five- Alcohol loosens tongues and lowers inhibitions.

Chapter Six- Home is in sight, but things are never that easy.

Chapter Seven- Simone faces her past, and makes a difficult decision.

Chapter Eight- Baz explains herself, and Simone decides where her loyalties lie.

A/N: Thank you to the following people who have been having my back for the writing, editing, and publication of this story. Love you guys!

@carryonsimoncarryonbaz @giishu @foolofabookwyrm @hufflepunky and @amywaterwings LOVE YOU!

A note on this fic… It is VERY different than the type of stuff I usually write. It’s a lot darker and grittier. I wanted to fit the mood of a typical film noir. With that being said, there will be some violent scenes, as well as mentions of blood and injuries.

Also, as this fic is taking place during a very tumultuous time, I have tried to depict the atmosphere of 1967 San Francisco as respectfully as I could.

“Good evening, Mr Llewellyn,” he says with polite enunciation, and I know it to be spiteful; he rarely has the decency to call me anything other than my middle name, ‘Snow’.

Shame burns high in my cheeks as my namesake leisurely collects around us. I clear my throat and try to greet him anew: “Good evening, Your Grace.” I tip my head, disturbing the snow gathering on my hat. “I’m, ah, surprised to see you here.”

“Yes, I inferred that much.”

Duke Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is an infuriating specimen of a man, and it’s rare I ever mind saying so. As a matter of course, Basilton and I have spent a not-insignificant portion of our lives reminding anyone who will listen exactly how much we detest one another. Penny has all but barred me from mentioning Basilton in my letters. Back when he and I were only squabbling boys at Eton, our rivalry still in its infancy, Penny wrote:

‘As to the matters of the Marquess,’—for that was his title at the time—‘I should hope you take only the appropriate amount of offence when I profess to you that, regardless of all my deep sisterly affections for you, I cannot possibly bear to read another correspondence so heavily burdened with details about him. Save for in the circumstances of utmost importance, of which I can predict no such circumstances at all, I implore you to keep your mentions of him to no more than one-tenth the sum of words gracing the rest of your letter. Ideally, should you care enough for me to do the favour, you will also confine these words to a postscript. If you cannot comply, I am afraid you will leave me no choice but to burn all of your letters, for I can no longer bear the headaches they cause me.’

I begged Penny not to make me do such maths in my letter writing, which she was all too pleased to remind me of a mere year later when I became irretrievably invested in mapping the movements of the heavenly bodies. Given that this chosen course of study then only brought me further into Basilton’s very own path, for he too sought out such knowledge, my letters were well-calculated from then on. I had no disillusions that my dear childhood friend Penelope Bunce wouldn’t be good on her word.

In turn, I have become very skilled in slipping references to him in my letters in ways Penny might not berate me for. Then, I pour my unfiltered thoughts out into a diary before bed so that I have a private account of Basilton’s many misgivings. It’s important I keep a record—know thy enemy, and all that.

Faced with him right now, numerous possible complaints tumble about in my mind, but this is neither the time nor the place for such musings. Which brings me back to my initial query: “What brings you to London, Duke?” I ask with what little formality I can muster. Last I saw him, we were parting ways at Oxford when Michaelmas term came to a close. I assumed he’d be travelling to his estate for the holidays, and that I would be bestowed the Christmas miracle of not having to be reminded of him for a magnificent four weeks.

Basilton’s gaze slides away from me, which feels like both an insult and a relief. “Have you been drinking already? Surely even an addled mind could deduce why someone might be approaching another’s front gate.” Basilton gestures grandly with his walking cane, deploying a small tap to the iron structure as punctuation. “Open this for me, won’t you?”

“B-but—” I sputter. “You— This is the Teague residence!”

“How fortunate for me, seeing as I am a guest of their gathering this evening,” Basilton replies tersely, tapping the gate again.

“You were invited?” I grip the gate, though it is more for support than to submit to his demands. The sounds of music and laughter drifting out from the house sounded so pleasant when I initially turned onto the street, but now it hangs in the air like a mockery.

Basilton pulls in a long, slow breath through his nose; I tense in preparation for the imminent scathing words. “While I’ve never had good reason to think you a very smart man, Snow, I did at least expect you to maintain a certain level of basic mental capacity. Has this past term so thoroughly shaken you that your brains have dribbled out your ears?”

I suppose it was a rather foolish question. It’s not as if he’s the smell-feast between us, slipping into parties uninvited in search of food and connections, two types of nourishment we are all so enslaved to. And while I greatly enjoy using my mouth for the former, the arse kissing is where my abilities cease. It’s common knowledge by all those who know me that my command of my tongue is not ideal. I inherited not even half the persuasive oratory skills of my father.

My tongue feels fat and traitorous in my mouth as I continue my attempts to wrangle it. “I-I’m having a hard time fathoming what connection you could possibly have with Mr Teague’s household.”

“The same as you, surely.”

“Trixie?” My loudness causes Basilton to flinch. It’s a reaction I don’t elicit from him often, but one I like very much. Emboldened, I wedge myself between him and the gate. “You’re lying!”

All pretence of niceties has been stripped from him now. Baz’s face twists up into the wicked sneer I’ve come to know well over the years. “Why in God’s name would I be lying, you dundering blockhead?” he roars, drowning out the sounds of the party. The party which is happening without me. A party I was very much looking forward to!

“Because she is my friend, and you don’t know her!” I yell back.

Baz scoffs. “Perhaps you don’t know her all that well, then.”

Damn him!

Trixie Teague has been an acquaintance of mine since I was a young boy. She, Penelope, and I were neighbours up in Lancashire. Penny and I were always thick as two thieves, and while Trixie didn’t join us often, she was welcome. (On my behalf, at least. Penny’s, not as much.) We didn’t keep in touch once I came south for my studies, so it was a very pleasant surprise to have spotted her in London by chance one day. Her family relocated here two years ago, and I’ve enjoyed having her familiar face around whenever I’m in the city. She knows me. From before all of it—the posh schools, the politician father, the powdered wigs …

Zounds, I’m not even wearing a wig! This was supposed to be a relaxed, joyous evening of drinking and laughter to ring in the Christmas season! Before I have to attend all those important parties riddled with posturing and courting and intricate table settings.

And now, here is the villainous Duke to show me up and make a fool of me.