Chapter Text
Magnus is in and out of it most of the way back into town. Alec keeps pressure on his shoulder, a wadded-up t-shirt going damp with blood beneath his hands. There’s conversation going on around him, but he can’t really focus on it. Magnus’s face is grayish, his breathing shallow and his pulse rapid and weak, and when he opens his eyes periodically he doesn’t really seem to be tracking much.
“Hey,” Alec says quietly the third time Magnus opens his eyes and peers up at him with a faint crease between his brows, like Alec is a puzzle that he can’t quite figure out. The truck slows as they pull off the highway exit, Izzy’s profile outlined by the dashboard lights as she glances back at them briefly. “Stay with me, okay?”
“M’not going anywhere,” Magnus murmurs. He lifts his good hand to touch Alec’s face clumsily. “You’re very pretty, you know.”
The laugh that escapes Alec feels raw. “Thanks.”
“Stupid. But very pretty.”
This time, the laugh feels more genuine. “What, was I just supposed to leave you back there?”
“It would have been smart.”
He’s not wrong. “Yeah, okay,” Alec says as the headlights sweep over the sign for the hospital. The ER lot is half-empty, the entrance lit up like a runway strip. “I’m stupid. Keep your eyes open.”
“With this view, how could I not?”
“Are you guys seriously flirting right now?” Izzy asks from the front seat.
Alec shrugs with one shoulder. “You’re the one who was asking about my love life.”
“Oh my god, Alec.” She shoves her hair out of her face as Luke steers into a parking space near the entrance. Clary, who is sitting wedged against the center console half on her lap, starts laughing quietly. There’s a faintly hysterical tinge to it. “Jesus Christ. You’re such a dumbass.”
“You’re one to talk,” Alec retorts as the engine cuts out. The front doors swing open and Clary leans over Izzy to unlatch the suicide door before hopping down.
“Okay, come on,” she says. “This has been an absolutely amazing experience for me to tell my therapist about, but I’m pretty sure Magnus needs stitches. And a cast. And, like, a lot of good drugs.”
Magnus laughs breathlessly. “I will not argue with that.”
“You should get checked out too,” Izzy adds, coming up behind her as Alec helps Magnus upright as carefully as he can. He doesn’t miss the closeness of their bodies, the way Izzy curls herself around Clary. There’s something both affectionate and slightly desperate about it, and he thinks back to Izzy’s light aside about dating the daughter of a cop, how she made it sound like it was nothing all that serious. Just another one of her flings.
Izzy has always been good at deflecting.
Clary herself looks remarkably calm for a civilian who’s gone through what the three of them just went through, but shock hits people in weird ways, as Alec knows entirely too well. He can feel the beginnings of the adrenaline crash hitting him, that shaky lassitude. He already knows he’s not going to be sleeping tonight.
Just as well, really, if he’s going to be spending it in an ER coming up with some convincing lie to tell the staff about how Magnus got shot.
“Can you stand?” he asks Magnus, who is tilted back against the seat cushions. The gray shirt he’s wearing—Alec’s t-shirt—is soaked red around the bullet wound, but the bleeding has mostly stopped.
“That,” Magnus says blearily, “remains to be seen.”
He accepts the hand Alec gives him, manages to slide down onto the pavement without collapsing, but he’s tilting heavily against his side and his breathing is still shallow.
“Okay, come on,” Alec says, wrapping an arm securely around him. To Luke, he adds, “We’re going to need to keep a low profile while Asmodeus is still in the country.”
Luke nods, an unhappy tilt to his mouth. “Yeah. I have a safehouse, but if the force has been compromised, we have to assume that has as well.”
That’s a complication. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Izzy says as she falls into step beside them, arm still around Clary. “I can talk to Raphael, maybe he can—”
She breaks off as a large, dark colored SUV swoops across the parking lot toward them, coming to a crooked halt in their path. Another one is immediately behind it. Alec jerks to a halt so quickly that he can hear Magnus let out a pained grunt, but it’s drowned out by another surge of adrenaline. This was stupid, he thinks with sudden clarity. Coming here, it was stupid. Magnus isn’t in immediate danger of bleeding out, Alec and Izzy between them have the basic skills to stabilize him somewhere safe, but instead, here they are, sitting ducks, and Asmodeus must have come back to find the mess they made of his base and come to the most logical conclusion.
His palms itch for a gun in a way they haven’t in ages. Luke has already drawn his.
“Get back,” he snaps, and Izzy yanks Clary back, toward the truck.
The engine cuts out. The door swings open, and there are heels on the pavement, slow and measured as they cross over to them.
It’s not Asmodeus. It’s a woman, tall and stern in a dark suit, her hair slicked back to a tight bun at the base of her neck and a crisp edge to her collar that practically screams law enforcement. She comes to a halt in front of them, and Magnus sags against Alec. For a moment, Alec thinks he’s passing out, but then he breathes out a laugh, says, “Cat. You got my message.”
“Loud and clear,” the woman says, and something in her—softens, slightly. The faint curve of a smile tilts her mouth. “Magnus, you are more of a headache than every last one of my other assets put together.”
“Is that all I am to you?” Magnus asks. He sounds halfway petulant, fond, and Alec relaxes a little. Luke still has the gun in his hands, but it’s lowered.
This isn’t what he thought it was at all. But still. Alec gives the woman a look. “If you’re the cavalry, you’re a little late.”
She gives him a long, level look in return. “Alexander Lightwood. You’re not the last person I’d expect to be involved in this, but you’re up there. Thank you for keeping him alive. Believe me, I know what a challenge it can be. But we can take it from here.”
Almost involuntarily, Alec’s arm tightens around Magnus. “Asmodeus—” he starts.
“He was intercepted en route to his rendezvous with Ivan Kuznetsov,” she says. “He’s currently headed into federal custody, where he’ll be enjoying our hospitality for a long time to come.”
Magnus lets out a short laugh against Alec’s throat. “It was Kuznetsov then. Should have figured that out.”
“You’ve had a very trying week,” she says, and it’s the gentleness of it that finally convinces Alec. She takes a step forward, lays a hand on Magnus’s good shoulder. “Come on.”
“Bringing me in for a debrief?”
“Bringing you in for some proper medical care where nobody is going to notify local law enforcement that you got yourself shot. Again.”
“You are never going to let that go, are you?” Magnus murmurs, but he starts to detach himself from Alec, and Alec has to fight an absurd, insane urge to hold him tighter. He forces himself to let go instead, to allow Cat to slip under Magnus’s arm with no regard for her expensive suit. His side feels cold in the night air.
“Not likely,” she says dryly, and glances at Luke. “Detective Garroway.”
“Yeah,” Luke sighs, and finally holsters his gun. “Let me guess. This never happened and if I say otherwise some nice men in shiny black cars will be showing up to turn my life upside-down?”
“Men and women,” Cat says, but there’s still a smile on her face. “We’re an equal-opportunity employer.”
“Good for you,” Luke says, and it’s so bone-dry that someone—Clary, Alec thinks—lets out a little yelp of laughter. “As for my personnel issues—”
“They’ve been handled.” She glances down at her watch, then adds, “Or are in the process of being handled. We’ll keep you apprised if there’s anything you need to know.”
“Not likely, huh?”
“Not really, no.” Her smile this time is more genuine. “I’m glad we understand each other. Now, we really have to be going.”
“Hold on a moment,” Magnus says suddenly. His head lifts, eyes glassy but intent when he looks at Alec. He peels himself away from Catarina, crosses the space between them on unsteady feet, places a hand on Alec’s chest. Alec shivers faintly at his touch, and a slight smile tilts Magnus’s lips. “Thank you, Alexander.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, somewhat stupidly.
“I really do wish we had a chance to get that drink,” Magnus says, and lifts his hand to pat Alec’s cheek briefly. Before Alec can respond—before he can even think of a response—he’s moving away, back to Cat’s supporting arms, back to the fleet of black SUV’s. He doesn’t turn back to look, and Alec just stands there with empty hands and watches as he’s helped into one of the waiting vehicles.
The door slams shut. A rumble of the engines, a sweep of bright headlights, and then they’re gone.
“Well,” Izzy says eventually, into the echoing silence that remains. “Let’s get out of here.”
They end up back at the loft. It’s surreal, the four of them crowded around the little round table where Clary and Luke drink coffee and argue over the Sunday crossword. The side of Alec’s t-shirt is still smeared with blood, and Izzy hasn’t let go of her hand since they got back into the truck in the hotel parking lot. The warm pressure feels like an anchor, pinning her in place.
Her mind is strangely calm as she watches Luke putter around, pouring chamomile tea into a set of mismatched mugs. She’s not freaking out the way she feels like she should be, but everything seems distant. In focus, but far away. Izzy—the warmth of her hand, the smell of her perfume, the way the light gleams in her dark hair, which is starting to come loose from its ponytail—just Izzy feels like the only thing that’s real.
Luke sets a mug down in front of Alec, who takes it with a murmured thanks, sips, sets it down. He spins it on its coaster, then says abruptly, “I should get back home.”
Luke nods, placing a cup in front of Clary, then Izzy. He leans against the counter with his own cup. “I could give you a ride, if you want.”
Alec is shaking his head, though. “No. Thank you, but no, I’ll be fine. I should—” He pauses again, scrubs a hand through his hair. Clary watches him surreptitiously. It’s not like they had a lot of time to get to know each other back in that stifled and terrifying little room, but she feels weirdly protective of him all the same. Maybe it’s the way he was with Magnus back in the hospital parking lot; maybe it’s just that with him sitting here at the table next to Izzy, it’s easy to see the family resemblance. It’s not just looks. They move the same way, hold themselves the same way. That same wary tension. Izzy is just a little better at hiding it most of the time.
The way she’s doing now, sipping delicately from a cup of chamomile tea with one hand, squeezing Clary’s hard enough to bruise with the other. Her face is lovely and unreadable.
“You sure?” Luke says.
“Yeah,” Alec says. And then, unfolding out of his chair, “Yeah. I’ll take the subway. I should—clear my head. Thank you, though.”
Luke is wearing a dubious expression. Honestly, he’s such a dad sometimes, even though Alec has to be close to thirty and is built like a brick house besides. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.” Alec hesitates, then holds out a hand. “Thank you. You didn’t have to—thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Luke says, shaking his hand with a smile that takes the sting out of the words. Something warm and twisted lodges in the back of Clary’s throat. She feels, suddenly, like she’s about to burst into tears for no reason at all.
She must make a sound of some kind, because Izzy glances at her briefly, her blank expression gentling a little. Her thumb strokes over Clary’s knuckles before she releases her hand to stand and pull Alec into a sudden tight hug that startles him, if the slight abortive flail of his hands is anything to go by. He recovers quickly, though, wraps his arms carefully around Izzy’s shoulders and buries his face in her hair.
“Hey,” he says. It’s quiet enough that Clary knows it’s meant for Izzy’s ears alone. There are layers of meaning there that she’ll never hope to untangle when he adds, “Thanks for the save.”
“Shut up,” Izzy says thickly, and releases him. Her eyes are shining slightly, but she blinks hard and it’s gone like it was a trick of the light. “You’re coming to dinner with us this weekend.”
“Barbeque,” Luke interjects suddenly. Izzy glances back at him, looking startled, and he raises his eyebrows and adds, “I never did get an opinion on my rhubarb pie. I need some feedback before I try and bring that down to the farmer’s market.”
The bark of laughter that escapes Clary’s throat feels wet and ragged, and Luke gives her a smile that makes something in her settle a little.
She pushes her chair back and stands, crosses the kitchen to slip into his arms. He pulls her close and presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she breathes in the smell of cheap detergent and the cigarette he must have snuck at some point tonight, of home.
On the other side of the room, Alec is pulling away from Izzy. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Dinner. I’ll be there.”
Izzy punches his shoulder lightly. “You better be. Take care of yourself.”
“Yeah,” Alec says. “You too.”
“I always do,” Izzy says, and there’s an edge to it that Clary can’t hope to read at all, but Alec softens visibly. He reaches for Izzy again, pulls her into a tight, brief hug, then releases her.
“You better,” he says. And then, to Clary and Luke, “I’ll see you guys, I guess. It was—” he breathes out a sudden laugh, like the ridiculousness of it has just caught up to him, but he sounds surprisingly sincere when he adds, “It was really nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” Clary says faintly. That edge of hysteria is suddenly very close. “You too.”
A brief smile tilts his mouth. He presses a final kiss to Izzy’s hair, then straightens, tugging his bloody shirt straight, and slips out into the night. Clary has the brief, mildly hysterical thought that he’s definitely going to get plenty of space on the subway tonight, and there’s wetness on her face, suddenly. She scrubs a hand over her cheeks, and Luke squeezes her shoulders a little as Izzy finally turns back from the doorway.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
“I’m great,” Clary sniffs, and buries her face in his chest long enough to wipe her wet cheeks on his t-shirt. Luke gives her a look when she pulls back, but he lets her go. “I’m really tired. I’m just—I’m really tired. I’m going to go to bed, I think. Okay?”
“Of course,” Luke says quietly.
Izzy shifts by the doorway. “I can—”
“Stay,” Clary interrupts before she can finish the sentence. “Just. Please stay?”
Izzy pauses, stares at her with wide brown eyes, and it’s all Clary wants right now, just to go to bed with Izzy, to bring her back into her room, that warm safe little space that’s been torn up now—
—the man all dressed in black, standing by the window where she was expecting Izzy—
—to curl up with her, to kiss her mouth, to make it hers again. Hers and Isabelle’s. She doesn’t even think about Luke until Izzy’s eyes cut over her shoulder, wary.
Clary turns, a flush rising to her face, but Luke just leans back against the wall and sighs. There’s something half amused about it.
“I’m not going to stop you,” he says. “Just try and get some sleep, okay?”
Heat flares in Clary’s face. “I wasn’t going to—”
He holds up a hand. “I really do not need details. Thank you.” He glances over her shoulder at Izzy, and adds, sounding more serious. “I mean it. Thank you.”
Izzy makes an odd little noise in the back of her throat, but when Clary turns back to look at her, her face is smooth and expressionless, her voice unreadable when she says, “Of course. Anytime.”
“Hopefully it doesn’t become a habit,” Luke says very dryly, sipping from his cup. He looks them over with tired eyes, then shakes his head. “Go on. It’s been a long day. You should get to bed.”
Something warm and fond flares in Clary’s chest unexpectedly. She steps back to Luke, wraps him into a tight hard hug. When she steps back, she’s blinking hard and pretends that she can’t see the answering shininess in his eyes.
“Goodnight, Dad,” she says.
He scruffs a hand through her hair like he used to when she was little, and she has to swallow hard against the lump in the back of her throat as he lets her go. “Night, kiddo.”
She pauses in the doorway to her room, Izzy right behind her. The window is still open, the fire escape beyond it gleaming with rain. It’s a warm summer night, but it seems like there’s a chill in the air.
Clary swallows as Izzy settles a warm palm on her hip, then says as lightly as she knows how, “I hope Alec made it to the station before that started up.”
“Clary,” Izzy says quietly.
“I mean, he’s gonna get totally soaked—”
“Clary,” Izzy says again, tugging her firmly around until they’re face to face. It’s dim in here, too dark to read Izzy’s expression. Clary knows she wouldn’t be able to anyway. Izzy never lets anything show that she doesn’t want to.
“What?” she says, cracking and soft. And then, “I’m fine.”
Izzy opens her mouth, then shuts it, then says, “I hope he was one of the ones I shot. I—” her breath shudders in her throat, and there’s a glint of—something—in her eyes. “I should have been here.”
“It’s not your fault,” Clary says firmly, because she might be feeling sick and shaky and like she wants to screw a fucking plywood plank over the window right now to make sure that nothing else can get through, but that’s one thing she’s sure of.
Izzy looks like she wants to argue, but finally she just shakes her head. “I should have been here.”
“Izzy—”
Izzy shakes her head again, sharply. “Do you have a pipe around?”
“A what?” Clary says, wrong-footed.
“A pipe. Or a piece of wood, like—” She eyes the window, then spreads her hands two feet apart. “This long, or so?”
“I…” Clary trails off, flicking the light on, scanning the room. Her art supplies are a mess, her easel tipped over and splashes of paint marring the floor, but there’s a sturdy slat that was holding up the sheet for one of her still lifes half under the bed. It should be about the right length. She retrieves it and hands it to Izzy. “Will this work?”
“Perfect,” Izzy says. She takes the slat and hops lightly up onto the bed still in her boots, slams the window shut with a crash that makes Clary jump, and jams the piece of wood into the frame. That done, she dusts her hands off and looks back at Clary, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “There. Nobody’s coming in now.”
Clary blinks at her. There’s something wild about her right now, her dark hair in loose tumbles around her shoulders, her dirty hands and torn shirt and the gleam of her eyes. Even in the bright jumble of Clary’s bedroom, she seems like the most vivid thing there. Like she’s more real than everything around her.
She’s so bright and alive and so fucking beautiful.
The thing is, Clary really did just plan on sleeping. Really. Luke is right downstairs, and she just got kidnapped, and she still feels—edgy, wrong and unfitting in her body. But she thinks, suddenly, that maybe Izzy could do something about that. That maybe Izzy could make her safe in her own skin the way she made her safe in her room.
That maybe Izzy could just. Fix this.
She kicks the door shut behind her, then locks it for good measure. She doesn’t turn the light off as peels her t-shirt off.
Izzy stares at her, that darkling gleam in her eyes, and doesn’t ask what Clary’s doing as she unhooks her bra and lets it slide off, as she shoves down her jeans and underwear and kicks them away to stand naked in the warm light of her bedroom. Only then does she breathe out a soft sound and hop lightly down onto the floor. She crosses the room in two long slides to pull Clary into a kiss that holds an edge of desperation and teeth. They’re both breathless when Izzy finally releases her, and that fierce thing is still burning in her eyes, spots of color high in her cheeks.
“Get on the bed,” she says in a low voice, and Clary swallows hard, something hot and sharp slicing through her, and obeys.
She settles on the mattress, face-down on the pillow that still smells like Izzy’s perfume, and closes her eyes as Izzy kicks her boots off and crosses the room softly on stocking feet. There’s the sound of clothing hitting the floor, and when Izzy settles onto the bed beside her a moment later all she can feel is smooth bare skin.
“Are you okay?” Izzy asks softly.
Clary buries her face into the crook of her elbow. The honest answer to that is no, and she’s pretty sure they both know that. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
A kiss is dropped on the nape of her neck, hot and quick. “Liar.”
“I’m really messed up,” Clary admits in a small voice. And then, “Izzy, please. Just—please.”
She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, really, but Izzy leans down, lifting her chin with a firm hand just enough to press a kiss to her mouth. “Shh. I’ve got you.”
Her fingers press in just on the edge of painful, and Clary swallows, closes her eyes, nods as a prickling wave passes over her, leaving her warm and flushed in its wake. “Okay.”
Izzy kisses her mouth again, then pushes her hair aside to kiss down the side of her neck, pausing to suck a mark below her ear where the skin is thin and hot, blood rushing beneath. Clary shudders, squirms slightly, and Izzy pulls back to kiss the mark she just made. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Clary breathes, and this time it doesn’t feel like a lie.
“Good,” Izzy says. She presses her cheek briefly to Clary’s throat. “I thought—” she breaks off, then kisses her again, harder. Her hand, still in Clary’s hair, grips tight for a moment, a bright sparking pain, and Clary feels the breath leave her lungs. The buzzing adrenaline that’s been seeping through her veins for the past several hours twists, becomes slower, sweeter. She sinks into the mattress, dragging in a deep slow breath as Izzy swings a leg over her thighs to straddle her.
Her small, strong hands smooth up and down Clary’s spine, catching on the hollow of her back and the jut of her hip-bones, and Clary simultaneously feels electrified, like there’s a live wire running through her body and so relaxed that she might melt into the bed. Izzy’s mouth finds the nape of her neck again, soft heat and wetness followed by the sting of teeth, and she finds herself jerking against the mattress, rolling her hips down like she can find the friction she needs.
Izzy doesn’t linger, though. She grips Clary’s hips briefly, hands strong and possessive, and then her touch turns gentle. Smoothes up her spine, palms kneading into tense muscles. The pressure of her thighs on the outside of Clary’s hips grounding, knitting her back into this moment, this bed, this, here, with Isabelle.
“Hey,” Clary says, and it already comes out wrecked.
Izzy kisses her again, mouth opening hot and wet over her pulse point. Her hand slides through Clary’s hair, roughly, tugging it away. Not quite pulling, but not quite not, either. Her voice soft in Clary’s ear. “Hey.”
“Are you—oh god. Fuck." Izzy’s fingers slip between her legs. She’s almost embarrassed at how wet she is just from this. Rough callus catching at her skin, not enough pressure, not enough— there’s an embarrassing whine in the back of her throat. “Izzy, please. Please.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Izzy kisses her again, her fingers sliding between the slick folds of Clary’s labia, ghosting lightly over her clit and then pulling back when Clary grinds down, chasing the friction. Her breath is hot on Clary’s neck. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” Clary says immediately. “You, I need you, Izzy, please, I need—” her voice breaks off again as Izzy’s fingers slip back down, purposeful this time, a sweet drag against her clit then dipping down to curl inside her where she’s already so wet. She grinds down and this time Izzy doesn’t pull back. Her mouth opens against Clary’s throat, her other hand soothing against her hip as she lets Clary ride her hand. It doesn’t take long for that rolling pleasure to break, and Clary shoves her face into the pillow in a vain attempt to smother the sounds that come out of her mouth as she comes around Izzy’s fingers, shuddering. She hears Izzy’s breath catch in her ear, the drag of her breasts against Clary’s back, and then she’s leaning down to capture another kiss from Clary’s mouth.
“Can you go again?” she asks when they finally break apart, and her fingers curl inside Clary.
Clary clamps her teeth around a high moan as pleasure sparks up her spine. “Oh, god. Yeah. Yeah, please.”
Izzy kisses her mouth, then pulls away to push her onto her back, her legs sprawled out so there’s room for Izzy to settle between them. She doesn’t take her time about it the way she usually does, just buries her face between Clary’s thighs, tongue licking hot and rough over her folds, her clit almost too sensitive. There’s an edge of pain to it, bright and sharp, and it’s so good that Clary cries out involuntarily, jerking up against her. Izzy pushes three fingers into her, slick and easy, and then a fourth, and the stretch of it, her hot mouth sucking hard is enough to make Clary shatter again.
She’s barely come back down before she’s grabbing at Izzy, hauling her up to kiss her rough and messy. Izzy moans into her mouth, and when she pulls back her eyes are wide and dark, her mouth wet. She looks completely undone, and Clary has to breathe through a breaking wave of sudden tenderness, to kiss her again.
“Let me—come here,” she says, nonsensically, and grips Izzy’s ass, her hips, pulling her up. It takes a second for Izzy to get what she’s trying to do, and then she breathes out a shaky laugh, lifts up to straddle Clary, palm braced against the wall as Clary slides down between her legs.
She’s already so wet, and the high desperate noise that she makes when Clary licks her open is so hot that Clary has to rub her thighs together, press her free hand down between her legs.
“Ohgod, fuck,” Izzy babbles as Clary sucks on her clit, pushes a finger into her and presses back, all pulsing heat. “Clary, god. Fuck, please—” Clary hums against her, then sucks lightly on her clit and Izzy cries out, slams a palm against the wall, and comes apart pulsing around her. Clary can feel the shuddering aftershocks sparking up her spine as Izzy swears again, softly this time, and collapses onto the mattress next to her.
For a while they just stay like that, breathing together. Then Izzy makes to sit up, kicking at the roiled sheets, and Clary reaches for her without even thinking, settles a palm on her bare hip, feeling the heat of her skin. “Hey,” she says. “Come on. Stay here? Just for a minute.”
Izzy hesitates for a heartbeat that feels like a lifetime, then flops back onto the pillow. “I’m all gross and sweaty.”
“Stay,” Clary says again. Her fingers press into warm skin, and Izzy is flushed and gorgeous. Her hair in disarray and her mouth soft and swollen, lipstick kissed away, and she still looks like she’s a breath away from leaving. Like a wild animal in a trap. Clary gentles her touch as much as she can, feels a breathless shiver of hope when Izzy doesn’t pull away. “Please stay. I’m all gross and sweaty too.”
“No,” Izzy says finally, and rolls toward her, the shift of her hips settling against the mattress, her hand lifting to card the hair off of Clary’s face. The softness of her expression, her dark lovely eyes. “No. You’re beautiful.”
“Stay,” Clary says again, and Izzy buries her face into her shoulder and nods. Her hands are tight, and Clary cards a hand through her long hair and pretends that she can’t feel the dampness of tears against her skin.
They fall asleep like that, naked and curled together in Clary’s childhood bed. Clary knows that tomorrow morning she’s going to face Luke’s amused and judgemental deadpan over the breakfast table, and there are still the distant echoes of fear settled into her bones, but for now, just for now—
Izzy is here. They’re both here, together.
Epilogue: November
“I’ve made a decision,” Izzy says firmly. Raphael eyes her across the table, then sighs, pushing one hand into his sleek hair.
“Okay,” he says. “Can we order first? I feel like I’m going to need a drink to get through this.”
“Fine,” Izzy says, without much grace, but she waits until he’s acquired a double scotch and is sipping from it with a dubious expression—whether it’s from the quality of the liquor or Izzy is up for debate, although her money is on both—to say, “I’m thinking about going back to college.”
“Dios mio,” Raphael sighs, but he doesn’t sound surprised. In fact, there’s the faint edge of a smile as he sets his glass down on the coaster, and Izzy feels herself relax, just a little. She hasn’t talked to anyone about this. She hasn’t even told Alec or Clary yet. And she’d never admit it out loud, but Raphael’s opinion matters. “What for? Please tell me you’re not planning on becoming a lawyer.”
She snorts out loud at that. “No. I was—” she breathes in, then out. Spins her glass around. There’s no reason for her to be nervous about this. Raphael is a friend. She can trust him with this, this one small private dream that she’s never shared with anyone. Alec might have guessed once upon a time, but that’s just because they grew up in the same houses, went to the same schools, bickered over the dinner table with Izzy correcting his Bio homework even though she was two grades below him. “I was thinking about pre-med, actually.”
He doesn’t laugh. He looks at her over the rim of her glass for a long moment, then tilts it to clink it against hers. “I suppose I should have guessed you’d never do anything by half-measures.”
Izzy shrugs halfway. “Yeah, well. You know me.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“You make it sound so bad.”
“No,” Raphael says, and he’s smiling, a rare genuine smile that warms his face. A moment later, he reaches across the table to squeeze her hand, and Izzy squeezes back, an embarrassing lump in the back of her throat. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Izzy says, and swallows, retrieves her hand to wipe at her eyes before can actually cry right here in the middle of the pub.
Raphael very pointedly looks away until she’s got herself back under control. Only then does he say, “What does your artist think about all this?”
“Clary, you mean?” Izzy says dryly. He shrugs a little. “Like you don’t have a dossier on her going back to kindergarten.”
“What can I say,” Raphael says unrepentantly. “I’m thorough.”
“That’s one word for it,” Izzy mutters fondly. “No, I haven’t told her yet. Or Alec. Or anybody, actually, other than you.”
“I’m honored,” Raphael says, and it’s as dry as bone but he actually sounds completely serious. He hesitates, spinning his glass on the coaster. “How is he doing, anyway? We haven’t spoken since…” he trails off, because that’s not something that really needs an explanation. “Well. You know.”
“Yeah,” Izzy sighs. Alec’s abrupt exit from the family business wasn’t easy on any of them. “He’s… okay. I think. You know Alec. He plays it close to the vest.”
“Yeah,” Raphael says, and tips his glass at her. “Must be a family thing.”
“Yeah, well.” Izzy leans back in her chair and takes a long drink. Something in her seems to have settled. Like the world before her is expanding, becoming lighter. Some tightness that she got so used to that she forgot it was there at all starting to loosen, just a little. “Maybe it’s time we started working on that.”
Raphael laughs out loud, draining his glass. “Better late than never. Another round? We still haven’t toasted your new career path.”
“I haven’t even got an acceptance letter yet,” Izzy mutters, but she’s smiling. “Yeah, okay. Another round.”
“To new beginnings,” Raphael says once their drinks have been delivered, and Izzy grins, leans across the table to clink her glass against his.
“To new beginnings.”
A chilly, colorless sunset is slanting through the dusty windows and gleaming on the metal fixtures by the time Alec gets off the phone with Izzy and slips back out to the front, feeling vaguely guilty about leaving Maia alone even though the after dinner rush has mostly tapered off.
She doesn’t look too bothered about it, anyway, just tosses him a rag that’s mostly clean. “Espresso machine is acting up again. Was that your sister?”
“Yeah,” Alec says, flipping the rag over his shoulder and going to the machine, which is still dribbling brownish liquid. “What the hell did you do to it?”
“Don’t look at me,” Maia says. “That fucking thing is possessed. I’m taking my fifteen, if that’s cool with you.”
“Go for it,” Alec says absently. He rattles the machine slightly, makes a face when more half-brewed coffee dribbles out of it. Yeah. Probably he’s going to actually give up and buy a new one at some point. Maybe he can talk Izzy into a donation when she and Clary stop by later. He’s helping her girlfriend move in with her next weekend, that has to count for something…
Another tap sends a shower of grinds to the floor, and he steps back before they can end up on his shoes. Behind him, the front door swings open. A rush of cold air carrying the scent of snow slips through the warmth of the shop as footsteps approach the counter. Hopefully whoever it is is just after pastries or drip coffee, because Alec is pretty damn sure this thing has given up the ghost for good.
He raises his voice slightly. “Sorry, hang on just a second and I’ll be right with you.”
“Take your time,” says the man at the counter, sounding warmly amused. Alec freezes, then straightens slowly.
He recognizes that voice. The warmth of it, the teasing lilt. He’s given it a lot more thought over the past few months than he probably should, considering that he knew its owner for all of a day. Ships passing in the night, or what the hell ever, but he can’t stop his heart from thumping sharply in his chest as he turns.
On the other side of the counter, Magnus smiles at him.
He looks softer. His hair is longer, styled into a fashionable kind of pompadour, and he’s wearing silver cuffs in his ears, a neatly tailored jacket open over a silky-looking shirt. His arm is still in a sling, but other than that he looks… good. He looks amazing, actually.
There’s a wary edge to his smile that vanishes when Alec smiles helplessly back at him.
“Take your time,” he says again, and it sounds almost hopeful now. “I’m in no hurry.”