Chapter Text
It probably says something really unfortunate about Magnus’s life that this isn’t the worst situation he’s ever found himself in. Probably not even in the top ten, although it’s inching up the ranks with every minute that ticks by without a response from his handlers. All he has going for him is the fact that Kuznetsov wants his money badly enough to keep Magnus alive for now, but that’s a grace period with a definite end point. The only thing on the other end of the line when he called it in was dead air, and he doesn’t need an official pink slip to know what happened here. He's been burned.
Goddamnit, he knew Ragnor was being squirrely at that last hand-off. Should have seen it coming, really.
He eyes the stone-faced Russian spinning the cylinder of a .45 against one large thumb. The ticking sound of metal on metal seems very loud in the quiet room. The man’s pale eyes are icy as he glares at Magnus like he’s an especially irritating breed of vermin instead of a very charming and well-dressed man who is, okay, currently handcuffed to the radiator of this low-rent motel room in Panama City. It’s a temporary situation.
Possibly this does make the top ten after all. Especially considering what Kuznetsov is going to do to Magnus when he gets back and his money still isn’t here.
Time to start considering other options, then.
“Is not looking good for you, pretty boy,” the Russian observes, spinning the cylinder of his revolver again. Tick tick tick tick over the hum of flies and the stuffy silence. The air is so hot and thick that it feels like he’s breathing soup.
Magnus bats his eyes even though he’s concussed and sweating through his bespoke suit and is honestly not at his best right now. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“What? I don’t—” The man’s face reddens, tense and angry and embarrassed. Perfect.
“Oh, you don’t need to be shy, darling, it’s just us here.”
“If you think I’m going to let you go because you—” the man makes a vague, sharp gesture with the hand holding the gun. “Flirt, you are mistaken.”
“Who said anything about letting me go?” Magnus asks, tilting his head to bare his throat. “We can have plenty of fun like this.”
The man’s red face twists. He slaps the cylinder to still it, unfolding out of his chair, a mountain of sloping muscle in a sweat-stained gray t-shirt and jeans that have an impressive collection of dubious stains. His mouth works like he’s chewing the word thoroughly before he spits it out. “Fun.”
Magnus smiles his most flirtatious, infuriating smile and lets his eyes drift over the man as though he likes what he sees. Which, granted, he does have a thing for tall men, but he generally likes his a bit cleaner and less murderous. “Surely you’ve heard of fun?”
The man snarls and steps forward, and Magnus allows his smile to harden, satisfied.
The thing is, it doesn’t much matter if he wants Magnus or just wants to shut him up. He won’t actually shoot him until his boss gets back, and every other method he might apply, from the deeply unsavory to the good, clean punch to the jaw—
Well. Those all require him getting within striking distance. And Magnus’s legs aren’t cuffed to anything.
The man draws his fist back—he is going for the punch after all, then. He takes that second crucial step forward, and Magnus kicks out hard, sweeping his legs from under him. He hits the floor with a crash that shakes the room. The gun skitters away across the carpet and the man snarls, rolling for it. Magnus kicks him again, hears bone crack and an agonized howl. An instant later he has the man’s throat between his legs, squeezing ruthlessly tight as flailing hands claw at him. He can feel a feral smile stretching his mouth, the handcuff grinding into his wrist as the struggles falter, become less coordinated, stop.
Magnus holds on just a little bit longer to be sure, but the guy is out cold. He lets the body drop to the carpet with a limp thud and tugs him closer with his free hand, rifling through his pockets until he finds the key to the handcuffs. A moment later, he’s free, twisting his wrist and wincing. He scoops up the gun and contemplates the unconscious man on the carpet.
He could just shoot him now, but that hardly seems sporting. Anyway, the poor bastard is already going to be in enough trouble once Kuznetsov gets back and finds Magnus gone. In the end, he handcuffs the man to his own spot on the radiator with a piece of duct tape slapped over his mouth to keep him from alerting housekeeping before Magnus is on his way. A quick search of the rest of his pockets produces a wallet and a cellphone. He pockets those along with the handcuff keys and takes himself out the door just as the guard starts to twitch and mumble his way back to consciousness.
It’s the work of a few minutes to unlock the phone, and once he does he dials Catarina’s number from memory. The first time, it rings into silence. The second time, the voice that answers is definitely not Cat’s.
“I need to talk to Catarina Loss,” Magnus says in a rush. “I know it’s not a secure line, I’ve been—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the stranger says coolly. “There’s nobody by that name here. You must have the wrong number.”
“I do not have the wrong number,” Magnus says tightly. “I need to talk to Cat. She’s my handler, I’ve known her for twenty years, she has a daughter named—”
Dead air. Magnus swears in half a dozen languages, then lets out a breath, getting himself back under control, and dials another number.
He’ll never, ever admit to the rush of relief that goes through him at the sound of the line picking up, Ragnor’s familiar dry British tones. “Hello? Hello, who is this?”
“Ragnor, my dear,” Magnus says brightly, rotating his wrist and wincing. Definitely sprained. Probably not broken. That’s likely the best he can hope for right now. That and a quick ride out of here. “It’s Magnus. I expect you remember that tiny favor I did you in Cartagena back in—what was it, 2010?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by outraged squawking. Magnus allows himself to grin. “I thought so. I’d like to cash in my chips on that, so to speak. I need a transport out of Panama City, as soon as you can arrange it. Sooner. I’ve made several people very unhappy today.”
The transport Ragnor arranges for him—after much swearing and huffing and general offense—turns out to be out of a small private airfield an hour away, and it takes more concentration than Magnus would like to make the drive without drifting off the road into a tree. Bright sparks of pain are blooming behind his eyes by the time he stumbles out to find a small plane and an impatient woman in a flight suit waiting.
“You Ragnor’s friend?” she asks shortly.
“Magnus Bane,” he says, with as winning a smile as he can manage. Not very, by the dubious look she gives him. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Dot,” she says. “Let’s get out of here before anybody else shows up to try to kill you.”
“What a lovely idea,” Magnus agrees breathlessly, and follows her to the plane. “Where are we going?”
“New York,” Dot says shortly, and Magnus nods. He can work with that. Most of his connections that far north are years old, but he still has a few. Isabelle was still in the business the last time he heard. She owes him a favor or two, and she’s probably not working with Kuznetsov. She has more scruples than that, or at least she did. And her operation these days is too small to attract much attention.
It’s not ideal, but his options rarely are. He’ll make it work.
He manages to keep his eyes open while Dot runs through her preflight check with a reassuring degree of confidence, but the headache is settling into his skull, which feels thick and bruised. He tilts his head back against the hard seat and closes his eyes.
“Don’t die,” he hears Dot say, sounding like she’s speaking from underwater. “Ragnor will be really pissed off if you do.”
Magnus waves a hand. “I’m fine, my dear. Carry on.”
“Right,” she mutters, and then the plane is roaring to life, a vibration that seems to swallow the entire world. He feels the wheels lift off the ground, and then he’s slipping away, the world is slipping away into darkness.
Brewed Awakenings usually gets a mad rush of under-caffeinated college students right after the last class section of the day lets out, which is, at least in theory, a good thing. Alec likes his job. He loves the shop, the coffee-and-sugar smell of it, the predictability of his shifts. He loves the fact that the most complicated problem he usually has to deal with these days is the espresso machine breaking down, and that nobody has ever pulled a gun on him over a botched order. He doesn’t even mind all of the paperwork that comes with owning the place, or at least being the person whose name is on the bank payments.
It’s safe, it’s calm, he enjoys it. And the fact that they’re right on the edge of campus is probably the main thing keeping the shop above water now that it’s stopped functioning primarily as a money-laundering scheme for the family business. What’s left of it now, anyway.
That doesn’t mean that the kids don’t drive him up a fucking wall half the time, though.
He’s unraveling a roll of paper towels to mop up the remnants of an iced coffee that some girl dropped on her way out the door—he can’t tell if she was aiming for the garbage can, but if so she missed by a good three feet—and half-listening to Maia bitch comfortably about the music on the radio while she wipes down the counter for the next rush, when there’s a loud crash out back.
Alec feels his head jerk up. The three customers still lingering over their coffee look up as well, and Maia says, “What the hell was that?”
“Stay here,” Alec says, straightening. His hand almost drifts for a gun that he hasn’t carried in years, which is ridiculous. He probably just forgot to lock the back door last time he took the garbage out. There’s probably just a raccoon or something getting into his kitchen. Or some drunk from the college bars across the street stumbled in.
Hopefully a raccoon.
“Alec?”
“Just stay here,” he repeats, and moves past her into the kitchen.
The back door is hanging open, letting in a hot September breeze and garbage-alley stink, but Alec barely notices that. There’s a man slumped against the cabinet, definitely not the underaged drunk he was expecting; this guy is mid-thirties, clean-shaven and wearing a tailored suit that was probably very nice when he put it on. He looks like he’s had his ass kicked six ways from Sunday, and he doesn’t seem to be conscious.
“Oh,” Maia says from behind Alec. “Shit.”
“Great,” Alec sighs, crouching next to the guy. A quick press of his fingers to the slack warm throat yields a shallow, steady pulse. The cell phone in the guy’s pocket is locked, and the wallet he also finds there shows a license with a photo of a blond, square-jawed white guy who is definitely not the man passed out on his floor.
“Is he dead?” Maia asks. She sounds pretty unconcerned about the prospect.
“No,” Alec says, slapping the man’s face lightly. No response. “But I’m not sure—”
A low groan, and then the man shifts, swinging clumsily at him. Alec leans out of reach before his fist can make contact.
“It’s okay, you’re safe,” he says, although he’s not sure the guy is with it enough to hear him. “I’m calling an ambulance—”
A hand shoots out to catch his arm as he reaches for his phone, grip surprisingly strong. The man’s eyes blink open, dazed. “No. No hospitals.”
Alec shakes him off. “I don’t need some idiot to die in the middle of my shop.”
“Concussion,” the man mumbles. “I’m fine. Really.”
“You know those can still kill you, right?”
“You want me to call the cops?” Maia asks, sounding dubious.
“No cops. I’m fine.”
Maia snorts expressively. “Alec?”
“Not yet,” Alec sighs. “Can you get everybody out of here? Tell them there’s a gas leak or something, I don’t care. Shop’s closed for the day. I’ll pay you for your full shift.” Maia nods and heads back toward the front, and over the sound of her briskly kicking out his remaining patrons, he says to the man, “Okay. If you don’t want me to call the cops, you gotta give me something. Do you have anyone else I can call?”
The man opens his eyes again, blinks at him slowly. He’s strikingly good-looking, actually, or he would be if he wasn’t such a complete mess. The bruise on his temple looks pulpy and painful, the skin split and dried blood all down the side of his face, although at least the bone underneath seems intact. He flexes his jaw, then says, slowly, “We’re in New York, right?”
“Okay, yeah, I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No, don’t—” the man shakes his head. “Lightwood. This used to be the Lightwood family business. One of them.”
Something cold sinks like a stone to the pit of Alec’s stomach. “Yeah. It used to be.”
“Isabelle Lightwood. Call Isabelle…” He’s drifting away again, his eyes slipping shut. Alec leans over him.
“Hey.” He doesn’t want to shake the guy, but his hands catch at his shoulders all the same, like he can drag him back to consciousness by force. “Hey. What does Izzy have to do with this?” No response. “What’s your name?”
The man lets out a slurry of consonants as his head lolls back against the cabinet, and it takes Alec a minute to put them together into a name. Magnus.
He swears under his breath as he stands. By the door, Maia gives him a look, and he waves her off. “It’s fine. Enjoy the day off.”
“Don’t do anything too stupid,” she says finally, and pulls her apron off to toss it over the counter. Alec waits until she’s let herself out, locking the door behind her, to pull out his phone and start dialling a number he hasn’t called in over a year.
They’re halfway through a surprisingly civilized dinner with Luke when Izzy gets the call. She glances down at the screen, frowns suddenly, and stands, pushing her chair back. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
“It’s fine,” Clary says, and Izzy gives her a distracted smile as she steps away. She doesn’t need to look over at Luke to know exactly the look he’s giving her, especially after Izzy crosses over to the other side of the deck, speaking too quietly into the phone to hear. She’s as gorgeous as ever in tight jeans and a flowered top, hair pulled back to display drop earrings and the lovely curve of her shoulders, but her posture has gone tense and still, balanced like she’s ready to throw a punch or maybe take a punch. It always makes her look like a different person entirely, although Clary knows that this is just another side of Izzy. One she doesn’t usually see.
“Clary,” Luke says quietly.
She looks up at him, smiles as brightly as she can at the serious expression on his face. “What?”
He nods toward Izzy. “We gonna talk about this?”
“About what?” Clary asks. “It’s not like you’ve never taken a work call in the middle of dinner.”
Luke’s mouth tightens, but before he can answer, Izzy is moving back toward them, tucking her phone away. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and she sounds just like Clary’s Izzy again. “I have to go take care of something—Luke, thank you for dinner, the chicken was amazing. I’ve never tasted anything like that marinade.”
“Old family recipe,” Luke says coolly. “Are you sure you can’t stay for desert? It’s rhubarb pie.”
“I’ll save you some,” Clary says, and Izzy smiles down at her.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” She leans down to kiss Clary, taking her time about it. That’s one of the things Clary has always loved about her. Izzy kisses like she doesn’t care who’s watching them, like the entire world can just stop and wait until she’s satisfied that the job has been properly done. It’s a little embarrassing, especially since Luke is sitting right there watching them with a disapproving glint in his eyes, but it’s also kind of awesome.
Izzy pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes when she finally leans back. “I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” Clary says, smiling helplessly.
Luke waits until after Izzy leaves, motorcycle roaring away from the curb and echoing down the block, before he puts his fork down with a sigh. “Are we going to talk about this?”
“Talk about what?” Clary asks, taking another huge bite of rhubarb pie. “This is amazing,” she says through her mouthful. “Izzy is going to love it.”
“Manners,” Luke says dryly. “So. Isabelle left in a hurry.”
“It was probably a work thing. You’ve done it too.”
“My work things don’t involve breaking the law. The opposite, actually.” Luke folds his arms. “Clarissa.”
“Oh, the full name,” Clary says lightly, but she can’t help the half-guilty, half-defensive twitch of her shoulders. She knows what’s coming, and there’s a part of her that wants to put her hands over Luke’s mouth like she can keep the words behind his teeth by force. “You must be serious.”
“I am serious. She’s a criminal. You get that, right? The Lightwood family—”
“I’m not dating the Lightwood family, I’m dating Izzy.”
“You’re dating Isabelle Lightwood,” Luke says, very gently. “And she is a criminal. She’s been under investigation for months. She’s been implicated in half a dozen different counterfeit schemes. It’s just a matter of time before something actually sticks. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”
“What, you’re telling me you’re going to arrest my girlfriend?”
Luke sighs. “I’m telling you that I don’t want to be in a position where I have to make that call. Okay?”
“I’m not breaking up with her, if that’s what you’re asking me to do.”
“I’m just asking you to be careful,” Luke says. “That’s all.”
Clary pauses as she passes him on the way to the fridge, drops a fond kiss on the top of his head. “I know what I’m doing, I promise.”
“Yeah,” Luke sighs. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“This had better be good,” Izzy says when she steps through the door. She looks good. Softer than she did the last time he saw her. She’s wearing a flowered blouse, motorcycle boots, hair slightly disheveled from her helmet. “You interrupted dinner with my girlfriend and her step-dad, and he’s a cop so he already hates me.”
“You’re dating the daughter of a cop?” Alec says incredulously. “Also, hey, Izzy, nice to see you, it’s been, what, a year?”
“Step-daughter.” Izzy steps closer, wraps her arms around him. “Hi, Alec. I missed you.”
“Sure you did,” Alec says, but he’s smiling. Things with Izzy always seem less complicated when she’s actually in front of him. It’s an illusion, but a comforting one. “So, Magnus. Didn’t get a last name.”
“Bane,” Izzy says, pulling back. “Or at least it was the last time I knew him. He’s a business associate. And a friend. Sort of.”
“Okay. He’s currently passed out under my espresso machine. I’d kind of like him out of here. I love you, Iz, but I meant it when I said I was out. I don’t want this shit in my shop, okay?”
“You’ve gotten so boring since you went straight,” Izzy says, and then rolls her eyes when he snorts. “For a certain extremely limited definition of the term, very funny. Are you seeing anyone?”
“Really?” Alec asks, leading her back through the shop. “We’re doing this now? I have an unconscious criminal in my kitchen and you want to hear about my love life?”
There’s a groan from the floor as they step behind the counter. “Neither unconscious nor a criminal, thank you very much.” Bane is awake again. He’s dragged himself up to a more or less seated position, head lolling back against the cabinets, smile dazed as he peers up at them. “Hello, Isabelle. Lovely to see you again.”
“Magnus,” she says. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“This time it’s actually not my fault.” The man starts to lift his head, then stops, winces, and puts it back against the cabinet. “I’ve been burned, and there are some Russian gun-runners who are exceedingly unhappy with me right now. I could use a new name. And possibly a place to lie low in the meantime.” He laughs a little, tiredly. “I’m a bit short on funds at the moment, but you know I’m good for it.”
“Wow,” Izzy says after a moment. “When you fuck up, you don’t do it by halves, do you?”
Bane grimaces, shifting against the counter. “I know you don’t believe me, but I mean it. It was a routine job. They were all lined up as neat as—” he waves one hand a little. There’s a ring glinting on one finger, and it catches Alec’s attention briefly. “As neat as—fuck, I don’t know. Pins. Bowling pins.”
“Pretty sure he’s concussed,” Alec says. Izzy gives him a look.
“You think?”
“I can hear you, you know,” Bane says. He pushes the heel of his hand into his temple, then adds, “Although you’re right. I’m definitely concussed. Ivan Kuznetsov was not happy when his money transfer failed to go through.”
“Jesus,” Izzy sighs. “Kuznetsov, really?”
“Somebody I should know?” Alec asks.
“Nah. You were already out of the business by the time he made it big in the States.” Izzy sighs. “But he’s known for holding a grudge.”
“And he thinks I cheated him. Correctly, I guess, since my handlers decided to cut me loose instead of approving the money transfer.” Magnus pauses, then adds, a bit more lightly, “Also, I kicked the shit out of his guard and left him handcuffed to a radiator, so there’s that.”
“Great,” Izzy says. “Kuznetsov operates out of Florida. What the hell are you doing in New York?”
“I hitched a ride from an old friend who owed me a favor. However, I’m a bit short on those at the moment, so I was hoping I could prevail upon you. For old time’s sake.”
“If you were anyone else, I’d throw you out into the street.”
“But you have a soft spot for me. Also, there was that minor thing with the Jamaicans that I helped you out with that one time...”
“You’re not staying with me,” Izzy says, although she’s softened a little. “I don’t like you that much.”
“I can get a hotel.”
“With what money?”
Bane’s mouth curls up into a smile. Even as loopy as he is right now, it holds a faint edge. “I’m sure I can figure something out.”
“He can stay with me,” Alec says, before he can think better of it. Izzy raises her eyebrows at him, and even Bane looks startled. He halfway wants to kick himself, but—
Well. The guy really shouldn’t be alone right now. And Izzy can work fast when it suits her. He’ll be out of Alec’s hair in no time.
“Are you sure, Alec?” Izzy says. “You just said you didn’t want to be involved.”
“I’m already involved right now,” Alec points out, and shrugs. “Look, if he’s with me, he’s not wandering around New York and drawing all kinds of trouble. Also, he’s concussed. He should have somebody keeping an eye on him.”
“I am literally right here,” Bane interjects, then lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug, winces, drops it. “However, as I just said, I’m a bit short on friends and funds at the moment. If pretty boy here is offering, I would be grateful to take him up on it.”
Pretty boy. This fucking guy. Alec glances at Izzy. “You take care of the paperwork, I’ll keep an eye on him. And maybe after all this we can go get dinner and actually have a conversation for the first time in fourteen months, wouldn’t that be nice?”
It’s not all that pointed, but Izzy still flinches like he hit her. He doesn’t allow himself to feel bad about that, and he doesn’t take it back; after a moment, she sighs. “Okay. Fine. That sounds great.” Then she turns her gaze on Magnus. “So, Alec is a grown man, and I’m not going to tell him what to do. And I’ll get your paperwork together so you can get the hell out of here as soon as possible. But Magnus?” She crouches down in front of him, graceful in her low-heeled motorcycle boots, and he’s forgotten this side of Izzy, the ice-cold one that makes her look just like their mother back before she found religion in prison. “If any of this blows back on the people I love, I will fucking end you. Are we clear?”
Magnus rolls his head back against the cabinet, laughs softly. “Isabelle, my dear,” he says, “I would expect nothing less.”
“Home sweet home,” Alec says when they make it back to his building. It’s not as nice as Izzy’s swanky loft in Brooklyn—which he hasn’t actually seen in years, isn’t actually sure if she’s still living there, now that he thinks about it.
Anyway, it’s decent enough. A tall brick building with crumbling molding squeezed in between two towering 1970’s monstrosities. There are flowers planted in the curb strip and in boxes on the barred windows of super’s apartment next to the entrance. It’s homey. Alec likes it.
Magnus doesn’t say anything, and when Alec glances back at him he has the pale, unfocused look of a man trying very hard not to fall flat on his face. He’s still moving, though, so Alec doesn’t offer him a hand. Not yet.
“How likely is it that a bunch of angry Russians are going to try to break down my front door before Izzy can get your new ID put together?” he asks as he digs out his keys.
Magnus blinks at him. “You’re asking me this now?”
“I just want some idea of what I’m in for.” Alec pulls the door open, nods at the cramped, air-conditioned lobby beyond. “After you.”
“I thought I was the one with the head injury,” Magnus murmurs, stepping past Alec into the lobby. His dark eyes scan the small space as if looking for threats, but he seems to relax a little when it becomes clear that there’s nothing here other than rows upon rows of mailboxes and water-damaged plaster. Alec pulls the door shut behind him, jiggles it to make sure the lock catches, then goes to unlock his mailbox. Nothing too interesting, fortunately. A pile of bills, a catalogue advertising watches that cost more than his monthly take-home, a letter in a thin USMC envelope that's addressed in Jace’s cramped handwriting.
“You definitely have a head injury,” he says absently, dumping everything but the electric bill and the letter into the recycling bin that the super, Doris, keeps wedged under the window where it can catch the leaks. There’s still blood trickling down from Magus’s hairline. Still, or again. It’s a good thing he keeps his first aid kit stocked, even though the worst that usually happens to him these days is a burn from the temperamental espresso machine.
“And yet you’re the one who invited me into your home, and you’re just now asking if you’re likely to have your door broken down by the people following me.”
“Well,” Alec says patiently. “Am I?”
“Unbelievable,” Magnus sighs. “No, I don’t think it’s likely. At least not right away.”
“Good,” Alec says. “Are you going to be able to get up the stairs by yourself? The elevator’s broken.”
“Of course it is.” Magnus lifts a hand, swipes at the blood before it can trickle into his eye. He looks at his fingers and makes a face. “Well. I beat up a Russian bodybuilder with extremely bad hygiene this morning, what’s a few flights of stairs? Just tell me you don’t live on the top story.”
“Third floor,” Alec says. He’s smiling, he realizes. “Come on.”
“So,” Magnus says, after Alec has sat him down on the toilet seat and broken out his first aid kit, which is admittedly way more extensive than he actually needs for his current line of work. Old habits die hard, but he’s glad right now that he has a suture kit, because there’s no way that butterfly bandages are going to hold a cut that nasty closed. At least not neatly. And it would be a shame to scar a face that pretty, not that he’d ever say as much out loud. “I never did get a last name from you.”
“Do you need one?” Alec asks, amused.
“Mm. I suppose not.” Magnus blinks up at him. His eyes are dark enough that it’s hard to tell in the dim light whether or not his pupils are dilated, but he seems to be tracking more or less okay. “It would be nice to know who’s stitching me up, though.”
“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Alec says, threading the curved needle.
“Oh, I’m sure you do, pretty boy.”
Keep calling me that and I’m going to start taking it seriously, he thinks, but doesn’t say. His dating life may have been stagnating pitifully for the past year or so, but he isn’t quite at the level of trying to flirt with concussed bloody men in his bathroom. Especially not when they’re Izzy’s business associates.
Out loud, he says, “Thanks a lot. And it’s Lightwood.”
“Oh, Alexander Lightwood. I see. You must be the mysterious eldest Lightwood sibling, then. I thought perhaps you were Isabelle’s current boytoy.”
“She’s my sister, so, ew,” Alec says. “Also, she has a girlfriend. And I’m gay.”
“Ah.” Magnus straightens slightly. His tone is unreadable.
Alec sets the needle down on the edge of the sink and folds his arms. There was a time when a reaction like that would have made him flinch, but he’s a long way from that skittish, touchy, closeted kid these days, thank god. This is his apartment, and Magnus is a guest. If he has an issue with it, he can find somewhere else to hide from the Russian Mafia. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” Magnus looks up at Alec through his eyelashes. “I’d be a complete hypocrite if it was.”
“Oh,” Alec says, slightly wrong-footed. “Well, okay. Good. Now hold still. This’ll probably sting a little. I think I have a topical—”
“It’s fine,” Magnus says, and leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees, the languidly flirtatious pose draining away as quickly as it appeared. He looks exhausted. “I think I’d just as soon have it over with, if it’s all the same to you.”
Alec shrugs and picks up the needle. “Suit yourself.”
“I always do,” Magnus says, then closes his eyes as Alec gets to work.
It takes five stitches, all told, to close the wound, and Magnus doesn’t flinch once. When he’s done, Alec tapes gauze carefully over it and packs up his kit. Magnus doesn’t move from his seat; his eyes are still closed and he’s swaying slightly in place. He doesn’t look entirely with it, but Alec knows better than to try and touch him.
“All done,” he says out loud. “You want some clean clothes or something?”
“Ah,” Magnus says, and blinks up at him with the dazed look of a man who's been running on adrenaline and willpower for far too long. He's crashing. “I think any clothes of yours would be too long for me, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. Thank you.”
“Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. If Magnus is going to pass out on him, it would be better if it happens on his couch rather than on the bathroom floor. He’s not sure whether or not Magnus will take the help, but after a moment he slides his hand into Alec’s. His palm is calloused and warm, the suggestion of strength there even as he allows Alec to tug him up to his feet.
“So,” Alec says as they make their way into the living room, casting around for anything to keep Magnus awake for just a little longer. “Magnus Bane, huh?”
“That’s me.”
“There’s no way in hell that’s your real name.”
“Oh, does it really even matter? Your talented little sister is crafting me a new identity as we speak.”
Alec snorts. “I hope you didn’t give her naming rights.”
“Isabelle is an artist,” Magnus says archly. “I would never presume to interfere with her process.”
“Right,” Alec says, and points him at the couch. “I’m gonna grab you some clothes. Try not to pass out before then.”
“I’m not going to pass out,” Magnus says, sounding offended. The effect is ruined by the huge yawn that interrupts him mid-sentence as he folds himself painfully down onto Alec’s futon couch. “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Alec says, and takes himself into his bedroom, which is—according to the realtor who showed him the place—cozy. Cozy translates into a windowless cave with just enough room for a bed wedged against one corner and a narrow path to the closet, but still. It’s not like he’s had anybody he’s trying to impress lately.
By the time he makes it out with sweatpants and t-shirt in hand, he’s not all that surprised to find Magnus slumped over in an extremely uncomfortable-looking position, snoring faintly into the couch cushion with his shoes still on and his suit jacket twisted around him. Alec shakes his head and kneels down to pull his shoes off and arrange him into a position that’s somewhat less likely to leave him with a crick in his neck. Magnus doesn’t even stir.
He rests his hand on Magnus’s shoulder briefly, looking down at his handsome face relaxed in sleep, and pushes down the sinking feeling that he’s already in way over his head.
He sets the clothes down on the coffee table, scrubs a hand through his hair, and sighs. Yeah. This was probably a bad idea. Too late to back out now, though.