This here, written as a birthday story for my amiga, is based off the fact that Gideon Lightwood was said to be traveling Europe during the first Infernal Devices book. Either that or he was in Barcelona. Whatever, the story was born!

Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare is the owner of all of these characters. I based the descriptions of countries off of what I know about Europe and what I have heard or read. I am leaving the door open for bias and incorrect information. To any French readers; please don't take the paragraph about the French seriously, Gideon does state that he is biased.

Dedication: Written for the beautiful Maddi whose birthday I am exactly one week late on.

Around the World

Once things had quieted down, Charlotte Branwell decided that Gideon should get a more thorough tour of the London Institute than simple visitors. He saw everything from the kitchens (in which a slyly smiling Sophie made him blush again and again) to the room where Church had tended to shed more and finally he'd seen Charlotte's office.

"I'm sure you'll pardon the mess," she said. "My priorities have strayed from cleaning."

Gideon had nodded, but his eye had been caught by a beautiful map hanging on the wall. It was strong, colourful and bold with tiny city, country and ocean names printed over it. Sea monsters and mermaids were printed in the sea, the compass in the bottom right corner was ornate and it hung in a strong wooden frame. At first Gideon thought that the little stars were meant to designate the capitals, but soon he realised that it showed the Institutes of the world. Alicante was smudged between the borders of mundane countries as well. He'd been studying the map for so long, that Charlotte had excused herself twenty minutes ago and he was still engrossed. He was thinking of all the Institutes he'd visited, hoping to find a place away from the Lightwood reputation and family grip to settle and work in his adult life.

There was the Shanghai Institute, where Jem had been born. It had been rebuilt since the incident of Jem's orphanage and he remembered to have been very surprised upon learning what had happened there years prior to his visit. Gideon remembered a peaceful establishment with red tiled roofs, open walkways and abundant gardens. The Shadowhunters there trained outside most of the time since the local warlocks had erected an invisible barrier against the weather as a thank you for a favour. Koi fish swam under the floors. Runes and Chinese characters mingled on banners and flags. The artefacts in its various studies and libraries were exotic and unlike anything that Gideon had ever seen. Even the swords and knives and bows manned by the Chinese were different, and they threw Gideon off balance in duels and training exercises. Gideon had never even heard of most of the food he ended up eating on a regular basis, and even the bed that he was assigned felt foreign. It was intriguing and he couldn't help but feel curious and excited and adventurous during his stay in China, but finally the culture shock proved to be too much for him. He spoke not a single word of Mandarin and couldn't seem to catch on, and couldn't bear the resulting loneliness. He was a fish out of water everywhere he went, and decided to stray back to Europe after that little drabble in Asia. Maybe it had been a mistake to turn away so soon, but he'd liked his next destination.

Barcelona had been one of his favourites. The Spanish language was like music to Gideon's ear and he'd caught on to it rather fast. He could maintain a conversation with most of the Institute's people by the end of his stay. Their dancing had also blown his mind- the freedom of it, the flowing movements, the social aspect... The girls in the Institute could make him fall a little bit in love with every step. The Institute was near a cobblestoned market where Gideon believed to this day he could get absolutely anything. The constant sunshine of Spain had come as a shock to the Londoneer that he was, and he'd always felt good in Spain. Whether it was bathed in the sunshine or not actually, Spain was gorgeous- beaches, landscape, architecture... it was beautiful. Also he'd always felt relaxed and rested- possibly due to the siesta (which seemed innovative and necessary to Gideon). If he'd have decided to stay somewhere, it would have been Barcelona- whose cheerful people he still sent letters to, and whose sun he still missed. However the tensions between England and Spain had been too great. He'd been eyed in the streets whenever his accent spilled from his mouth. He would have had trouble readapting to England should he ever go back, and with his entire family (more precisely with Gabriel and Tatianna) in London, he couldn't afford to sever the ties with Barcelona. So he'd left. But one day he'd go back. He'd bring Sophie to show her the country, and he'd bring tea and scones and photographs from home to show Spain.

Paris, on the other hand, he'd been disappointed with. His father had been so very excited to send him there and had spent so much time working it up since a good friend of his –Marius Corneille- was the Institute leader there... whereas Gideon thought of Paris as an exaggerated and overrated city to be honest- it was dirty and though the rich were rich and well, the poor were poorer than poor and dying. The Cathedral of Notre-Dame had been beautiful, but the Shadowhunters had yet to deal with a gargoyle infestation and so Gideon hadn't been allowed to visit it. The Eiffel Tower wasn't as impressive as he'd been promised it would be. The Seine was another dirty river like the Thames. To be fair, the food in Paris had been good. Delicious, actually. The Institute had had both a chef and a pastry chef. The Institute had once been a convent, so it was much less glamorous than the Parisians made it up to be. Actually, everything was less than the Parisians made it out to be. Gideon had found them (and he knew this to be a generalisation) cocky, arrogant, pretentious and cold. Corneille's young daughter Émilie had been teaching French words to him –simple nonsense words; chien, fromage, chat, pain, pomme- and the residential fencing teacher walked by just as Gideon massively mispronounced the word 'château' and gave him an earful about defamation and incompetence and not bothering. Émilie had stood up for him, but Gideon had been fuming. He'd always traveled with a good sense of humour and a pleasing nature- the willingness to try and the knowledge that he would sometimes fail. That fencing teacher had been the first person to be so rude to him.

But really his prejudice about Parisians was probably Jeanne's fault. Jeanne was a Shadowhunter a year his junior, with a doll-like face and clever eyes (a girl's eyes were his Achilles' heel). She had a habit of pushing off her bonnet and unpinning her brown tresses when she was left alone, and she took to doing this when Gideon was around. Another habit was unbuttoning her blouses when he was around, as if he wasn't at all and as if it was proper. She'd taught him how to use a slingshot properly –the only weapon that she could easily keep in her cleavage, according to her- and how to find the freshest fruits and fish in the market. Jeanne had been astounding and outstanding. Jeanne had been scandalous and brave and unflinching and crude and beautiful and pleasant and funny and smiling. Among her more scandalous actions were stopping a haggle in the market by slamming a few sous down on a stand before walking off with the produce, talking up to the Inquisitor, spitting in a rude Shadowhunter's café au lait, and one day taking Gideon's hands, placing them on her hips, backing herself up to a wall and kissing him silly. Gideon's hands had, under hers, ruffled the fabric of her skirt, played with the unbuttoned part of her blouse. These daring moments peppered the next week of Gideon's life- becoming more and more extravagant, getting them closer and closer to being caught- when finally he'd found out that for the last month she'd been engaged to a Shadowhunter from Marseille. He'd left Paris quickly after that, leaving her with court words and the rather rude wish that her marriage be rotten. The people of Paris were simply not a group of people that he was very interested in spending time with- him or his broken heart.

Brussels was one where he held fond memories. Belgium had been a pleasant country to be in. He'd been at the Antwerp Institute, with a view that overlooked the busy port. He'd liked the reason that Antwerp was named Antwerp; that according to legend, a giant named Antigoon lived near the River Schele, and forced anyone who crossed it to pay toll unless they wanted their hands to be cut off and thrown into the current. A young hero named Brabo had eventually cut the giant's hand off and thrown them into the river, thus the name 'Antwerp' which meant 'hand throw'. Gideon loved it. He also loved the beer in Belgium. And the chocolate. The rest of the food was rubbish, but Gideon figured that he could subside off of beer and chocolate for a reasonably long time. The weather had reminded Gideon of home (alias, it had been crummy), but another good thing about Belgium was how central it was in Europe. He could go on daytrips to so many countries, and to so many other cities in Belgium as well. One of his favourites was a jewel of a city named Brugge. The Ardennes were to this day some of the most beautiful mountain sceneries that he'd seen in Europe. It was on these various adventures that Gideon had gotten closer to many of the Belgian Shadowhunters- Louise, Antoine, Julien, Hanne, Michiel, Hugo, Luca, Axelle, Silke, Luna, Anais... there weren't many of them that Gideon hadn't gotten to know. The people there had been nice. They were very polite, which Gideon had struggled with at first since it was so hard to tell what they thought of him, and they also tended to keep to themselves. But they were very approachable and once they opened up to Gideon, he felt like he'd made long-lasting bonds. Also they'd never once hesitated to switch from Dutch to English when Gideon approached, even if he hadn't been planning on joining the conversation. They never even ressented him for his poor Dutch, which Gideon was eternally thankful for. They liked the comfort of their little lives, Liberal, which Gideon loved, loved, loved after being raised under the roof of Benedict Lightwood. If Gideon could today credit himself with thinking differently than his father, of being a better man who had learned to think critically and to look at others, it was because of the Belgians (and maybe the French, but he was still too bitter to admit it). Whether this was the exception or the rule, Gideon didn't know since he hadn't stayed long enough to find out. He'd kept traveling, pushed on by a newly powered curiosity.

Italy was where he'd spent the bulk of his time. The Venice Institute had been his favourite day despite Rome's reputation. Rome was too busy, too old, too outdated. The Institute hidden in Pompei's remains felt too remote to really protect anyone from anything, though Gideon had adored the architecture and shuddered at the skeletons of well-preserved Roman mundanes who had perished with the Vesuvian's(?) explosion. Venice had been small and snug- his favourite. People had barked out each other's name and yelled at each other through the walls and stories of the teetering building. It was small and poor, so the dining room tables were constantly being pushed to the side to create a training room. The Head of Institute had used a glamour to hide his bed and turn his room into an office. Whenever the mundane cook got to work in the kitchen between his numerous smokes and naps, the entire house took no time at all to swim in the smell of warm sauces and homemade meatballs and whatever else was on the menu. The channels of Venice had been charming, and also overfilling with flirtatious mermaids that had to be talked out of drowning mundanes regularly (really the only usefu thing the Venice Institute did consistently). It had been nice and homey and cheerfully cluttered. But the Institute had come with drama and fussing and love triangles and alcoholism and everything in between. Too much fighting had driven Gideon out of Venice, and so out of Italy for good.

He'd wandered into Switzerland then. God, had Switzerland been beautiful. To this day Gideon couldn't pronounce the name of the tiny little village that the Institute was based in, in a cottage with many windows and wraparound porches perched on a mountaintop. Every morning a different Shadowhunter was responsible of waking up at an ungodly hour and walking down the rickety path down to pick up fresh breakfast pastries at the mundane bakery. The first morning that the responsibility had fallen on Gideon, he'd been breath taken by the white mist enveloping them. His German was finicky, but from what Gideon could understand, they were clouds. He woke up early every morning since. The mountains themselves were beautiful- tall, imposing, covered in lush green forests… Anna and Wolfgang –the two younger Shadowhunters who had the best grasp of the English language, could communicate in Latin and were expendable- once took Gideon to a glacier lake. Glaciers from thousands of years ago would melt and the water would rip down the mountainpath into the coldest and bluest lake that Gideon assumed the world had. They'd jumped in and he'd run back out as soon as he could, his guides laughing at him. Beautiful as it was, Switzerland hadn't cut it for Gideon either. The Institute was the only one catering for the tiny country- whose size was nowhere near matching its needs, a concept that the Clave didn't seem to understand. Everyone was always hurrying, always in a frenzy. Gideon witnessed three breakdowns while he was there and never once saw the Swiss Shadowhunters have the time to look at their beautiful surroundings. It wasn't a good fit for the starry eyed city boy.

Monuments, splendid churches, gorgeous scenery and every other possible image swam through Gideon's mind as he looked at the map. Germany, the Netherlands, Portugal, Austria... Every country, even if he'd just passed by it on his way to another Institute, had left a mark on him. He remembered limericks and local legends, smiles and shared secrets, confusing conversation featuring two broken languages, dirty jokes and drinking songs, getting lost and getting found. His trips hadn't been bad. He'd gone around the world and liked all of it. Really, any Institute (except maybe Paris) would have been alright for him. But it would have been alright, not excellent. Not perfect. There was always something missing from them. Something that stopped them from being…

Familiar arms wrapped around his waist, hands knotting together against his stomach. A chin was rested on his shoulder and the familiar smell of soap, herbs, lemon balm and kitchen immediately got to him.

"And what might you be up to that stops you from coming all the way down for supper? I worked hard on it, you know... just for you, at that."

…Home.