A/N: This is my first Mortal Instruments story to be posted at this site. I've been posting most of them at shesthesmoke on livejournal - so I've got a few more one shots and several drabbles for this fandom, if you'd like to check them out. This story's kind of strange, and I might end up writing a prequel to it if I have the time.

Survivor's Guilt

It had been six months.

Jace stood by the window of his room in this shitty hotel, numbly gazing down at the groups of people who were walking below, oblivious to the significance of this day. It had been six months since the world had gone straight to hell and taken nearly everything he cared about with it, and none of these people, none of them, realized that anything was wrong.

"Jace," a familiar voice said. A small hand rested on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, touching his head to the window frame. The smell of charcoal pencils and grapefruit body wash flooded his senses. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"I know." There was no tone to his voice, no inflection. He knew, of course, that he had to stop. But he also knew that he wouldn't stop, that he couldn't stop. He turned to face her, eyes pleading. She angled her face to meet his gaze, a sad smile playing at her lips.

She reached up to place a hand against his cheek, and he closed his eyes again, leaning into her touch. He twined his fingers through hers, both welcoming the distraction and realizing that it wouldn't help a thing. "I love you," she whispered, her other hand moving to smooth his hair out of his face.

"I love you," he replied, voice barely audible. "You know that."

"Yes," Clary said mildly. For a moment, neither said a word, until she finally continued, "This isn't your fault, Jace."

He pulled away from her, no longer able to be near her. "It is my fault," he said. "If I would've moved faster, then maybe…"

"Look at me, Jace," she said. In his effort to avoid doing so, his eyes fell on the solitary picture in his room—a picture of Alec, Isabelle, Simon, Clary, and himself, seven months ago. He stomach twisted painfully at the memory. He couldn't remember a time after that when he'd been happy. "Nothing you did would've made a difference."

"That's what I don't understand," he said wretchedly, whirling. "Why? Why couldn't I? Why couldn't I save them, why couldn't I…?" His words were choked, stiff. She stood there, calm, and watched him come so much closer to breaking, and it was then that he saw it all again.

A lattice of ragged, bloody claw marks showing through the white t-shirt that she wore. Blood trickled from her mouth as she fell into his arms. He heard himself shouting as if from a distance, but no one could answer his cries—no one else was left, God, no one was left—

Even Magnus couldn't save her. Even Magnus couldn't save Alec, or Isabelle, or Simon. Jace was the only one who'd had a chance, and he's wondered every day since why he couldn't have just gone with them.

He came back to the present, his eyes searching hers. She wore the same white t-shirt, the same faded jeans. She smiled at him and he took two strides across the room and collapsed onto the bed, closing his eyes tightly. He felt, rather than saw, her sit down on the edge of the bed. "I miss you," he says miserably. "I will never stop missing you."

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't surprised to see that he was alone.