Clockwork Prince

This is my take on the chapter Fierce Midnight if Tessa and Jem had not been intruppted and continued. This is graphic but not crude or gross. This first chapter follows the book with my own added tidbits. The second chapter and epilogue is where my own creative freedom comes into play. I hope you enjoy. Reviews would be welcome!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or story. All belong to Cassanda Clare.

Fierce Midnight

Jem—

Jem jumped from the carriage and stalked up the Institute front steps and disappeared without looking back once at the carriage or Tessa, even though she was calling his name. He barely heard her he was so consumed with rage with an intensity unknown before. Now that he was feeling it, he never thought it would be because of Will, Will, of all people. Yes, Will could be annoying, exasperating, and sometimes cruel, but Jem had always thought deep down Will was a good person. He just was hiding something dark, but Jem would never have pushed him to unburden himself. Will must have a good reason to keep his secret locked away so tightly.

He wasn't entirely sure where he'd been going. He came up short when he realized his feet had brought him to the music room, standing in front of where his violin was resting. He wasn't exactly surprised, however. It was one of the few items which brought him true comfort in his more miserable moments. This was definitely one of those since his parents had died. Will was the last person in the whole world Jem thought would make a mockery of his life. Even the Enclave members referring to his illness or disability were not so cruel.

Jem went back to his room and took an unadvisedly large dose of the yin fen. He wasn't sure what came over him, possessing him to do such a thing. He was always so careful with how much he took. He supposed it was a reaction to Will's actions. If Will could indulge then he certainly could. Especially since he had a conveniently available supply, already paid for. He half undressed and began to play.

The witchlight torches were burning low on the walls. Jem sat on the trunk at the foot of his bed in just his shirtsleeves and trousers, his silver hair tousled, the violin propped against his shoulder. He was sawing at it viciously with the bow, wringing awful sounds out of it, making it scream. One of the violin strings snapped with a shriek.

"Jem!" Someone cried. He did not look up. The next Jem knew, Tessa stepped in front of him and wrenched the bow out of his hand. "Jem, stop! Your violin—your lovely violin—you'll ruin it."

He looked up at her. He was breathing hard, his shirt open at the neck, he could feel the sweat on his collarbone. He could also feel his cheeks were flushed. "What does it matter?" He said in a voice so low it was almost a hiss. "What does any of it matter? I'm dying. I won't outlast the decade. What does it matter if the violin goes before I do?" There was barely a hint of self pity, sadness and anger in the unfairness of it all coloring Jem's voice.

He stood up and turned away from Tessa, toward the window. He couldn't bear to see the pity in her eyes he would surely see. Only a little moonlight found its way into the room through the fog; there seemed to be shapes visible in the white mist pressed against the window—ghosts, shades, mocking faces. "You know it is true."

"Nothing is decided." Tessa's voice shook. "Nothing is inevitable. A cure—"

"There's no cure." Jem no longer sounded angry, just detached. What was the point? "I will die, and you know it, Tess. Probably within the next year. I am dying, and I have no family in the world, and the one person I trusted more than any other made sport of what is killing me."

"But, Jem, I don't think that's what Will meant to do at all. He was just trying to escape. He is running from something, something dark and awful. You know he is, Jem. You saw how he was after—after Cecily."

Jem could sense Tessa, as he always could, standing just behind him. He dropped the violin almost carelessly onto the trunk and turned to face her. "He knows what it means to me," he said. "To see him even toy with what has destroyed my life—" How could he do this? He thought with despair.

"But he wasn't thinking of you—"

"I know that. I tell myself he's better than he makes himself out to be, but, Tessa, what if he isn't? I have always thought, if I had nothing else that made my life matter, I have always stood by him. But perhaps I shouldn't." Have I been deluding myself this whole time? Could my judgment really have been so off concerning Will all these years?

His chest was rising and falling very fast. Tessa put the back of her hand to this forehead. "You're burning up. You should be resting—" No, I'm not a sick child! Jem longed to shout. He flinched away from her, and Tessa dropped her hand. "Jem, what is it? You don't want me to touch you?" He could hear the hurt in her voice.

Of course I want you to touch me! "Not like that," he flared, and then flushed even darker than before, aware this behavior was more characteristic to Will than himself.

"Like what?" Jem could hear the bewilderment in her voice.

"As if you were a nurse and I were your patient." His voice was firm but even. "You think because I am ill that I am not like—" He drew a ragged breath. "Do you think I do not know," he said, "that when you take my hand, it is only so that you can feel my pulse? Do you think I do not know that when you look into my eyes, it is only to see how much of the drug I have taken? If I were another man, a normal man, I might have hopes, presumptions, even; I might—" His words began to catch. I'm saying too much! He was gasping, could feel how flushed his cheeks were.

Tessa shook her head. "This is the fever speaking, not you." Of course, she wouldn't believe me, he thought bitterly.

Jem began to turn away from Tessa. "You can't even believe I could want you," he said in a half whisper. "That I am alive enough, healthy enough—"

"No—" Tessa caught at his arm. Jem stiffened. "James, that isn't at all what I meant—"

He curled his fingers around her hand where it lay on his arm. And then he turned her and drew her toward him. What am I doing? Jem thought. Well, she's not pulling away from me. Not yet, at least.

They stood face-to-face, chest to chest. He could see his breath stir her hair. The fever rose off him like the mist off the Thames; he felt the blood pounding through his skin, the pulse at his throat.

"Tessa." She looked up at him. He brought his head down, as she raised her face, his mouth slanting across hers, and they were kissing. Tessa. He was kissing Tessa. Jem's senses reeled. Kissing her was like nothing he'd ever felt before, absolutely exhilarating. More so than the rush of a large amount of yin fen or the euphoria from battle, or even when he truly lost himself playing the violin. He never wanted it to end. His mouth was soft and firm; one of his hands circled the back of her neck gently, guiding her mouth to his. With his other hand he cupped her face, running his thumb gently across her cheek bone. He could taste burned sugar; the sweetness of the yin fen that must have transferred from his own lips. His touch, his lips, were tentative. He realized that he did mind that this was the height of impropriety, that he should not be touching her, kissing her, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

Jem felt Tessa's arms rise, curving around his neck, drawing him closer. He gasped against her mouth. He was so sure she would push him away that for a moment he went still. Her hands glided over his shoulders, urging him with gentle touches, with a murmur against his lips, not to pause. Hesitantly he returned her caress, and then with greater force—kissing her again and again, each time with increasing urgency, cupping her face between his burning hands, his thin violinist's fingers stroking her skin, making her shiver. His hands moved to the small of her back, pressing her against him; her feet slipped on the carpet, and they half-stumbled backward onto the bed.

Her fingers wound tightly in his shirt, Tessa drew Jem down onto her, taking the weight of him onto her body. Am I too heavy? Jem asked himself. She doesn't seem to pay no mind so I won't pay anymore heed to it than she is. Besides, she's beneath me, willingly. Jem began to touch her. Tessa ran her hands through his hair. He could not stop running his hands over her in wonder. They traced their way down her body, her shoulders, stomach, and sides, the outlines of her breasts; not daring to linger too long on her chest, no matter how much he wanted to. His breath was ragged in her ear as he found the tie of her dressing gown and paused there, with uncertain and shaking fingers. Jem looked into her eyes and could see a decision being made, in the wake of his hesitation. Tessa reached down and undid the tie, sliding the dressing gown off her shoulders so that she was revealed before him in only her white nightgown. Beautiful, so beautiful. .

Tessa looked up at him, breathless, shaking her loosened hair out of her face. Propping himself over her, Jem gazed down, and said again, huskily, what he had said in the carriage before, when he had touched her hair. "Ni hen piano liang." He had to tell her again, even though she didn't know what the words meant.

"What does it mean?" She whispered, and this time he smiled and said:

"It means that you are beautiful. I did not want to tell you before. I did not want you to think I was taking liberties."

Tessa reached up and touched his cheek, so close to hers, and then the fragile skin of his throat, where the blood beat hard beneath the surface. His eyelashes fluttered down as he followed the movement of her finger with his eyes. Please tell me this is not a dream. He'd had enough of similar dreams these past few weeks. Please tell me that Tessa is really here, in my bed, touching me, kissing me. He was a little embarrassed when he realized his member was beginning to stiffen with his desire for her.

"Take them," she whispered. Jem released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He wasn't sure if it was relief or happiness. Perhaps both?

He bent down to her; their mouths met again. She felt so wonderful. He murmured her name and gathered her against him. He rolled her sideways, her legs scissoring around his, prompting his manhood to stir to greater life, their bodies shifting to press each other closer and closer still so it became hard to breathe, and yet they could not stop. Kiss after kiss, Jem was lost until Tessa found the buttons on his shirt, feeling her hands shaking. Clumsily she worked them free, tearing the fabric. No matter. He shrugged the shirt free of his shoulders. Her eyes roved over his chest. For the first time since Tessa came into his room, Jem felt embarrassed and self-conscious. He knew how his body looked compared to other Shadowhunters. Even Thomas, a mundane, had been more muscular than he was.

"I know," he said, looking down at himself self-consciously. "I am not—I mean, I look—"

"Beautiful," she said, sounding as if she meant it. "You are beautiful, James Carstairs."

Jem felt his eyes widen as she reached to touch him. Tessa's hands had stopped shaking. They were exploratory, confident, fascinated now. A feeling of intense gratitude infused his entire being. How could this lovely creature think I am beautiful? Touch me as if I were precious to her? It was unfathomable to Jem. No one had ever looked at him as Tessa was now, and he thought no one ever would, thought he would die without the tender touches Tessa bestowed upon him. The pleasure he felt as she brushed her fingers over the Marks on his chest, permanent black and faded white scars alike, across the hollows between his ribs and the slope of his stomach, he couldn't withhold the shudder under her tender touch, was indescribable.

He was unable to stop touching her, either. After her exclamation of his beauty, he could no longer suppress himself. His skilled musician's hands grazed her sides, skimming up her bare legs beneath her nightdress. He longed to feel her breasts in more detail, but also wanted to feel more of her. This was a time for slow exploration. He touched her as he usually touched his beloved violin, with soft and urgent grace that left them breathless. Jem could feel his fever radiating off of Tessa; their bodies burned, and their hair was wet with sweat, pasted to their foreheads and necks. His fever was not the only thing shared between him and Tessa; his manhood stiffened increasingly with each caress, each kiss. Although Jem had never done this before, he quickly ran through every bawdy tale he'd heard from Will, no doubt just stories he'd overheard from his visits to the different taverns of London, deciding which might have advice he could actually utilize without disrespecting Tessa. He had to begin somewhere, so he covered her mouth with his once again.