Warning: Character death and tears.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot (and maybe not even that).

1.1

"Daddy!"

I grin and let Jonathan run into my arms, ruffling his hair. "Hey, little buddy! How've you been doing?

He pulls away and wrinkles his nose, patting his head. "Now you've got it all messed up, Daddy. Aunty Isabelle forced me to stay still for two hours while she...she gelled it. Do you know what gel means? I do."

He fusses over his hair and that's when she rounds the corner.

After nearly two years apart, I can't help but stare. Flaming red hair in a low ponytail, green eyes shimmering like emeralds, playful lips curved into a familiar smile. God, those lips. I want to trap her against a wall and kiss her raw, but reign myself in as the Lightwoods and Blackthorns and Carstairs begin trickling into the Institute to welcome me home. I want to tell them to leave, but I know it's not good manners, especially since Jonathan's watching. I want to lie down and let Clary draw iratzes against my skin to ease the ache in my muscles that accompany every one of my movements ever since the Clave got their hands on me, but we have guests to take care of. I'd thought that being an Angel got me whatever I wanted, but it seems the complete opposite.

At least I can hug Clary back when she throws her arms around me. The warmth makes me drowsier than ever and I long for a bed, but the wait's worth the trouble when she whispers breathily into my ear, "I've missed you."

"I know," I say, tightening my arms around her petite form. "I have too, but in the form of wet dreams."

That brings a laugh out of her and she slaps my chest. It's such a beautiful sound that it hurts.

Before I lose myself and carry her upstairs, Alec comes over and leans an arm on my shoulder. Smirking, he says, "I thought you'd never make it back."

I raise an eyebrow and slowly untangle myself from Clary. "The Clave still has a long way to go if they want to get the better of me. Besides, shouldn't the parabatai rune tell you I'm alive?"

His simmering blue eyes darken at that, and he suddenly removes his arm and walks away. His back is hunched and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets as he weaves through the thickening crowd in the Institute foyer, drawing concerned looks from his sister and parents.

"What was that?" I ask no one in particular, no doubt a confused expression on my face.

Clary sighs and lets her tiny fingers intertwine with my long ones. "The rune burned away from him when you...changed."

"It did what?" Horror grips me and my hand flies to my shoulder, thinking about the swirling black Mark still visible whenever I get out from the shower.

"Alec's just having some trouble getting used to not being able to sense you. He'll come around," she says distantly, watching his retreating form, before she adds, "eventually."

"I can't believe-" I break the sentence off and shake my head. "I still have mine, though."

Clary's eyebrows knit together and I notice there're more lines of worry there than before. Pain and regret stabs through me before she murmurs, "That shouldn't be possible. Parabatai runes disappear together."

"I can still feel him," I say, and she looks into my eyes with her green ones.

She tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear and her eyes grow sad. "What have they done to you, Jace?" she whispers, and tears begin to well up.

"Clary-"

"No," she interrupts and her expression becomes determined, "we'll get this homecoming party over with and talk later."

With that, Clary pulls me into the spotlight.

...

1.2

"Jace?" she murmurs into my mouth.

"Hmm?" I kick open the door and wrap my hands under her thighs as she positions herself so that she's straddling my hips. "What is it?"

Clary doesn't reply and I lay her down gently onto the bed. It's so incredibly soft compared to the cold metal lab tables I've been required to sleep on night after night in Idris, and immediately I begin fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. Without luck. After a few moments of agonizing frustration on my part, Clary giggles and reaches for it, curling her hand into a fist around the collar and pulling me against her. Without leaving my lips, she quickly undos my clothes and I struggle to rid myself of it, arms debating whether to forget the shirt and bring Clary closer or dispose of anything preventing our bodies from touching. She pulls away too soon and frowns, watching as I try to yank it off. "Jace?"

"I'm sorry," I breathe, panting slightly from the clothing battle. I lie still as she helps me relieve my arms from the sleeves and tosses the demonic piece of trash into the corner of the room. When she lies back down beside me, I whisper, "I miss you so much."

She smiles and I see her white teeth flash in the complete darkness of her bedroom. "I can see that."

Without another word, our lips crash together, my hands tearing at her stubborn, lacy bra while she draws circles on my stomach. Frustration flying sky-high, I give up trying to work the clasp free and resort to focusing on the kissing, trailing my mouth along her neck and sucking on her earlobe. She runs her fingers through my hair and sighs. I look up at her, the annoyance plain on her delicate features. My voice is thick. "What is it?"

"I forgot to tuck Jonathan in. He's probably still partying downstairs," she groans out, and then slaps a hand over her mouth. "Magnus wouldn't feed him alcohol, would he?"

"Relax, Clary," I say, more out of the want to kiss her again than the possibility of a drunk six-year-old son. "I told Isabelle to look after him."

She gives me a disapproving look. "I need to check, just in case."

I almost hiss when she rolls off the bed, out of my reach, and gropes around for the lamp. When she finds it, she flicks it on and is just about to throw her dress back on when she looks at me and gasps.

"What is it now?" I ask, exasperated.

"Jace..." Clary seems to be at a loss for words. "What happened to you?"

I look down at my chest and mentally slap myself. There, bright against my skin and almost orange from the lamplight, are dozens of long knife marks, smooth and straight and silver, running vertically from my collar bone all the way down to my hip bone. Thankfully, there aren't any remnants of the time they'd put my in fire and watched to see if I would burn. Neither is there evidence of the serums they injected into my blood, observing the changes and jotting down notes. But there're countless bruises that run up and down my torso and back and the extreme weariness of blood loss that supposedly goes to a good cause - I'm a human, or rather, Angel-up-close lab rat, tortured for research and strained to my limits to save lives. They've been using my blood to bring back the dead.

"Nothing. Just experiments," I say, pulling the covers from the bed and hiding myself in them.

"Those do not look like experiments to me," she says in a steady but distraught voice as she climbs back into the empty space beside me and bringing the blanket away from my body. Without warning, she begins to cry - not noisy hiccups and sobs, but silently, eyes still trained on me. "I wouldn't have let you go if I'd known-"

I hug her before she can say another word, arms going around her shoulders and chin resting on her shoulder. "Everything's fine, Clary. I'm fine."

"No, you can't be," she whispers and reaches over me for her stele. "Not like this."

The moment the tip of her miracle weapon touches me, the pain is gone. I sigh in relief, feeling the strain leave my muscles, and see Clary smile a little as she drags the stele across my chest, just over my heart and the place Valentine stabbed me. I remember the moment of death, the dark vast void of emptiness as I was sucked into eternal oblivion, and Clary calling my name. Jace. Jace. When I'd opened my eyes, I knew something was incredibly wrong with me. Everything looked different and felt different, like my nerves and senses had been enhanced a thousand fold. I saw each and every snowflake fall, I heard the gently flapping wings of a moth, I could've smelled my way home like a dog. It was beyond what a Shadowhunter could ever achieve, no matter the number of runes placed on him. And that night, when my back had hurt so much it felt like my bones were tearing their way out, Clary opened the door to find me bloody and exhausted, brilliant golden wings protruding from my shoulder blades. I'd become an Angel.

"Better?" she asks, still drawing, this time on a particularly nasty bruise on my stomach.

"You have no idea." I roll my shoulders, sore. Her stele finds it's way to the ache, relieving it there, too. But she's still silently crying, fat, warm tears pattering onto the matress with soft plopping sounds. "Clary, my blood can resurrect people."

She gives a stifled gasp, and more tears gather within her eyes. In a breaking voice, she whispers, "I wouldn't care if you can save the entire goddamned world. As long as you're in pain because of it, I'd let everyone else rot in their graves."

Despite the severity of her words, I laugh and sit up, giving her a peck on the cheek. Very brotherly. Clary cocks an eyebrow, finally having mastered it, and can't hold back a smile. "Why you little-"

She interrupts herself by bringing her lips to mine, using her finger to tip my chin upwards as she gets onto her knees. I pull her down onto the bed and before I can reply to her reaction with something snarky, she gets possessive of my mouth and doesn't even let me breathe. Flames bloom within my chest and my heart pounds hard and fast. I kiss her back.

Clary works infinitely better than her stele does.

2.1

"Leaving again?" Jonathan's eyes are cold.

My fingers tighten on the handle of my suitcase. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" he snarls, and takes a step toward me. "Like hell you are. If you meant that, you'd stay."

"I..." How can I ever redeem myself? How can I explain and make him believe that I love him, I love his mother? "You know I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. You're a fucking Angel, for Christ's sake," he hisses, spitting into my face. Gone is the little boy who ran into my open arms whenever I had a chance to visit. Gone is the bright, happy soul that adored Shadowhunters for who they are and what they do. He did not choose that path, however. Because of me. "You can do anything you want."

I have no words. "Son..."

"NO!" he shouts, shoving me. A normal Shadowhunter's strength wouldn't have been able to compare to mine, but Jonathan, carrying more angelic blood than anyone could know, makes me take a step back. "You don't deserve me as a son."

"Jonathan."

Both of us look towards the top of the stairs, where Clary has suddenly appeared. Her hand rests protectively over her round stomach. "Jonathan. Don't speak to your father that way. You don't know anything."

"I know enough!" His voice is still louder than average, but has largely decreased. "I know he is no father of mine."

"Jonathan-" I almost reach out with a hand, and then quickly take it back.

"Can't you see he cares nothing for us? Can't you see that all he knows how to do is fight for others? What about us? Why does he not fight for us?" he directs at Clary. "How can a man who doesn't even love his own wife and son love anything else? What good did you see in him?"

My heart clenches so tightly I need to hold back a groan. Everything feels ten times better as an Angel, but everything also feels ten times worse.

"I see everything in him," Clary says so quietly I know only I can hear it. Her words hit me hard, and I feel as if I'm suffocating from the guilt. "If he's not a good man, then every other male person on this planet is nothing but rubbish." She says it with so much ferocity even Jonathan stumbles back.

"I'm rubbish, then?" he asks. He suddenly rushes to the door, shoving me aside, and shouts, "Choose, then. Me or him. Choose!"

That's when I lose it. My hand connects with his jaw and I hear a sickening crack, instantly regretting it. Jonathan flies twenty feet out, crashing into a bookshelf and lies there, unmoving. Clary shrieks and picks her way down the stairs as quickly as she can, and it's at that moment I see my reflection in her eyes, though she's far from close. Beautiful, golden. Young. But broken and wild too. I look away before I drive myself insane and fling open the Institute door, disappearing into the portal waiting for me at the bottom of the porch.

...

2.2

They're coming.

I can sense it.

They're coming.

A month ago, I'd tried to make my escape the first time. Little did I know that the Clave had discovered Valentine's method of chaining Ithuriel and used it on me. It was more than just pain - the chains paralyzed me, forced me onto my knees, and imobilized me from extending my wings. The first time, I'd tricked the jailkeeper and escaped unscathed but got captured with a struggle. This time, with security increased by an almost ridiculous amount, I'd torn my wrists and ankles to get out. Now, my right hand was a mess, all of it's skin ripped from the flesh. Yet I hardly felt it - my mind was obscured with the thought of seeing Clary again. So soon.

So soon, yet so far away.

From utter exhaustion, my wings give out and I crash into the roof of a townhouse, and my legs can't seem to support my weight again. My chest is heaving, gasping for breath, and I can feel my body trembling from the exertion of the three-day-long trip from Idris to New York. I don't think Angels should be able to feel pain, but I can. Maybe I'm not an Angel, then. I hope I'm not.

I allow myself a rest of several minutes before deciding that another moment and they'd find me and drag me back. I need to see Clary.

Painfully, agonizingly, I crawl to my feet and raise my bloody wings. The first time I felt those feathery creatures stretch out behind me I'd laughed in delight. Now, I curse them.

They've cursed me.

I dive off the roof and pull upwards as quickly as I can, but misjudge the distance and open a long gash from my shoulder to my wrist against the shingles of another house. Golden blood - ichor - drips down. And then I see it, the Institute. It looks like a castle from this distance, and with my diminished and weakened vision, I can make out nothing within the building. My wings flap tediously towards my destination, and for a moment, the weariness leaves me as hope blooms in my chest.

Finally.

I stumble to a stop at the doors. My bare, ruined feet carry me the last couple of steps to the entrance and I touch my hand to the wood. Blood smears onto the dark surface and sinks into the material like nothing. I try again, this time dragging my hand down, leaving blood in its wake. Please. I'm begging you. Please open.

It doesn't.

It still doesn't.

I collapse at the foot of the door, head hanging down as if I couldn't hold my ground against the Earth's gravity anymore. My arms shake.

Then, miraculously, it creaks open. A little redhead looks at me. Not Clary, but looks so terribly like her that I almost, just almost, call her name. Her eyes are parakeet green, hair burning red. Already, her palm is runed with the Shadowhunter eye. Despite everything, despite the pain, despite the dread, I smile. All that is on her face is wonder - pure, unaffected wonder. Her mouth forms one wonderful word: wings.

"Maxine?" a familiar voice comes from within the Institute. "Maxine, come back here."

"Maxine," I whisper breathlessly. My daughter. Maxine.

The redhead doesn't move.

Footsteps near us and then the real Clary does appear. Her hair is tangled and she looks so...different. Tired, sad, angry, still beautiful. Most of all, when she sees me, fear.

Fear.

Can you believe it? I think, bordering on hysteria. Fear?

"J-Jace?" She says my name as if she doesn't believe what's she seeing. "Is that really you?"

I don't even have the energy to nod. She kneels and cups my face, lifting it to look at her. "I'm not dreaming, am I?"

"I'm so..." What was the point? I say it anyway. "I'm so sorry."

That's when tears begin falling from her face. "Jace. Jace. I... Maxine, go inside, would you? Make sure your brother doesn't come of his room."

Maxine nods and scampers off on her toddler legs, and I stare after her. "She...?"

"I'll explain later. Come on, let's get you inside," she says and draws a strength rune quickly on my bare shoulder. Clary lets me lean on her as she helps me up and I feel the strain in her muscles from the weight of both my nearly limp body and irretractable wings.

The door closes on its own after us. The journey up the spiraling stairs is absolute torture, with my legs giving out every other step and the blood threatening to make us both slip. When we finally arrive at the top, Clary almost needs to carry me to her room and hardly can keep me from falling onto the ground. The bed now feels like clouds.

"I'll be back as soon as I can with bandages," she whispers, but I catch her wrist with my hand.

"Don't. Don't leave me," I manage, eyes fluttering. "Stay with me."

She smiles, and I suddenly don't regret any of the suffering I've endured the time separate from her. She caresses my face with the gentlest touch and I close my eyes, leaning into her hand. "You know I'll never leave you, Jace. You know I'll always be here."

There are lines on her face that I have never seen before. They are not lines of worry, but age. No, she will not always be here.

But she is here now, and that's what matters.

Clary takes out her stele and start painting on my skin. It stings, but I relax. Swirls, patterns, curves, pictures. I'm nearly asleep by the time she finishes working on me, but I don't dare miss a single second with her. Not now, no. I can't afford to.

"Can you fold in your wings?" she asks in a soft, tender voice. "I want to see if I can heal them."

With a groan, I prop myself up with my elbow, and then fall down, drained by the simple movement. I'm useless.

But Clary smiles at my effort and reaches her arms below me, slowly turning me onto my stomach. It takes seven tremulous attempt to put my wings back into my body, and by the end of it, both of us are completely exhausted. I'm panting, blinking sweat from my eyes, and I can feel blood flowing down my back. Clary's mentally exhausted, rubbing her eyes and not able to hold back yawns. Still, we come out triumphant.

I turn onto my back again, and that's when the door opens.

"What the fu-" Jonathan's eyes enlarge to the point I'm afraid it will pop out. His face darkens and he suddenly becomes cold. "So you sent Maxy to distract me, yeah? Taking advantage of her Angel abilities?"

"Jon-" Clary begins.

"I'm reporting him to the Clave." He slams the door.

It's silent for a moment, and then Clary bolts up from the bed and follows her son. I close my eyes. I can't deal with the remorse. Recapture I can deal with, but not this.

So after another second, I get up, break the window, release my wings again, and fly.

Fly.

3.1

Idris is flattened.

Destroyed.

Demolished.

Razed.

By me.

Fifty years ago. So long. Too long.

...

3.2

Maxine was immortal. Like me. Can you believe it? I learned that yesterday.

Clarissa Herondale is not.

Clarissa Herondale.

She looks so pale. So pale, on that blindingly white bed. I walk towards her without a sound and sit at the edge. There is no one with her to watch her die, no one but me.

Jonathan died for me that day, and with his looks nearly identitical to mine, the Clave ate it up and believed me to be dead. An Angel, dead. What stupidity. What gullibility.

Maxine killed herself after discovering her immortality. She didn't want to be like me.

Who would?

And Clary's dying.

I'm no Angel.

I can't revive her.

She wouldn't want me to, anyway.

I slip my arm under her head and lift her up. Can I hug her? Am I allowed to?

I answer my own question when I embrace her, kissing her silvery-white hair and letting tears freefall. "Clary."

There's no response. Why had I expected one?

"Clary, please."

I do not want to be an Angel.

"Don't. Don't die."

I want to be Jace Herondale.

"I'm begging you."

I don't need to be a Shadowhunter.

I don't need to have golden skin and golden eyes and golden hair.

I don't need to be rich and famous.

I don't need to be a hero.

I don't need to love anyone.

Anyone but Clary.

"Stay with me, Clary, stay with me."

Stay with me.

...

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-RtMiP