Hangover

Summary: "Oh, Jace, what am I going to do with you?" "I can think of sheveral thingsh…none of them rated under PG13." Jace comes home to the Institute completely and utterly drunk. What IS Clary going to do with him? JxC Oneshot. /SPOILERS FOR COG/

By Sienna Rhiannon Chase

Jace had never enjoyed getting drunk.

Maybe he did it to forget, to forget Clary, to forget wounds from a recent battle, to forget Valentine, to forget his troubled life.

But was it worth the feeling of vulnerability? Was it worth letting the real, scared, humble Jace be shown to the world? Was it worth slurring his words, stumbling, appearing to the general public as a homeless stoner?

Maybe, maybe not.

And what did he need to forget now? Clary wasn't his sister. He hadn't been in a battle since, well, the one with Sebastian—or Jonathan Morgenstern, the demonic true son of Valentine, who was himself dead—one more worry gone. His life was good, or as good as life could get when you were an orphaned teenager who killed ravenous demons from hell for a living.

And who had died two weeks ago, stabbed in the heart by the man who'd raised him.

He'd died—he'd been in the dark, alone, with no one to comfort him from the agony that was his. No one—nothing, except the pain. He'd thought then all was lost—Valentine was unstoppable. Jace had tried, and failed, and the thought of that failure was almost as bad as his physical pain.

Who wouldn't want to forget that?

But there was more to it. The Angel Raziel had saved him. Actually, Clary had saved him.

Clary, his own angel—and wasn't she really, considering the angel blood Valentine had used to experiment on her before she was even born? Wasn't she really an angel?

For who else, when presented with the ultimate boon, would choose to save him, to have the wish granted for the benefit of another?

Now he was sounding kind of cheesy. But it was true. Clary had asked for him, had asked for him to be brought back to life. Not for unlimited riches or fame or power, but for him. Jace Wayland, Jonathan Herondale, Jace Lightwood, Jonathan Morgenstern—whoever he really was.

And her voice had brought him out of the darkness.

She'd been the first thing he'd seen—the first thing, and the only thing he'd wanted to see. Her fiery hair framing her small face, silhouetted in the gleam of the stars that burned over the battlefield of Brocelind Plain.

And he'd been reborn into a world where he could truly love her. Where it wasn't forbidden, wasn't sickening to others. Where he could really be happy…and make her happy.

So what was wrong with a night on the town?

Nothing, Jace told himself as he downed another Scotch in one experienced gulp. Nothing. Other people did it all the time. Granted, those people were all over the age of twenty-one, but after what Jace had been through—after what he'd seen—wasn't he worthy enough to drink a beer?

"Anozzer one," he mumbled, pushing his glass towards the bartender. "Gimme anozzer."

He wasn't feeling well—sort of nauseous, actually. Why not wash that away with a Budweiser?

Why not?

Jace could think of a hundred reasons, most of them ingrained in him by Hodge or Maryse. His blood alcohol level would get too high. He was already slurring, and was sure he would stumble and trip if he moved—his normal easy, leonine grace marred by the intoxicant racing through his veins, messing with his brain. Easy prey for a wandering demon—or for any of the nasty things lurking in the alleys of Manhattan. Renegade vampires. Oni demons. Rapists.

He, Jace Wayland (or whatever the heck it was), at the mercy of a mundane?

Unthinkable. Impossible.

How could he even think of it? The drink must be doing worse things to his mind than he thought.

Jace checked, surreptitiously, that the many weapons he carried on his person were still in place. His fingers were clumsy, reaching out to take the Scotch—he doubted they'd even hold a dagger, much less a seraph blade…

Enough, he told himself. What will Clary say? Isabelle? Alec? And Maryse—she'll be furious. God, can't I enjoy a night by myself without someone getting mad at me?

You didn't have to go and get shamelessly drunk, the voice in the back of his head reminded him.

Jace merely rolled his eyes, causing the bartender to look at him anxiously.

"I think you've had enough," said the barkeep—what was his name—Tom—Jason—some utterly mundane name…

And in what bar, pray tell, would the bartender actually be preventing you from getting wasted?

Jace could think of two. The Hunter's Moon—despite having a lycanthrope for an almost-father-in-law, wimpy werewolves still had, in his mind, a nice ring to it—and this, as previously stated, utterly mundane place. The Lightning Bolt. If Jace had been the owner, he'd have named it—

But Jace wasn't the owner. He was a Shadowhunter—above it.

So why the heck was he sitting there on the barstool, getting absolutely hammered?

Jace got up, ignoring the protests from Tom or Jason or whomever when he failed to produce money, and stumbled gracelessly out the door, pursued by the shouts of the bartender.

Bartender, schmartender. Jace giggled softly to himself.

Wait, what?

Stop. Stop it now, Jace ordered his brain as he staggered through the still-populated—even at three in the morning—streets of New York City. It won't get the better of me!

Jace felt relief when he made it to the formidable doors of the Institute—Jace, who never felt fear. Jace, relieved to make it safely home after a fifteen-minute walk?

What was the drink doing to him?

Jace shoved the matter from his mind, hoping to lose it in the headache that would be his in the morning. He put one hand on the door and whispered, "I'm Jashe Wayland, and I live here, sho if you could lemme in…" The bleary, slurred noise shocked him, coming out of his own mouth, as the doors creaked open like a scene from a horror movie.

What would Valentine have said?

He would've beaten him, most likely, for coming home in such a state. Would've said he was a shame on the great name of Wayland…

But Jace wasn't really a Wayland—though he'd spent his entire life in their country manor. Wasn't a Morgenstern—though he'd been raised by one of them. Wasn't a Lightwood, even—though they were the only family he really had. He was a Herondale…and what did that mean, really? Nine letters—nothing at all. He'd only known his grandmother, Imogen, the previous Inquisitor—and frankly, he'd rather he hadn't. His father had died before he was born, and so had his mother—he'd only lived because Valentine, grotesquely, had cut him out of his mother's stomach. The thought made Jace turn green. He may have angel blood—Sebastian may have been the one with the demon blood in him. But Jace—the way he was born—the way he was brought up—didn't that make him a monster too?

What was he thinking? He wasn't a monster—he was the opposite, if anything, with the blood of the Angel Ithuriel running full strength through his veins. It was the alcohol that was making him do this, he thought, as he stepped through the door silently. And stopped once he saw who stood there.

"Jace?" asked Clary incredulously, taking his dirty, disheveled person in as she crossed her arms.

"Clary," Jace said incomprehensibly, and squinted when he saw two of her. "And…anozzer Clary?" There were many things one could say about Clary—but not that she had any similarities to Dolly the sheep…

"Oh, Jace." Clary's eyes were sad—and it was his fault. He'd hurt her, coming in dead beat like this. She knew he only drunk when things were going bad—and he knew in turn she'd automatically assume it was her he was trying to wash away.

"Clary, and Ozzer Clary," he slurred. "I wuv you. I wuv you dis much." He used his hands to indicate how much—evidently he was unable to just say, "I know. I'm stone drunk. It's not your fault, and I'm going to go have a cold shower now."

Clary and Other Clary raised their eyebrows, their doubts obviously relieved by his childish display of affection. They sighed. "Oh, Jace," they repeated. "What am I going to do with you?"

He smiled blearily, never losing the opportunity to be witty. "I can think of sheveral thingsh…none of them rated under PG-13. But Ozzer Clary, she'd hafta go away. I only love my Clary."

Clary's face softened, and she came forward to put an arm around him. "C'mon, Jace, let's get you some coffee. We can—um—do the other things later."

"Whatever you shay," said Jace amiably, and followed the redhead into the kitchen, where, just his luck, his adoptive sister Isabelle was waiting, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand like it was her electrum whip.

"What happened to you?" she asked angrily, whacking said spoon against the counter so hard it splintered. "What bar did you trash this time? Since you obviously can't go and do that to your father-in-law's place like you did a month ago."

"One," said Jace, feeling like the world was blurring around him. "Luke ishn't my fazzer-in-law. Two, I dink you know what happened to me. Three, I didn't trash the bar…I jusht didn't pay."

Isabelle crossed her arms, much like Clary had done. Jace could safely say he was glad there were not two of the deadly Lightwood girl. Then he would be in deep trouble. "Ugh, Jace, I can't believe you. You actually go out drinking to celebrate, but you go alone. You moron…sit down, and I'll make you coffee."

"No-o-o-o," Jace moaned. He knew enough, even in his helpless state, that coffee made by Isabelle would probably land him in the hospital. "I wann Clary to do it. She's my friend. But not Ozzer Clary. She's a copycat."

Clary smiled, amused despite herself. "Okay, Jace, I'll make your coffee." She did so, and handed it to him with a flourish. "If this doesn't make you better, I will bodily stick you in a cold shower."

"You c'n take it wiv me…" suggested Jace. The coffee was helping, somewhat. Now there were only one and a half Clarys, and still just one Isabelle, thank God. If Alec and Magnus happened to come in and there were two of them, Jace thought he would either bang his head against the table, hard, or say, "Is this a party? If it is, I want to know why Magnus isn't throwing it. I'm not suited to the social lifestyle, nor to copious amounts of glitter." Of course, in his present state, it'd probably come out as, "Partysh muh ugh wuh glizzersh," and he would be ridiculed. Not that he wouldn't be, already, but still.

"Jace," Clary said, her expression so tender Jace wanted to pull her to him and kiss her passionately. Her eyes glinted, and he leaned back unconsciously. "Shut up."

"Whatever you wann," he replied easily. "I wann go to bed." He leaned back and yawned, his eyes beginning to close.

"If you suggest we do that together too, I will cheerfully slap you," said Clary sweetly, pulling him up with surprising strength and dragging him over to his bedroom. He was pleased to note that Other Clary chose to disappear at that moment. "Now get in there and sleep."

"I need a bedtime shtory," whined Jace childishly. Inwardly, he was shocked—freaked out, almost, that he was saying all these things—and yet, his mouth appeared to have a mind of its own, powered by whiskey.

"All right," Clary said agreeably, waiting until he'd settled into bed before she sat down next to him. "Once upon a time, there was a very naughty boy named Jace."

"A Shadowhunter boy," he checked, mirroring the night he had told her a bedtime story of his own.

"Naturally," Clary confirmed. "He was always getting into mischief, but everybody loved him, including his—his girlfriend, Clary. One day, he was very, very naughty. He went out downtown, and he, um, he—he left from his friends when they were at the mall. His friends, Izzy, Alec, and Clary, were really, really scared. They didn't know where he'd gone, or why he had. They just knew that Jace, whom they loved very much, was lost."

"Did he make them shad?" asked Jace unhappily, sensing that the story was either a guilt trip or a true, although childish, version of how Clary had felt that night.

"He made them sad, especially Clary. Clary loved Jace very much, and she was scared for him all alone on the streets—wandering—alone—alone..." Clary's voice trembled at the end, and it made Jace's heart ache. She'd really been that worried about him? Just five, maybe six hours he'd been gone, and she'd been frightened?

Jace was now wholeheartedly wishing he had not gone to the Lightning Bolt, for reasons more than his pending hangover.

"I'm shorry, Clary," he mumbled, turning over and reaching out a hand to her. "I didn't mean to make you shcared. I wash happy—I thought you'd know—but you couldn't have, becaushe—becaushe I alwaysh drink when I'm shad—and you thought I was shad, becaushe of you, so you were shad. I didn't mean to, Clary. I'm shorry."

Clary took his hand gently. He was baring his soul—as much as he could in his present state—showing his vulnerability and sensitivity. He wasn't hiding behind his sarcastic, arrogant, yet lovable shell—he was showing her what he truly felt—albeit in a childish way, but what could you expect from someone so hammered, honestly? "I'm not sad anymore, Jace," she murmured softly.

"The shignificance of your ozzer feelingsh palesh in comparishon to the overwhelming love all women feel when they shee me," he thought he said (an impressive remark for one so drunk!), but then Clary's mouth was on his, kissing him sweetly, quietly, but it was still full of fire—fire from his soul, fizzling through his nerves, even in that gentle kiss.

And then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

Jace sighed in the dark. It'd almost been worth it, getting wasted; seeing two of Clary, and getting lectured at by Isabelle, and getting told the whole guilt-inspiring story—it'd been worth it for that one kiss.

But, by the Angel, was he going to have a hangover.

And there you have it! It turned out a lot more angsty that it was supposed to be—but boy, oh boy, was drunk Jace entertaining to write (he's entertaining to write in any case). And I'd have to say, Ozzer Clary went through some impressive character development –cough- Liked it? Hated it? Tell me!

Sienna