So this is just a little thing i wrote about Clary and Jace meeting and saving them from themselves. But if you want i could make it more...
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Cassandra Clare. I am no where near awesome enough to be her.
To love is to destroy. Was a father supposed to burn that into his son? Was every child supposed to live by that sentence? It didn't seem right. He had seen shows on TV. He had read stories. He had pieced together what a father was supposed to do. What a child was supposed to believe. Fathers taught their sons how to throw a football. How to hold a baseball bat. Fathers helped their sons build tree houses and wrestled with them. Fathers did not hit their son when they spilled Koo-laid. Fathers did not yell when their son dropped a fork. Children were supposed to look up to their fathers. Like Superman, or firefighters. Dads were supposed to be the heroes. Children were only supposed to be bothered by what toy to play with.
He had it differently. He feared his father. The screaming, the pain...it was all there when he closed his eyes. The nightmares had gone away long ago, but the pain never leaves. He was used to different kinds of pain. The physical pain, the mental, the pain that came from loss. It was not an unfamiliar word, pain.
It wasn't always that way. He used to have a beautiful mother, Celine. She had his golden hair, and soft brown eyes. Her smile could brighten the bottom of the deepest trenches in the ocean. She was kind, humble, and loyal. His family used to be complete. But when his mother lost her battle with cancer, his father became acquainted with alcohol. Stephen came home drunk, yelling and swinging.
He didn't like to remember it. He didn't want any reminder of his old life. At 18, he moved across the country to New York. He built walls, became hard as stone. Sometimes he wasn't even sure if he had a heart. He didn't give the homeless a second glance, never even thought about charity, and went through girls like meals. Alec called him "The King of One-Nigh Stands". He was cold, insensitive, sarcastic. He was living in an apartment, working at Fox's Music Shop. He picked up a lot of girls there.
Yes, he had done a good job at becoming a new person. He had even changed his name-Jonathan Herondale had become Jace Wayland.
...
How could he have done that? She asked herself for the hundredth time. But no matter how many times she repeated it in her head, she never had an answer. But it led to another question-How could she let him? Her story wasn't as bad as some, but she wasn't going to let it get any worse. Her life wasn't going to become one of beatings and bruises. Her hand unconsciously went to the one already blossoming on her cheek.
It all started when he had come into her life. She used to have it all. A nice home, family, friends. But then the accident. Her father, Luke, had passed away when she was ten. He was the best dad anyone could ever ask for. Her mother had said she had his smile. But when he died, everything changed. Her mother became reserved-always painting. But instead of the vibrant, incredible works she used to make, her brush painted melancholy pictures. She wouldn't shop or go to work. Clary took over.
She sold some of her mother's paintings to make money. It's not like her mother noticed, or would've cared if she had. And there were always buyers. She would do the shopping-groceries, clothes, school supplies. She walked to school, her escape. Her best friends, Simon and Maia, knew about her situation and always did their best to help. They tried to get Clary to come to parties and to the mall, but she never could. She had to take care of her mother.
One night, thing changed yet again. She walked through the front door and immediately set to work on dinner. Once a TV dinner was heated up, she made the dreaded journey up the stairs, down the hall, and to the last door on the left. Her hand settled on the cool knob and she stepped inside, expecting to see the haunched over form of her mother in the corner. But all she saw was an empty stool and a blank easel. Feeling numb, she ran downstairs, carelessly tossing the TV dinner on the counter. Her mother's keys were still there, as was the old BMW she drove. Clary knew there was no one she could call, and flipped on the TV to get her mind off of it.
Two hours later, she was startled by the opening and closing of the front door. She shot off the couch and met her mother in the foyer. She looked tired and her hair was a mess. Dark circles lay under her eyes. Jocelyn Fray was a mess.
Without another word, her mom went upstairs and didn't come down until the next morning. She actually sat at the table and had coffee while Clary picked at her cerial. Unable to eat, she finally asked her mother what had happened. Jocelyn explained that she was going to stop wallowing and start getting out more. She said that she had met someone the night before, and was going to meet him again that night. Clary didn't like the sound of it at all.
It was that way for a while. Until Jocelyn brought the "mystery man" home one night. He was tall and broad, with silver hair and cold eyes. He looked at Clary's mom like she was a possession, but she didn't seem to notice. He began to visit every night. When Jocelyn wasn't around, he spoke harshly to Clary. When she was, he simply ignored her.
It wasn't long before he was living with them. The harsh words became yelling. But Jocelyn was blind to all this. She tried to get Clary to call him by his name, Valentine, but she always reffered to him as him. Last night, he had crossed the line. All she had done was knock over her glass of water, and he had snapped. He yelled at her, using crude language and telling her she was useless, that no one wanted her. Then he'd hit her. Punched her right in the cheek. She knew she had to leave when she turned and saw her mother standing there, watching with emotionless eyes.
And so she went.
...
He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt more over his head, trying to stay under the edge of the buildings for protection from the rain. All around him, men and women in business attire bustled about, homeless slouched in the alleys, and kids made their way to school. But he didn't care. As long as he got where he was going.
That is, until he ran into someone. The person was small, but had been running. The force knocked him back, and the girl, he guessed, fell onto her backside. He started to tell her off when he actually looked at her. She was small and petite, like a fairy. Her red curls hung soaked and limp down her back. Her clothes were drenched too-simple black skinny jeans, Converse, and a green tee. A black jacket hung on her shoulders. The purple bruise on the right side of her face startled him, but not as much as her eyes, filled with fear.
The most beautiful, vibrant emerald eyes Jace had ever seen.
...
Clary was in a hurry. The farther she got, the better. She didn't know where she was going, and didn't really care. She just had to get away.
She had packed nothing. No clothes, no food. She was going to start from scratch. And if that meant being homeless, so be it. If that meant joining a gang, fine. If that meant dying...what did she have to live for anyways? Valentine was right. No one wanted her.
Except maybe Simon and Maia. But she hadn't told them she was running. She knew they didn't love her enough to look for her. But that was okay.
New York City was huge and packed. Everyone on the streets crowded under the protection of the building hangovers. But since she was so small, Clary was left out in the rain. But she didn't mind-the rain felt good. And no one could tell she was crying.
Crying? Why on earth was she crying? She had to be strong now. New York City was tough, and that's what she would be. Luke had taught her a bit about self defense. Maybe she could find an underground fighting network and get some tips. She was never much of a girly girl, and was strong for someone of her size. She would survive.
But she didn't get off to a good start. By the time she saw the tall figure in the way of her jogging form it was too late. They collided and she landed hard on the sidewalk. The man took a few steps back and looked up. Clary's eyes widened. He was beautiful-someone she would've loved to draw. She could picture him with angel wings, but that's not what he looked like now. His amber eyes were furious, his chiseled jaw set. His blonde curls were almost hidden by the hood he wore, but not completely. She shrank back.
But then she really looked at him. Their eyes met.
He had the most beautiful, vibrant golden eyes Clary had ever seen.
...
As the two gazed at each other, they both knew. Their lives were about to change. For the better.
So If ya'll think I should, I'll make this into a real story. I have a few ideas, but I don't know what to do with them. So give me some feedback and let me know what you think I should do. Thanks a bunch! BTW City of Fallen Angels was AMAZING to the FREAKIN degree! But it left me hanging! UGH! I can't wait for City of Lost Souls!