SERENDIPITY (REWRITTEN)

Full Summary: When the opportunity to play Sherlock with Isabelle Lightwood becomes available Clary Morgenstern jumps at the chance. But when discovering more about Max Lightwood's death means learning more about her own family and a late night robbing turns into a friendship with a golden boy hunting down a murderer with a vendetta, will she discover she's bitten off more than she can chew and will Jace accept his serendipity? Clace. AU/AH

CHAPTER 1: THE AGE OF UNDERSTATEMENT

'And there's affection to rent

The age of the understatement

Before the attraction ferments'

- The Last Shadow Puppets, The Age of Understatement

Clary Morgenstern was not rich. She couldn't say that she had ever had to work hard for money and she never had to sit outside her local McDonalds begging for a few cents because everything she ever needed was a credit card swipe away, but she wasn't rich. She wasn't exactly poor and sometimes the line between lower-upper class and upper-upper class blurred, but she definitely wasn't rich – at least not by her standards. But whoever was trying so desperately to get into her room seemed to disagree.

In all her years living in New York she never had any experiences with robbers, neither did her friends, family or family-friends so when she woke up to the sound of someone tinkering with her window lock she didn't know exactly how to act. Was she supposed to be scared for her life or pissed that some asshole woke her up? Who the hell robs a house at 11 pm? Clearly, this thief wasn't the smartest tool in the shed.

You see, ever since a disasterly construction error during the renovation of the house, Clary had 'owned' the entire second and third floor whilst her brother, Jonathan, got the fourth and the basement (why he would want or need a basement, Clary didn't want to know). And so, she got the ceiling as well as all the walls knocked down, turned the room into a retro looking living area that opened up into a bedroom which could only be described as great gatsby-esque, a slightly larger than life nook for her art supplies that was slowly and unconsciously expanding and a lush en-suite bathroom fit for a queen. It was perfect. Keyword: 'was'. But now Clary was beginning to see the fault in her seemingly flawless room design. There were no doors (except for the bathroom door and the door to the hallway, of course). The plan was supposed to be open living – fresh, new and funky – but as the night went on it was beginning to seem more like 'open for stealing'. If someone were to try and murder her, for example, it wouldn't exactly be Mission Impossible. Even though she knew anxiety and paranoia were shrouding every logical thought she had, Clary couldn't help but feel the slightest bit scared.

So she did what any normal, sane person would do.

She prepared for battle.

As quietly as possible, her hand roamed for something to use as a weapon with her eyes trained on the hands that were fumbling with the lock and she almost screamed in delight when she felt the cool, cold metal of her reading lamp. Perfect, she thought. Guessing that the intruder wouldn't be able to see her short self since the living room window only took up a small portion of space, she hopped out of her lush bed and speed-crawled across the soft grey carpet before rolling behind the plump brown couch, her lamp poised for action.

A click sounded through the room. "Finally," a deep, honey-like voice whispered. A guy. Clary wanted to lift her head to see the face of the beautiful voice but decided against it. The dude could be armed, she thought. And so she waited, relying on her hearing to decide when to 'attack'. The burglar groaned quietly as he lifted himself into the room closing the window behind him. One step. Two steps. Three. And before he had any time to rifle through her sock drawer she pounced.

The redhead was no G.I Joe or James Bond, had little to no training in self-defense and had the bodily strength of a hamster on steroids but despite her clear disadvantage she was doing surprisingly well. Clary had jumped onto the robbers back and proceeded to whack him with her lamp. Probably hard enough to draw blood through his black ski mask. How Jonathan hadn't woken up through all the commotion was a mystery as the thief had bumped into every object in the room, smashing a few in the process. "Stop! For the love of God, please stop!" He screamed and despite his request she continued her assault on his head. Unfortunately, Clary's attack didn't last for as long as she would have hoped for as before she could say Jack Robinson, Clary was being thrown down onto her couch as her lamp went smashing through the window, her body flat against the sofa with his flush against hers the thief holding her arms down and staring down at her. Golden eyes.

The man was panting over her and was probably sweating but still hadn't removed his mask. Clary wondered if the rest of him was as perfect as his voice and eyes.

"Get off of me!" Clary's voice was weak to even her own ears so she doubted that she was doing a good job convincing the robber, especially when she said, "I've already called the police and they'll be here any minute now so unless you plan on spending your weekend in jail I suggest you get off. Now." Despite her threat, the golden eyed boy didn't look the slightest bit worried.

"I will. Only if you promise not to do that again." He took a labored breath between every few words and even though the little voice at the back of her head told her to beat the shit out of him, she nodded. If he wanted to kill me he would have done it already. Right?, she thought. Slowly he lifted himself up before standing up completely, his hands raised in the international sign for 'I surrender'. Before getting up herself, Clary looked around and inspected the damage. Everything was a mess. The chairs had been turned over, all her art supplies had been knocked over and there was a huge crack in her window.

"It's a mess," she said more to herself than to the golden-eyed boy.

"I know," he voiced warily, "And I'm sorry." Clary had to tilt her head up slightly to look into his eyes (seeing that she was a little over 5'3 and he was practically a giant) but found them to be hard and emotionless instead of sorry.

"You should be." Her voice came out harder than she intended. "But, what I want to know is why you choose my house in particular - I'm not that rich."

He let out a humorless laugh and she saw something akin the playfulness dance in his eyes to match the smirk that played on his lips, "I'm not that rich." He laughed again more to himself than to Clary. "Any idiot could tell you're rich – it's in the way you walk, speak, look". Clary was beginning to dislike this guy more and more as the night went on.

"Oh, and what do I look like, asshole?" Who does this guy think he is? Breaking into my house and judging my appearance?

"Well Red-"

"-Don't call me Red."

He continued, "Look at what you're wearing and tell me that that outfit isn't worth more than this room."

Clary couldn't answer that question. Even though her simple white shirt and black jeans looked quite cheap she knew it probably cost more than her whole house, let alone her room. Her brother had always bought her clothes, he just asked what colour and what sizes and suddenly there was a box full of clothes outside her door and even though neither of them worked, she knew that Jonathan spent money like it grew on trees. Ever since the death of her father and the disappearance of her mother, Jonathan Fray had been an anti-social shut in only leaving his room to say 'good morning' and 'goodnight' to Clary. There was a time when he was different. When he could be the center of attention at any event and almost seemed to radiate confidence but because of the unfortunate incidents, he was no longer the Jonathan that everyone knew and loved.

Clary looked the golden eyed boy up and down, stopping at his shoes, and found his snide comment to be rather hypocritical.

"Well Mr. Timberlands," She clearly wasn't as creative as him when it came to nicknames and they both openly cringed at her comment, "I don't think you're one to judge. Your outfit doesn't exactly scream homeless."

"Who said I was homeless? How could someone as stunningly attractive as me be homeless?" Clary rolled her eyes and let the obviously self-centered comment go.

"Why else would you be robbing someone's home?"

"I wasn't robbing."

"Then what were you doing?"

"I was looking." Jace averted his gaze, rubbing his hand behind his neck.

"For what?"

"For someone." Clary was becoming awfully tired of his cryptic answers and was going to, again, let it go but a more stubborn part of Clary felt like she needed to know.

"I haven't got time for this – You can either tell me who exactly you're looking for or I'll call the police, right now." Clary pulled her phone out of her jean pocket.

"Well Gingersnap," He said in what she found to be a condescending voice, "it would take about 15 minutes for any police officer to get here, so lets I left right now, what would make them believe you?"

She smirked and voiced, "I'm Clary Morgenstern, any police department would be crazy not listen to me."

What she could see of Jace went deathly pale. "You're Valentine Morgenstern's daughter?"

"Yeah, asshat, I am. What makes that so hard to believe?"

And suddenly it was like he was talking at her not to her, reliving past memories. He stuttered, "He just told me that you were - I mean his description of you was differe-"

"You knew my father?" She asked incredulously.

"Red, I know your father."

"Why are you using present tense?"

"Why are you using past?"

"Because my father is dead." She deadpanned.

"When did he die?"

She swallowed the growing lump in her throat and said, "4 years ago."

"Clary, I spoke to your dad two months ago. Valentine Morgenstern is alive."

And suddenly Clary wasn't quite aware of what was going on anymore. How could Valentine be alive when she saw him being buried? It couldn't be. He had to be lying. But some part of her believed the golden eyed boy, some part of her believed that her father was still alive. The thoughts whirled and spun in her head until she felt herself falling into a darkness. Falling, falling, falling.

Clay woke on the stiff cushions of her couch wondering how she got there before remembering the night's events. Oh. She was ready to pass it all up as it a terrible dream when she saw that her room was fixed; the chairs were turned over properly, her paintings no longer drooped down miserably on the wall and her art supplies all looked to be in the correct places. It was neat. Too neat. She looked towards her smashed window and was faced with the notion that what happened was very much real. Her father was alive. Clary didn't know whether or not she wanted to believe it. Sure, it would be great if he was alive but there was still the possibility that her robber had lied to her but when she had looked into those impossibly golden eyes she didn't see any sign that he was lying – just sadness. Towards her or her situation, she didn't know. But how could he be alive? It just wasn't possible. The police had spent months trying to figure out what happened to the infamous Mr. Morgenstern when he went missing, treating it like an episode of Scooby-Doo and when they did find his dead body via an anonymous tip, they treated his funeral like some kind of achievement for the police department.

Clary was brought out of her thoughts by the vibrating in her pocket. Pulling out her phone, 'Isabelle' flashed across the screen. She had met Isabelle in English weeks ago when she had joined Heatherwood High School after being homeschooled for eight years and the girls had immediately hit it off despite their obvious differences. She swiped right to answer the call, happy to have a distraction.

"Clary!" Isabelle started, "You'll never guess what happened."

"Was it so important that you had to call me at," she pulled the phone away from her, "3 am."

"Actually, yes it was. I've got news."

"Do tell." Clary replied absentmindedly. She wondered whether or not she should tell Isabelle about the robbing. Clary was quite new at the whole 'friendship' thing – did a robber telling her that her father was alive qualify as important news?

"You know how I was wondering about Max's death the other day?" Clary knew Isabelle was trying to be strong, but she could still the waver in her voice that could always be heard when she talked about her little brother's death – which wasn't often. For the Lightwood's, Max's death was a topic so rarely touched that any mention of it could send the whole room quiet. The little boy had died four years ago and though everyone seemed to believe that the Lightwood's knew nothing about his death, Clary knew that something about it was more than off.

Isabelle continued, "Well, I think I know how to find out who did it. Aline Penhallow has this book type list with all the guys she's dated and all the girls she hates and I think Max's murderer might be in it." Despite having gone to the school for a few weeks, Clary knew that Aline Penhallow, Camille Belcourt and Helen Blackthorn ruled to school. They had an atmosphere around them that sometimes seem to scream 'scram, nerds'. They would walk down the halls in all their high heel glory acting like they knew all your secrets, and they probably did.

"How do you know?" Clary questioned.

"I don't know. I just have a feeling."

Whilst 'a feeling' might not be enough for any detective or police officer, Clary felt like she owed it to Isabelle to help her, no matter how 'ridiculous' it seemed.

"Okay, then. How do we get the book?"

"That's where you come in. Aline keeps the book at home but we need it now because Kaelie will be taking it back to her place after school today and trying to get into her house is practically impossible."

Clary knew Kaelie was rich even after a few weeks of going to school with her. Kaelie knew she was rich and didn't mind bragging so it would make perfect sense for her to have the same amount of security as The White House.

"So?" Clary asked.

"So, we break into her house tonight. As in right now."

"Isabelle, that's illegal."

"So is stealing library books, I don't see that stopping you."

"I've never stolen a library book in my life." Isabelle didn't reply for a few seconds before Clary blurted out, "Okay, maybe I have, but stealing a book and breaking and entering are two completely different crimes. I won't do it Iz."

Clary ended the conversation knowing she wasn't going to do it – so how did she end up standing outside Aline's apartment with Isabelle at her side 30 minutes later?

Clary looked up at the building. It was becoming clear that Aline wasn't as rich as her minions that followed her around at school. It was a copper colored building in a more run down part of the city rather than a grand mansion that looked like it belonged in Beverly Hills.

"Clary, look here." Isabelle said pointing at a fire escape on the side of the building, "You go up. I'll keep watch."

"Why me?"

"Because you're less noticeable." Clary wasn't sure if she was supposed to flattered or offended.

With an aggravated sigh, she sped over to the old looking ladder, trying to pull herself up making the least noise as possible. She focused all her energy on being fast, dangerous and Russian spy-like - she wasn't expecting her thoughts to turn her into James Bond or anything but they definitely help put her in the right frame of mind. By the time she had reached Aline's already open window, she was sweating like a pig in her all black joggers Isabelle had made her wear and was ready to give up but she couldn't go all the way up there and come back down empty-handed. So she swiftly opened the window up an inch more to fit herself in.

When she had regained her bearings, she took a moment to look around the room. She could barely see in the pitch black dark but she could tell the room wasn't big, but it wasn't exactly small and it wasn't cheap looking, but it didn't exactly scream rich either. What she did know was this it was going to be hell trying to find anything in Aline's room. Everything was everywhere and Clary wouldn't consider herself a neat freak, or anything but it was getting hard to simply look at the room. She sighed quietly and took a few steps into the room before bumping into something hard, solid and tall.

Before she could fall straight on her ass, muscular arms caught her. Golden eyes she'd seen earlier that night stared down into her green ones and a smooth, honey-like voice whispered,

"Red?"

Is Clary's father really alive? Will Isabelle ever find out who killed Max? What type of secrets are the Lightwoods hiding from the world? What is Jace's connection with Valentine? Why was Jace in Aline's room?

About 4 months ago I posted around 3 chapters of this fanfiction but under a different username before deleting it - this is the (not really) new, improved, reviewed version of Serendipity and I hope you all enjoy it.

Thanks for reading and please review!

- Lee