AN: Based on the following CP2 excerpt:

"As soon as she'd been strong enough, she had set herself to bring him tea he did not want, and books that he did, and harried him, in and out of the library, and demanded his help with training. She told Charlotte to stop treating him like glass that would break and to send him out into the city to fight, as he had been sent before, with Gabriel or Gideon instead of Jem. And Charlotte had done it, uneasily, but Will had come back from them bloody and bruised, but with his eyes alive and alight."

Or as it's called in my documents: Wessa angstfest.

It rained incessantly for the past fortnight. Grey, dismal, foggy London. As if the city wept for Jem in a way that Will no longer could.

He wasn't cried out. No-in a way, this was much worse. Losing his parabatai was the worst pain he'd ever felt, worse even than the pain of losing Ella, of needing to get away from his family as fast as he could-though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do-to be apart from them as they grieved the same person. Will lost his parabatai, but not to death. He was living-they both were-and yet the thought didn't make Will rejoice, as he knew it should.

He couldn't eat, he couldn't drink. He could barely read; sometimes his eyes moved over the page uncomprehendingly for hours on end. At that point, he would shut the book and bury himself under the covers and close his eyes and imagine himself in a world with James Carstairs still in it.

Then he would stop himself and remember that yes, James Carstairs was still in the world. Still breathing and walking and thinking. Everything that Will should have been grateful for. But being in a world with Jem in it was not the same as being a part of Jem's world.

So Will couldn't cry. He would walk the halls like a ghost. He would peek into the library, and if it was empty, he would flop down at a window seat and try to lose himself in words. He would train every morning, but it was always a reminder of his own loneliness. He would pretend around the others-ever his talent-that all was well, that he was handling the change just fine. It was easy, really: keep one's expression perfectly blank and avoid eye contact, especially with a certain gray-blue pair.

He couldn't talk to Tessa about this. Not while she was still recovering, but perhaps not ever. How could he understand what she was going through? She and Jem were engaged to be married, deeply and fiercely in love, and Will-well, it would seem to her now that he had taken advantage of her grief that night in Cadair Idris. It couldn't be farther from the truth-he had wanted her that way for a long time now, still did-but whatever not-grief pain that Will felt must seem simple compared to Tessa's emotions. He would not burden her with his feelings.

As he watched the rain slide sideways against the window, cheek pillowed on one hand, eyes half-closed, he wondered if being without Jem was ever going to get easier.

So lost was he that he almost missed the sound at the door. A knock? It seemed to blend in with the sound of the windows rattling. He shifted but didn't get out of bed. His upper body was warm but he didn't bother pulling the covers over his ice cold feet. He took a dark pleasure in that, as if they symbolized how very numb and detached he felt inside.

The sound at the door came again, louder. It was definitely a knock. Probably Charlotte, checking to see if he was still alive. To be honest, he couldn't tell if he was. Slowly he got up and tried to smooth down his hair and clothes, though both were hopelessly rumpled. He was only in a shirt and trousers, so he threw on a waistcoat to make it look like he hadn't been in bed all day. He padded to the door and opened it a crack.

"Tessa?"

She wore a look that was half-sorrowful, half-determined. Seeing him, she raised her chin and indicated to the tray in her hands.

"I brought you tea."

"I don't want tea."

"Will." She leveled him a challenging look. "Are you going to make me take this heavy tray all the way back to the kitchen."

It wasn't a question. With a sigh, he stepped aside and pulled the door open.

He kept his gaze lowered, tracking the hem of her dress as it moved across the room to his desk. There was barely enough space there for the tray.

Free of the tray, she turned around. He was still standing by the door. He still couldn't look at her.

"Will-"

"Are you feeling better?"

She paused. "What?"

"Are you feeling well enough to be out of bed?"

"I-yes, I am. I have been, for a few days now."

He nodded. "Good."

"Not good." He looked up in surprise. "Will," she started again, "if you'd been out of your room more often, to eat meals at least, you would have known that."

He was silent.

She stepped towards him. "Will, you've been so quiet these past few days. And not eating. Everyone's worried about you."

They were? he thought to himself. He was so careful, whenever he encountered Gabriel or Gideon or Sophie or anyone in the hall, not to be frowning or otherwise looking like he needed pity. He hated being pitied.

And now Tessa was telling him that "everyone" was worried. Why was it that he failed at so much more than he thought he did?

"I'm fine." It sounded hollow and untruthful even to his own ears. He cursed the quaver in his voice.

"You are not fine. We are both not fine."

At that, he did look at her. Once he did, he couldn't look away, as was often the case with her. He studied her face, reading the lines of sadness on it as if he were looking at his own reflection, realizing-yet again-that he'd been selfish. He hadn't thought of comforting Tessa, only how his own feelings would get in the way. But he had to admit to himself that he didn't want anyone-especially Tessa-to see him like this. These days he either felt completely numb or like he was constantly fighting the tide of emotions rising under the surface of his skin, threatening to overflow. He couldn't explain it-he'd spent the better part of the past two weeks utterly alone-but now all he could feel was longing to be left alone. He looked away from her.

"I'm sorry, Tess." At least his voice sounded a bit more human now. "I'm not fit to face the world. To face the future. To be without him." To be with you, he wanted to say, but he dared not presume.

Her face softened. "You don't have to do it alone. Aren't we both suffering? Why must either of us go through this alone?"

Will wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and smooth back her hair and take away her pain-he would take her pain and endure it as his own in a heartbeat-but he couldn't take this pain away. Not when it was pain that he so clearly felt himself. And embracing her in the way he wanted-he would be taking liberties again. And he still felt that inexplicable urge to be alone.

"I cannot be a comfort to you."

"Then let me be a comfort to you." She took another step closer to him, and when he did not move, another. When she came close enough for him to smell her sweet scent of lavender and violet water, he dug his nails into his palms to keep from reaching for her.

"Tessa," he said softly. "I need-I just need more time."

She was silent, considering. If he was looking her in the eye, he would probably see her warring with her resolve. He wanted her so much, but he also wanted to go back to bed and suffer his own company for the rest of the day. It was all terribly confusing.

"Very well," she said. She raised a hand as if to stroke his cheek but let it fall. She left his room a moment later.

But Tessa was nothing if not determined. The next day she came with books from the library, ones she'd read recently, she told him, while she was recovering. They gave her an escape, but one that she admitted was painfully temporary. He couldn't agree more.

Once, she summoned him from the library to the drawing room, claiming that Charlotte needed him to help with some translations. But when he got there he only found Tessa, seated with Sophie and Gideon, having tea. At their entreaty, he'd had no choice but to join them.

Then she visited him in the training room on mornings, claiming to need his help with throwing knives. He told her that she need not train anymore; Benedict Lightwood's conditions were no longer relevant, given all that's happened since then. But she replied that she ought to continue learning to defend herself because-she'd said in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice-self-defense was such an important skill to possess.

So when he found himself helping her readjust her stance, or her grip, it inevitably reminded him of Jem, especially that first day they met when Jem totally schooled him on knife-throwing. But Will found that the pain of that memory began to hurt less, the more he helped Tessa, and gradually the pain of missing Jem dulled to a manageable ache, though he would never forget.

Charlotte began sending him out on patrols and missions again, and of course Will did it for Charlotte, but he dreaded being reminded of fighting alongside his parabatai, his other half that he was no longer sure he could fight without. But with Gabriel or Gideon by his side, he found his instincts kicking in and a flare of purpose stirring in his heart for the first time since he raced like a madman into the heart of his homeland.

He hadn't expected to come back from these missions laughing-let alone smiling, let alone smiling with Gabriel-and yet he couldn't help but feel alive enough to find levity in their triumph. Only later did he discover that Tessa was the one responsible for convincing Charlotte that this was what he needed.

Eventually, he plucked up the courage to ask for the honor of Tessa's company. He found her in the library.

"Will." She put down the book she was reading. The sun had finally broken through the rain and was pouring light through the window, dyeing her hair a golden brown, her face in dramatic profile.

"Are you free tomorrow, Tessa?"

She blinked. "Tomorrow... Yes," she said cautiously.

"Would you like to accompany me on a carriage ride through town?"

"Sure."

"Brilliant."

He turned on his heel and strode out.

He intended to court her properly. Be the gentleman to her that he never was. Continue in Jem's footsteps by giving her a proper tour of London. He intended to make up for it all, in time. He didn't expect her to lace her hand in his at St. Paul's Cathedral, sending a jolt of energy through him as if he'd just applied a Strength rune.

After that, she had ordered him to stop tiptoeing around her and told him to be himself. After all these years, Will found it difficult to distinguish between what was him and what was the persona he created for his cursed self. But Tessa, he found, made it easy for him to be himself, whoever that was. Whether it was someone who said mad, funny things and made up songs, or someone who wore his heart on his sleeve a little too much sometimes-being himself was never so easy as it was when he was with her.

Change is not loss, Jem had told him. Will couldn't agree at the time, but now he finally saw the truth in his parabatai's words-there, all along, as always, for Will to find comfort in later. For the first time in months, Will smiled at something that Jem said.