Title: Not In Your Lifetime (An AU The Mortal Instruments/The Infernal Devices crossover fic based on notesfromcecilyherondale and notesfromsebastianmorgenstern on Tumblr)

Characters Involved: Cecily Herondale (The Infernal Devices) & Sebastian/Jonathan Morgenstern (The Mortal Instruments)

Rated (chapter): K+ (Sebby's still playing nice! Shocking!)

Chapter A/N: So this chapter took quite a while, only because I wanted it to be fabulous and perfect. So here we go! Again, many thanks to obsidian for the input! Yes, I stole a particular scene from Dorian Gray because it's so adorable (and adorable!Sebastian is asdfghjkl;'). Also, I apologize for the inaccuracies in location. I've never been to New York so I'm basing the location on movies I've seen. The secret fancy restaurant is, of course, a product of my own imagination. 3

CHAPTER 2

Ding!

The standard chime of his doorbell sounded off just as he shook the towel on his newly darkened hair. It was thirty minutes before he had to go into another era and his doorbell was ringing his ears off. As ironic as it was, he didn't have time for this. He had just stepped out of the shower, his skin still glistening and moist from the water, his towel how draped around the better parts of him that he preferred not to air out. For the moment, anyway.

The doorbell rang again and again and again. He was gritting his teeth together, a seraph blade in hand. He didn't give a damn if what was outside his door was a girl scout selling cookies or another Ravener demon (and a polite one, at that) – there will be blood if he heard that damned doorbell ring aga—

Ding!

He had his eye at the small peep hole but saw nothing except something that was completely white, probably fur. His senses told him that there was only one person outside that door, probably a Red Cross Santa sap who was going door to door.

"You have three seconds to leave before I kill-"

A petite little figure with a small white fur hat stood outside his doorstep. Her long dark hair cascaded in curls and ended just above her waist. She wore a light coloured dress that was not from this point of time and when she looked up to face him, she had the biggest, bluest eyes he had ever seen. She reminded him of a gazelle that was about to be hit by a truck. That is, if that same gazelle would then make that same truck spontaneously combust with a single glare.

Cecily Herondale.

"Merry Christmas to you too, sir," she said with that same soft yet firm voice of hers.

He leaned on his door frame, his hands across his bare chest. "Hi."

He had a smirk on his lips and an amused gleam in his coal black eyes. She eyed him from head to toe, and not briefly at that, concentrating more on the dark new colour of his hair rather than the cloth that barely covered anything. He was clearly well defined, marks covering most of his upper body (for Cecily did not care to dwell beyond that), his hair still dripping.

"Do you always greet your guests with such indecency?"

He grinned, his hands threatening at his towel. "It's only indecent if it offends, love. Come in."

The inside of his dwelling place was, to say the very least, not what Cecily was expecting. Everything was so… clean. The walls were white and there were very select pieces of furniture, all of them black. It wasn't particularly large and lavish but it was tight and elegant. Everything was angular, sharp, and dangerous. At the same time, the place was refined and sleek, in a way. Much like everything else she had seen in the new world. The better parts of it anyway.

"Have a seat," he said, motioning her to a long couch made of leather. In front of it was a rather large thin box with some sort of plastic or screen to it with little words and buttons at the bottom. It was a contraption of sorts that would have made Henry squeal in delight – or technological arousal. "I'll just be a moment."

He disappeared into a room and she laughed a little when she heard him lock the door. As if that would keep her out if she really wanted to get in there. Not that she wanted to.

She sat at the couch for a while, carefully eyeing the bland walls of his home. What she assumed was the kitchen was made almost completely out of steel. There was a bar, a few bottles on display alongside a small tower of glasses. It was right next to his room, where she heard the hustle and bustle of him trying to get ready. What caught her attention was the black grand piano that settled itself across the room, a bouquet of white roses adorned with buds of fresh lavender on top of a rather large white box and a golden candelabra with fresh white candles lay atop it. The piano was next to a strange looking fireplace – it was made of steel and in front of it was a large black carpet decorated with large silver pillows.

She walked to the piano, never really one to stay in one place by her lonesome for long, absorbing in every detail of the time she was in. It was all so different and not what she had thought she would see.

"Where are all the chained, suffering, tortured mundane displayed on the walls? The jars or cages of weeping souls on bookshelves?" she wondered aloud, her hand sliding on top of the piano.

"Very funny," he hollered from his room. She could almost hear his eyes roll.

She sat on the bench in front of the keys and uncovered the velvet cloth that protected the rich white keys. Her fingers drummed through the first few keys, getting the feel of the instrument under her hand. She then started playing notes, and then pieces. The music flitted through the air, her eyes closed as her fingers found their ways to the proper keys. She played until she forgot where she was, when she was. That was the beautiful thing about music, it was timeless – it only knew a beginning, never an end.

"You play well," remarked Sebastian as he materialized next to the piano, pulling on his leather hand gloves. He was in a suit that was tailored to suit him in every way he should have been suited. Underneath his coat was a white shirt, a long black tie still untied on his neck. The only spot of colour on him was the blood red scarf draped around his shoulders.

"For a girl, that is." Cecily froze and shot him a look, her eyebrows lifting as high as they would dare. "I mean, you don't look like you want to kill the world when you play."

She rolled her eyes and rose from her seat, her hands raising up to reach his tie, tying it for him. She pulled it with as much strength as her arms could muster, making the tie wrap around his throat tightly. She used the length of the tie to pull him ever closer to her, his head now bent to her level.

"Don't try my patience. I don't take lightly to rudeness when it's directed to me."

He showed no remorse in his face – in fact, his lips quirked up into another smirk and he leaned in to kiss her. She let go of him and pushed away just as he did, turning away from him.

"No," she scolded, pointing a finger at him threateningly, though the new slight redness of her cheeks gave her away. He wiggled his eyebrows and gave her a smug little smile.

"These are for you." He gestured to the bouquet and the large white box underneath it.

"I know," she replied, subverting back into the knowing superiority that was Cecily Herondale. "What's the in the box? Because you ought to know, severed limbs of virgins are not appropriate gifts for a lady."

Something inside Sebastian was screaming. This was one hell of a woman and he loved the thrill of her. She pushed him in a way that made him want to hear that soft little voice go undone. His jaw clenched and he had to swallow whatever it was that had accumulated in his mouth just to retrieve control. Everything in him told him to attack. Everything told him to just screw all the proprieties and take her, then and there, for as long as he liked. But he'd done that before and it wasn't as sweet, it wasn't as good as someone screaming for more instead of begging him to stop. But still, even Sebastian had his limits and little miss Herondale was teetering on a very dangerous fine wire.

He took her arm and squeezed it, without gentleness but not ruthlessly either. Just enough for her to feel what he can do and just how much he can do. She fought, of course, and he saw the small swirls around her neck that were the marks that made her stronger than the usual girl he would have. But still, he was stronger. Her lips were set straight as he entrapped her between the piano and himself, his arms around her. He bent his head low, his still moist hair covering his eyes, as his nose grazed her cheek, his lips almost on her ear. He was very close; he could feel the erratic beating of her heart, as much as she kept her face straight and cold. She was still fighting, though not enough to burn out her strength – just enough to make him know that he shouldn't do anything stupid, that she wouldn't allow it. And he wasn't.

"Let me make this clear, Cilly Lilly," he whispered to her ear. He smiled when he heard her swallow at his words. "I am not a demon but you'd be smart to remember that I'm capable of being demonic. My name is Jonathan, not Sebastian. Sebastian was a shy little boy that was fun to get rid of. I am not him. So, darling, please. Don't test my patience, either."

She stood as still as a statue. No shivering, no fear.

"Only if you never call me that name again," she whispered back, jerking her wrists from his grasp and pushing him back. "Jonathan."

She met his glare with his own and in that moment, it took all his restraint to remain proper. He liked this – their dangerous banter, them pushing each other. Though he had to admit, he could not seem to break her. Yet.

"I got you a present," he said gently, pushing his hands into his pockets.

She turned her head to the bouquet and the box. She picked up the flowers and was unable to stop herself from smiling as she noted the little lavenders popping out from the roses. "There's no way you can get violets at this century so I opted for roses instead. They're expensive, much like you, princess."

"Don't call me that, either," she said, raising her eyebrow as she set down the flowers and opened the box.

"What is this?" she asked, picking up a white pea coat from inside. There were other articles of clothing (that she would rather not name individually). "Do you take a disliking for the things I wear?"

He bit back what he wanted to say (that he would rather her not wear anything at all) and composed himself while she inspected through the rest of her gifts.

"See, love, you simply can't walk around in the streets of New York at this day and age looking like that. It will grant you stares from people, as you stand out terribly – particularly with men, with your looks alone – and I don't need others stealing you away from me." He bent his head low, his lips to her ear once more. "I grew up an only child and I'm quite selfish."

"Is that supposed to be seductive?" she turned her head to him, her expression painted with all the sweetness she could conjure in herself (and as a petite young girl, it wasn't at all that difficult) – batting her eyelashes, opening her eyes as best she could, and biting her lip for good measure. And in a second, all her warmth dissipated, returning her to the cold little girl that she was. "Because it's not."

She took the box and walked her way to his room; he followed just behind her, his hands still in his pockets, laughing to himself. He opened the lights for her, seeing that she had her hands full, but she was already sitting on his bed, the box next to her.

His room was the only room that he spent the most attention to. The old fashioned four poster bed was large and adorned with a large blanket made of satin and in the colour of fresh blood. As a whole, it was made of the strongest, darkest Narra tree he could find and in all his escapades and exploits – it remained sturdy. The only thing he ever needed to change were his sheets which were almost always left in ribbons. There were large pillows at the base of the headboard and underneath them was the laptop that he used, the same one that was used in order to meet the girl in his room right then and there.

The bed was in the center of the room. To the right of it was a dresser and to the left was the walk in closet that led to the bathroom. There was a small chandelier that lit the otherwise dark room that had the colour of not fresh but congealing blood. It felt warm to her, warm and incredibly dangerous – just as she had expected.

He rested on his door frame, his arms crossed, and looking at her sitting on his bed, looking around the room with those scrutinizing blue eyes of hers.

"Well do get on with it." He nudged his head to point to the box, smirking again.

She crossed her arms and drummed her fingers against her own skin. "Leave."

He licked his lips and bowed his head for a moment. He took the door and closed it slowly but before it shut, he popped his head in once more and said, "If you any help getting out of those corsets…"

She returned the smirk. "Well you'd have to be an exceptionally good little demon child for me to allow that." She waved him out and he shut the door. Not even a second passed when he heard the familiar click! that locked it. He chuckled and slouched on his couch leisurely.

His thoughts went to the girl in his bedroom who was undressing without him there. The thought of it seemed to cause him physical pain. He would relish that – every moment of untangling every knot that held her clothes together, the feel of her long, dark hair entwining on his fingertips… He wanted her and he wasn't one to wait for whatever he wanted. She had better be worth the wait.

He lifted himself from the couch and took to the forgotten bouquet of flowers on the piano. He took out a single white rose with three lavenders attached to it. He spent effort on his gifts and she had better appreciate the thought he gave into them. He so rarely spoiled his girls. With the rose in hand, he sauntered to his kitchen and fixed himself a glass of scotch. He needed to burn down the ice in his veins, the cold feeling at the back of his spine.

He was on his second glass when the door unlocked and she stepped out of his room.

Her palms were outstretched on either side of her, an adorable little grin on her face. For someone who was a hundred and thirty odd years from his time, she was an adaptive little thing. She retained the little white fur hat on her head as it matched the new white pea coat that he got her. The coat had a fur trim, was long enough to reach her knees and she kept it unbuttoned, showing the pale lavender dress (so pale, it was almost white) underneath the coat. She wore the shoes that had an amount of glitter that Magnus Bane would have approved of and had heels at a size that Isabelle Lightwood would have worn.

"Better?"

"Perfect." He raised his glass to her and downed his drink.

"They're a bit snug for my liking."

"I can always help you out of them."

He handed her the single rose with lavender embellishments and she took it, lifting the bud up to her nose, a mischievous amusement in her eyes. The lightness of her skin and clothes made her dark blue eyes pop out, her impossibly dark hair even darker if that was at all possible.

"Shall we?" he asked, offering her his arm. Her only response was a smile and her hand politely resting on his elbow.

He escorted her out of his unit and his building and was about to hail a cab when he fell rigid and asked her to stay outside for a while. In the shock of her arrival at his home, he almost forgot…

Cecily stayed as requested, eyeing the passersby who dared look at her. They weren't different from all the other strangers in London, a hundred and thirty years ago. They were still strangers, only with different, more comfortable clothing. Did they know that she wasn't of their time? Did they know of the magic that surrounded them as they walked with their little mundane feet, living their little mundane lives? Perhaps not.

It was only when she felt a presence behind her take her hat from her head. A man in tattered clothing had managed to sneak up on her. If she was an ordinary little girl from Wales, she would have cried out "Thief!" and waited for someone to catch him for her. But she wasn't an ordinary little girl from Wales. She was Cecily Herondale and Cecily Herondale didn't need anyone else to come and save her.

In the blink of an eye, she had the mundane man in front of her, his arm bent at an unnatural twist behind him, a blade at his throat.

"You will never do that again," she whispered, her voice low and deadly. "Or I swear on the Angel, I will rip you limb from limb and cut out your own insides and strangle you with them while you and your children watch. Do I make myself clear?"

A low chuckle came from behind her, an arm on her shoulder. "Let him go, Angel."

She turned sharply to see the appreciative grin on his face. "Aren't we glamoured?"

"We don't need to be, love. It's New York. Go ahead and kill him and it will take people at least a week to notice he's dead and that's only because of the smell. Your coat's expensive though. I don't want you ruining it."

Cecily let the man go and turned him to face her. "You will forget me. Forget this place. But you will remember my words and my blade. Now off with you before I decide I don't care about getting mundane blood on my coat."

The man ran off but not before she took back her hat and placed it on her head. Jonathan turned her to face him and he aligned it neatly on her head, his gloved hands brushing her hair once. He cupped her face with his hands and he lifted her to face him. She looked so innocent and lovely – not at all like the murderous little girl he saw just a moment ago. She became a little more attractive, if that was at all possible. "Persuasion rune?"

Her smile oozed of mischief as she swatted his hands from her face. He remained beside her, his hand protectively at her waist, pulling her to him. He raised his hand to hail a cab and in a moment, a yellow car halted in front of them.

"A horseless carriage?" She turned to him, her eyes wide in curiosity. "You actually ride them?"

"Yes, Angel," he said, opening the door for her. "Now get in."

She stepped inside tentatively and made room for him beside her. He told the driver a name and it vehicle started by itself. She had seen these horseless carriages when she arrived into his era but never knew what they were. They were in different shapes and sizes, going at different speeds and directions. Henry would have dropped his eggs in delight.

She spent the car ride pushing all the buttons and asking questions about how the horseless carriage worked. Jonathan merely laid back and answered her questions with a smug expression on his face, like he was enjoying her naïveté. The car ride did not last long as they stopped at a park, decorated with trees that were adorned with millions of tiny blinking lights. Jonathan gave the man a few paper bills that looked foreign to her then stepped out, only to open the door on her side of the horseless carriage.

She stepped out of it, relishing the soft drizzle of fresh snowflakes as she did so. There were mundanes in black winter coats, faeries dancing and flitting about through trees – it was beautiful. Everything was new and yet so very familiar to her. She was a hundred and thirty years into the future but snow still fell from the sky, mundanes were still mundanes, fey were still fey.

He had her on his arm again, barely looking at where he was going, his eyes almost glued to her. She attracted his gaze like a moth to flame. What an accurate description for her – fire. No matter how minute the spark, she could still be as deadly and fiery as any wildfire. She was a flame that could not be tamed, a glowing light that demanded attention from even the littlest of pests.

She led her deep into the canopy of decorated Christmas trees, hidden from sight or Sight, into a small outdoor restaurant. The tables were adorned with crystal centrepieces, the chairs and tables made out of the finest wood. The floor was covered in a thin layer of snow. There wasn't anyone else there but there was an array of waiters and waitresses on the ready, expecting their arrival. As planned – Jonathan had this even scheduled for days.

Bushes of white roses with hints of lavender buds surrounded them, all of the bushes decorated with the same blinking lights. To the left of the small setting was an equally small pond, a towering Christmas tree that was a replica of the one in Central Park stood ahead of it. The staff led the couple to the center table and lit four small candles around the crystal, making the warm light bounce off in various directions. She was still holding the single white rose. She set it on the table, resting dangerously close to one of the candles.

The waiters left them two champagne glasses, filled to the brim with the sparkling fluid, and the bottle in a bucket filled with ice.

"Well you've outdone yourself, "she said, beaming at him. She clapped delicately while the help hustled and bustled around them. "Bravo."

"I did tell you I was worth your time, love," he replied, smirking. "So, how was your day?"

"As always. Everyone is bothered by bloody wedding preparations and letters to the Clave. No one will even notice that I've gone anywhere."

"So I don't have to give you back?"

"Why, sir, are you under the presumption that you have me?" she asked, her elbows on the table (oh the scandal of it!), her chin propped up on her interlaced fingers. Her eyes were daring him to answer, daring him to say the wrong thing.

"Not yet," he answered without batting an eyelash. She puckered her lips bemusedly, ducked and shook her head.

"So is this where you take all the girls you fancy?"

"No. Usually, they would be battered and bloody and chained to all corners of my bed and like it."

His words were overheard by a waitress who was busying herself with cleaning the crystal decorations on the tables. The waitress' eyes suddenly hungry and wandering with lust, as if staring at Jonathan with gusto would will him to her. Cecily was repulsed by it, by women who were so easily bedded. But he didn't even notice. He paid no mind to the girl or anyone else around them. They were but shadows, dimmed by the light that was her.

"Are you always so charming and polite?"

"Only when I don't want you." And she laughed. She actually, honest to God, laughed. A real laugh that lasted more than three seconds laugh. It was glorious, beautiful. He grinned at her. Her usually soft voice rose in volume and in pitch, a melodic soprano of 'ha ha ha's danced in the air.

"Have none of your ex-boyfriends ever done this for you before?"

"Boyfriend. I was asked that only a few days ago but the term baffles me. Is there another meaning to boyfriend than a friend who is a boy?"

He licked his lips and bit his tongue to keep from laughing. She was such a snarky little thing that he forgot how naïve she could be. "It's what we call a lover in these days."

Cecily choked on the term 'lover' and blurted out a 'ha!'. "Then no, none of my ex-boyfriends have ever done this for me, seeing as I've never had one."

"So you've never made love before?"

"Well your questions aren't at the brink of impropriety," she said, her icy tone returning. "To answer your question, no. I have. And to ask me of the long, complicated story of it all is an honour you have yet to earn."

"So you've never had a man-lover? Have you had another girl? That'd be hot, you know."

She looked at him, her expression puzzled. "No. And what does 'that'd be hot' mean exactly?"

"It would, shall we say…" he droned on, licking his lower lip, his thumb brushing against his chin. "Cause arousal – extreme arousal, at that."

"How would me having relations with another girl cause arousal?" He opened his mouth to reply, his pointer finger pointing at the sky, when she made a gesture with her hand that made him stop. "Don't answer that. What makes you think I would oblige you that kind of entertainment? Do you take me for an athanasian wench?"

"A what?"

"A girl who would oblige a man anything he asks of her."

"Then no, love. That's part of the reason of why you're so fetching to me."

The same lust consumed waitress then laid two platters of food in front of them slowly, the top buttons on her shirt suddenly, noticeably undone. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?

"How about your head on a platter and your heart for dessert?" Cecily asked sweetly but her eyes intense and serious. The girl looked at her with terror and disbelief, not seeing any humour in the little girl's expression. "I didn't think so. Leave." She waved the girl away and the waitress obeyed, fear evident in her eyes. Jonathan merely watched with a smug look of approval on his face.

"What? I don't share and I don't take kindly to those who try and steal from me."

"Why, Angel, are you under the presumption that you own me?"

"Don't I?"

"Not yet, love," he said, puckering his lips, biting the lower one. "Not yet."

The two stared at each other for a while. No words came between them but their eyes said it all. They were challenging each other – who would break first, who would accept the challenge, and who would yield. Cecily smiled and sipped from her glass, the drink dancing on her tongue and down her throat. The meal they shared was a quiet one, filled with stolen glances and almost touches for the salt and pepper.

When they had finished their meal, one of the waiters stood at the side of the table with a pair of ice skates on each hand. His were black, hers were white.

She accepted it, grinning. "What is this?" she asked Jonathan, her pitch higher than usual.

"I take it you skate, yes?" She nodded, biting her lip, still smiling. He was finishing his own skates when the waiter bent down to help her with hers but, as fast as he had bent, Jonathan was above him. He cocked his head aside at the waiter and poor boy left without another word. He bent down on his knees and laced her skates up for her.

"So, how many other girls do you bring here?" she asked as he dutifully laced her up.

"Hundreds," he looked up at her and joked. "Thousands."

"Well you must be courting dozens at least. You can tell me the truth, you know."

He looked up at her once more, having finished with her skates. He brushed her nose with a fingertip and said, "There's only you, love." He stood and picked up her white rose from the table, handing it to her. "There's only you."

She stood and got the rose from him. He offered her his arm and she took it, then he led her to the small pond that was illuminated only by the moon and the millions of little lights in the night sky and in the trees that surrounded them. Soon enough, she freed herself from him and glided on the ice on her own. The pond was frozen but smoothly so and she skated gracefully and effortlessly. He followed but his movements were slow and he only moved to keep up with her.

"My home in Wales had a pond much like this when I was but a girl," she said from a short distance, her eyes closed as she skated. "It would freeze over the winter and Ella, William, and I would find ourselves playing in the snow, sliding on the frozen pond. Willy would always get caught up in trees. He would try to shake the snow off the branches and on to us. Mother was furious at his tattered clothes and him tracking snow and mud into the house but no one could really stay upset with him. Not with those pretty blue eyes of his."

Jonathan just watched her and listened to her talk. He took off his gloves and pocketed them; rubbing his hands together, revelling at feeling his own breath on his palms as he breathed into them. "I take it you miss your family?"

"You can't miss something you don't have," she said, taking a sharp turn and finding herself directly in front of him. He had to hold her arms just to keep her steady. "I don't have one anymore."

"Family is something that revolves around love. The only family I ever recognized is dead," he said, brushing her hair out of her face, his palm on her cheek. He brushed her cheek with his thumb. "No one loves me."

"That's a cheerful thought on Christmas," she replied cheekily, her expression playful – not an ounce of cruelty in her eyes. Perhaps she was sympathetic, or perhaps her heart cried out for the dark haired boy she saw in front of her. Not a demon, not a Shadowhunter – just a boy who wanted, needed, to be loved. His hair looked darker in the moonlight, if that was at all possible.

"I've been meaning to ask," she said, her hands resting on her elbows while he cupped her face with his hands. "Why the darker hair? Don't you like having hair the colour of salt?"

"I do, actually. But that damn Angel Boy and I have to be close to each other and quite frankly, people can't seem to tell us apart. It was getting on my nerves so I dyed it." One of his hands now at the back of her neck, the other still caressing her cheek. "Is it not to your liking?"

"I don't really care so long as it's long enough to pull."

At that moment, a bell started to ring from a distance. One of her hands found the one behind her neck and intertwined his fingers with her own. He brought his head down to hers, their foreheads touching, and their laced hands near her neck, her other hand clutching at the hair at the nape of his neck. He seemed to recall this particular position familiar and altogether welcome. The bell was still ringing in his ears but the chiming had already stopped. Perhaps it was not the bell he heard after all, but the beating heart of the girl he was holding.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered, gently brushing his nose against hers.

"Merry Christmas." She giggled.

She actually giggled, the way girls were supposed to react when a fine young man was wooing them. He smiled at the discovery that despite her coldness and cruelty, her deadly words and possibly fatal weapons beneath her clothes, Cecily Herondale was still just a girl.

His mouth hovered over hers and for a single moment, the snowflakes stopped falling and the only thing he could see were the sheer luminous blue of her eyes and thousands of impossibly dark lashes that framed them. She was impossibly still and she made no move to contradict him. And he wanted her, he still wanted her, he would take her on that very pond if he could – but he couldn't. But a taste, he needed that taste of her. And as the snow started to fall again, he leaned in and closed that small fraction of space between them.

He was shocked at the sweetness of her, his eyes popping open. Her eyes were closed and he could see every detail of her eyelashes against her white skin. But he did not stop, he could not make himself pull away. Their mouths melded together with a certain harmony, releasing an unadulterated passion that they didn't know they possessed. His tongue darted out and traced the outline of her lips to which she opened her mouth without prompting, inviting him in. She was impossibly sweet, everything he dreamed she would taste like and more.

He let out a low, involuntary, guttural groan and her eyes opened, amused at him. He held her face closer to him and clutched her hand tighter. He removed his hand from her grasp then and moved it to the small of her back, almost carrying her, pressing her to him. Her hand rested on his chest as he deepened the kiss, closing his own eyes and twirling his tongue with her own.

He set her down eventually, pulling apart from her. Their foreheads still touching, their noses nuzzling.

"Who knew you could be gentle?" she whispered, still dazed from their kiss.

"I am gentle as I am rough, Angel. I intend to be both with you."

"I like that."

"What? Angel?"

"Mmm."

He grinned, still so very close to her. "I got you a present."

"You mean that wasn't it?" she said, her tone slowly returning to its natural, firmer soprano. He chuckled and pulled away from her embrace.

He got a box from inside his coat pocket and presented it to her. It was long, small box. She took it in her hands and opened it to find a simple but brilliant silver bracelet, adorned with amethysts and diamonds.

"I got them in your colours, you remem-"

"Yes, thank you, I can see that." She looked up at him, her eyes bigger than he could recall. "Thank you, Jonathan."

"You're welcome, Cecily."

He took the box from her and released the bracelet from its velvet confines. He tucked the box back into his coat pocket and laid out his hand for hers. She raised her arm and he wrapped the trinket around her wrist then intertwined his fingers with her own.

He held her again; one of his hands cupping her face, one of hers around his neck, one of their hands intertwined with the other. His lips lingered above hers for a moment, the energy between them nearly tangible and visible against the frosty, December night air.

"Have I been exceptionally good yet?"

She smiled, her eyes glinting of mischief, before their lips coupled together once more.

"Not quite."