**The characters of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2010. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.**

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Chapter 2: Curiosity

Chapter Songs:

Trust Me by The Fray (Scenes 1&2)

Boston by Augustana (Scene 3) *Lyrics to Boston are owned by Augustana

"So, Jace," Clary said, her cheeks warming with the mention of his name. She silently chastised herself at the ridiculous reaction. It wasn't like he was even nice or anything. But there was something about him, something that made her curious. Something that lurked behind the sarcasm and uncaring demeanor he portrayed. She projected an image herself. One everyone expected to see, not the one that really existed underneath. So, she sort of got it. "He doesn't look like you."

Isabelle bent over, pulling an enormous pile of clothes out of a box and proceeded to tuck them into a large wooden dresser. "That's because he's my foster brother."

"Oh." That explained a lot.

"Yeah, he came to live with us about five years ago—when he was about twelve." She shoved another armful into a drawer. "My parents are still trying to adopt him—stupid process takes forever." Her eyes met Clary's and a flash of emotion shot through them. "I'm sorry if he hurt your feelings earlier. He has problems acting human most of the time."

Clary waved Isabelle's comment away. "He didn't. My brother—" She paused as her voice caught, wondering if that reaction would ever go away. "My brother was pretty sarcastic. I can take it." Clary looked down at her hands and fiddled with her fingers before speaking again. "He seems—I don't know—like—like there's—I don't know—something else behind all that bravado." She didn't really know what she was saying. It was just that she liked to try to see the best in people. Sarcasm and coldness couldn't be all there was to Jace.

Isabelle sighed and sat on one of the closed boxes nearby. "I don't know. I'm ashamed to say we don't talk all that much—other than to make jabs at one another." She smiled sadly. "He's just so difficult, but I guess that's to be expected. He had a pretty crappy childhood—though Alec, Max, and I don't really know much of anything about that. He won't talk about it."

"Do your parents—"

Isabelle shook her head. "Not much. Only the basics. And they haven't shared that with us. They figure Jace will tell us when he wants to."

"Oh." Clary glanced to Isabelle's open door, seeing a sliver of light from Jace's room across the hall. He and Alec had left to return the U-haul after they'd finished unpacking it. She couldn't help but wonder what hid underneath the armor of the sarcastic boy next door.

.o.O.o.

Jace leaned against the counter, his long fingers drumming against the Formica top impatiently. They'd been waiting fifteen minutes for the douche behind the counter to figure out how to charge them for the six extra miles they put on the truck. He figured this was something that would have been taught on training day, but what did he know? He'd never held any sort of job, so maybe they did really stick morons like this guy out there to wait on people with only the knowledge of a pea to back them up. Sad but unsurprising.

Alec stood next to him, passing a credit card to the cashier. "So what did you think of Clary?" He eyed Jace curiously.

Jace rolled his eyes. Alec always did this when Isabelle brought friends over. Like he thought Jace would hit on every one of them. He wasn't that big of a man-whore. "What makes you think I thought anything of her?"

"Because you always have an opinion on everyone you meet."

Jace thought for a moment. He didn't quite know what to think of the redhead next door. "She's weird."

Alec laughed. "Why, because she didn't fall in love with you the instant she saw you? She didn't stammer jumbled words in her awe over you?"

"For your information, she actually did sputter incoherently. The theory of my irresistibility to those of the female persuasion still holds true." He reached over and grabbed a pen out of a cup full of them, twirling it between his fingers. "And it's not love anyway—what those girls feel for me. It's more like . . . infatuation." He dropped the pen back where he'd gotten it. "They realize I'm not interested in anything more than what I give them. And they just want me for one thing anyway."

"Which is?"

Jace shrugged. "Bragging rights. I mean, who wouldn't want to get with this?" He swept his hand down his body with an exaggerated motion.

Alec rolled his eyes. "Your ego knows no bounds." He shook his head as he collected the receipt and credit card from the guy behind the counter. Tucking his wallet into his pocket, he turned to Jace. "Look, do us all a favor all right? Leave Clary alone. Let Isabelle have a friend that you don't taint for once. She needs someone in her life and Clary seems like a sweet girl."

Jace chuckled as he followed Alec back out to the car. "They all seem like sweet girls, Alec."

"Yeah, until you're done with them," Alec muttered as he plopped into the driver's seat and Jace climbed into the passenger side. "Come on, just this once, prove to Isabelle you can think about someone other than yourself for a change."

"Whatever," he said as he stared out the window, watching a group of kids ride by on skateboards and BMX bikes. "She's not my type anyway."

Alec scoffed. "Every girl is your type."

Jace smiled but didn't turn back to Alec. He was wrong in thinking Jace wasn't selective in female companions. He had standards. It just seemed like most of the time he didn't because there were so many conquests to choose from. He had his pick, so to speak. Normally, he selected the most enthusiastic, most insecure, most gullible of the bunch—not because that's what he liked, per se—but because it was easy. He didn't have to worry about having to work too hard to get what he wanted out of them. They were eager to please. After all, it wasn't everyday someone like him called on them. It was a win-win for all involved—at least that's how he saw it. They got the attention they craved, and he got his needs met. Those girls were shallow, safe.

But this girl—Clary—he didn't quite know what to think of her. She seemed different from other girls. When she looked at him, she didn't show attraction or want, she looked . . . questioning, speculative, like she could see straight through him. It unnerved him more than he let on. Clary was definitely an enigma. Beneath the sad, vulnerable, insecure surface was something more. He didn't know what it was but he'd felt it when she'd dished it right back to him. Never shedding a tear, never standing down. He couldn't deny he was intrigued. What was it about this girl that had Alec all of a sudden warning him to stay away? Not that he'd had any intentions toward her in the first place. But now—well, all things forbidden made Jace a little more curious, and curiosity plus Jace was never a good combo.

.o.O.o.

The remnants of the sun burned across the sky in deep reds and oranges by the time Clary left the Lightwood's that evening. She trudged up the stairs and fell onto her bed fully dressed, sleep coming within moments. The combination of rising early and working all day exhausted her more than she'd been in a long time. It felt good, and for once, her dreams were not filled with the sounds of crunching metal and the smell of blood. She slept soundly for the first time in many months.

She awoke in the morning to the sound of her phone buzzing on the nightstand. Reaching out, she slapped her hand over the vibrating nuisance and flipped it open, placing it against her ear.

"Hello?" she croaked into the receiver.

"Are you still asleep? It's almost 9:30."

Clary smiled through her sleepy haze. "Simon. Are you back?"

"Not yet. We're still on the road. Mom needed more coffee, so I'm standing here surrounded by truckers who haven't showered in at least three days. I figured you'd like to share in my misery, so I called. Why are you still in bed?"

"How can you tell I'm still in bed?" Clary stretched and let out a little squeak.

"Because you sound all groggy and happy. That can only mean you're still in the throws of drooling."

"I don't drool, Simon."

"Uh, yeah you do. My soaked shoulder after a zombie-a-thon on your couch is testament enough to that."

Clary laughed and cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear. "When are you going to be back?"

"With the way my mom drives? I'll be lucky to be sleeping in my own sheets by New Years." Someone shouted in the background. "All right! I'm coming." Simon's muffled voice came through the earpiece and then turned clear again. "Apparently Mom is properly caffeinated so it's time to move out. Hopefully we'll be back tomorrow evening."

"Thank God! This summer has been so boring without you. But, at least I got a new neighbor."

"Really? Anyone interesting?"

Clary smiled. "I think you'll approve."

"Cool. Is she hot?"

"I'll let you be the judge of that. You better go before your mom throws a fit."

"Yeah, all right. Later, Fray."

"Later, Lewis."

Clary stretched once more and placed the phone back on her nightstand. She sat up and rolled her shoulders, pain tweaking in the left one. Reaching up, she rubbed the tender muscle and stood. With a sigh, she walked over to her dresser, pulled out clean under clothes, jeans, and a top. Yawning, she trudged out into the quiet hall. Her mom must have left for the store already. Just to make sure, Clary peered into the studio, finding it empty just like she assumed.

Stepping into the bathroom, she made her way over to the shower, dropped her pile of clothes next to the sink, and leaned over, twisting the knobs to turn the water on. As it heated up, she stripped off her old shirt and pants, threw them in the hamper, and then moved under the hot spray. She took her time, washing away the sweat and grime from the day before and loosening her sore muscles in the process. When she finished she quickly dressed and pulled a brush through her tangled locks. As soon as she was through, it started curling up and frizzing as it dried. With a groan, she parted it down the middle and proceeded to braid each side. She frowned at her reflection. The combination of her big green eyes, fire-red hair, freckles, and braids made her look even younger than her almost sixteen years.

She sighed and left the bathroom, pausing for a moment at the next door. Placing her hand against the smooth wood and leaning her forehead against it, she closed her eyes and whispered, "Good Morning, Jonathan." She hadn't been able to bring herself to open it and go inside since the accident. Even though more than anything, she wanted to be surrounded by his things, his presence. She just couldn't make herself take that next step.

Continuing down the stairs, she steered herself into the kitchen, grabbed a package of Poptarts and a big glass of milk, and then sat at the kitchen table. She didn't have to work that afternoon and wondered what she might do with her day. Isabelle had said she would be gone in the morning but should be back around eleven. They'd gone to pick up their dad and little brother from the airport.

Clary glanced at the clock and saw it was quarter to eleven already. Throwing her trash in the garbage and rinsing her cup, she walked toward the front door. She figured she'd try Isabelle now. If she wasn't back yet, Clary would come back home and maybe draw for awhile.

The screen door opened with a creek and the bright sun shone warm and inviting down on her. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the light, basking in the refreshing heat. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and started over to the Lightwood's.

As she climbed their front steps, she heard the soft sound of a piano. Furrowing her brows, she finished her assent and stood directly outside the window. It was open, the curtains pushed aside. Inside she spied a black baby grand piano and nothing else in the spacious formal living room. At the bench sat Jace—a highly unexpected sight. She just hadn't considered him the musical type.

Scooting to the side and hiding out of view, she continued to watch. She could only see his profile, but from what she saw, it looked as though his eyes were closed, his fingers moving lightly over the keys. After a moment, she realized she knew the tune but couldn't quite place it. She listened for a little longer, but it wasn't until he started singing that she finally recognized the song.

*In the light of the sun, is there anyone? Oh, it has begun . . .
Oh dear you look so lost, eyes are red and tears are shed,
This world you must've crossed . . . you said . . .

You don't know me, you don't even care, oh yeah,
She said you don't know me, and you don't wear my chains . . .

Oh, yeah . . . yeah

Her breath hitched as the lyrics pierced through her. It was a song she'd listened to often after Jonathan's death. It portrayed her exact feelings at the time. Her sadness, her yearning to leave the pain behind and just disappear. If she was honest, she still felt that way most of the time. No one seemed to understand. She knew she wasn't the only one grieving but everyone else was able to move on at least in some capacity. Yet there she was, stuck in the thick of her grief. It never lessened, never left her.

Essential yet appealed, carry all your thoughts across an open field,
When flowers gaze at you . . .

They're not the only ones who cry when they see you
You said . . .You don't know me, you don't even care . . .

Oh, yeah . . .
She said… You don't know me, and you don't wear my chains...

Oh, yeah

She closed her eyes and let Jace's voice wash over her, let it draw the pain out and seep through her pours. As many times as she'd listened to the song before, never had it affected her in this way. Maybe it was the fact that it was live, or maybe it was because the raw pain in Jace's voice as he sang made her feel less alone. She didn't know what he'd been through, but according to Isabelle, it had been bad. She wondered if it had been as awful as what she'd lived through. Wondered if it was the reason for him to act the way he did. Why he shut everyone out and pushed everyone away.

She said I think I'll go to Boston . . .
I think I'll start a new life,
I think I'll start over, where no one knows my name,
I'll get out of California, I'm tired of the weather,
I think I'll get a lover and fly him out to Spain . . .

Opening her eyes, she peeked back in. His eyes were still closed and the emotion on his face was almost unbearable to see. She recognized that look; she'd worn it almost every day since the accident.

I think I'll go to Boston,
I think that I'm just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind . . .
I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset,
I hear it's nice in the summer, some snow would be nice . . .

Oh, yeah

The music and his posture as he bent over the keys captivated her. She'd never seen someone play with so much competence before. Someone who seemed to feel the music rather than just play it. His entire body vibrated with it. It sort of reminded her of her mother when she was totally immersed in a new painting. The way she threw all of herself into it. Her heart, her body, her soul. This was the impression she got from Jace as he stroked the keys under his long, slender fingers.

Boston . . . where no one knows my name . . . yeah
Where no one knows my name . . .
Where no one knows my name . . .

Clary knew she should look away. Should respect his privacy in what seemed to be a very personal moment. But she just couldn't pull herself from the beauty of it. The beauty of a seemingly unfeeling, closed off boy, laid bare in front of her, his emotions right on the surface.

Yeah . . . Boston . . .
Where no one knows my name . . .

The music ended, but Clary didn't move. She no longer looked at him, but she could feel him there. Still seated and motionless. His pain sparked off from him, hot and strong.

After a few moments, she stood and made her way to the door. She wiped her face clean of emotion and lifted her hand, knocking rapidly on the thick wood. Footsteps sounded from inside, coming from the direction of the front room. She knew it would be Jace who answered.

The knob twisted and the door opened, revealing him before her. For a millisecond, she got a close up view of the emotions on his face before he covered them once more with his trademark blank look. His eyes slid down and then back up as if her were assessing her. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, his brows raised.

"Is that an invitation?" He gestured to Clary's shirt with one hand, before tucking it back against him once more.

Confused, Clary glanced down at her shirt. With embarrassed understanding, her cheeks flared as she read the words "Gimme Some Sugar" written across her chest. "Uh, not in the least." She hadn't even realized what she was putting on that morning; if she had, it wouldn't have been this particular shirt.

"Hmm, since you're not here for a kiss, to what do we owe the pleasure, Pippi?"

Clary cocked a brow. "Pippi?"

Jace reached out and flicked one of Clary's braids. "Yeah, you know, long, red braids, annoying skip, save the world attitude."

"I didn't realize we were to the nick-naming stage of our relationship quite yet. I guess you won't mind if I call you Goldilocks then?"

He smirked. "Well, if you'd like, but I should warn you that I'm not all that fond of porridge—although I am quite particular about the softness of anything I sleep on or with, so you have me there."

Clary crossed her own arms over her chest. "And you have the disposition of a bear rather than a human?"

Jace frowned, and if Clary didn't know better, looked slightly hurt by her comment. "Isabelle's not here. She'll be back soon though if you want to wait."

"No, that's okay. Can you just tell her I came by?"

"I suppose, though I may growl it out instead of tell her—since I am bear-like and all." He flashed her his cocky half-grin letting Clary know she definitely had not ruffled his feathers by her earlier statement.

"I'm sure she's versed enough in your bear sounds to make out the message." Clary turned and started toward the stairs, pausing just as she lifted her foot to step down the first tread. She cocked her head back around and met Jace's eyes. "You know, you're really good," she jerked her head toward the front room window, "on the piano."

Jace stared at her for a moment, blinking a couple of times as if she'd caught him off guard. "Thanks."

Clary raised her brows. "Was that actually a polite word coming out of your mouth, Goldie?"

He smoothed any indication of his surprise off his face and scowled. "You better run along home now, Pippi. Just in case the world needs saving."

Clary couldn't help the smile from breaking over her lips. "You're welcome, Jace." She turned and clamored down the steps, her smile never leaving her face as she crossed the yard and climbed her stairs, disappearing into the confines of her own house.

.o.O.o.

Jace closed the door behind Clary and leaned against it, letting out a slow breath. She'd heard him play. Had she seen as well? Music was something he indulged in only when he was alone. It was too easy to lose himself in it and he never did that with an audience. Normally, he stuck to his guitar because he was rarely without company in the house and it was quieter. But the piano was where he felt most comfortable.

He glanced out the window and watched the red-haired girl cross the yard, a smile still plastered on her face. His lips tweaked up in the corners. Usually he would be upset if someone heard him, invaded his private time. But for some reason, he didn't feel anger. He felt, surprisingly, calm. A little less lonely. A little less closed off. Almost like he'd shared a piece of himself with someone else. Something he hadn't done in more years than he could remember. And the best part was, she had no idea. No clue what she'd witnessed. She just thought he was a good musician. He hoped she didn't realize she'd just witnessed his soul laid out there for the world to see.

Who would have thought it would be the mostly unknown girl next door that would see him unguarded before even his own family. In a way, he sort of liked the idea. Liked that someone—even if it was unknown to them—had seen what really lived inside. With that thought, he made his way back to the bench and sat. He reached out and laid his fingers against the ivory keys, closed his eyes, and played the first thing that came to mind.