Even though pain is a constant in the life of a shadowhunter, it never fades. It never loses its poignancy. A shadowhunter can train to overlook the pain, learn to focus on lessening the amount of pain they allow their conscious mind to register. But being oblivious to pain? There are only two real answers for that: paralysis and death.

Otherwise, pain is a constant. And it never fades.

Alec hissed beneath the hot spray of the water, his back tensing. He splayed his palms out against the tiled wall, pushing back on it as if that might somehow distract him from the burning, stinging, scorching claw marks deeply etched down his back. There was nothing but water yet touching his skin, and already, the pain was intense. Just that hot water traveling down the fresh wounds – it was agonizing. And he knew he needed to disinfect the scratch marks. The demon's blow had ripped open the leather of his gear, and when he rolled away to avoid another hit, he was sure to have ground into the dirt. There was no telling what he'd picked up, but there had to be debris in the clotting wounds, and even if it meant reopening them, it was necessary.

Alec squeezed his eyes closed, simply breathing as the water continued to fall on his back. The pain wasn't as bad at the moment. He was growing accustomed to the sting, and maybe the shower was helping. It certainly relaxed his muscles.

Muffled groans, and a sharp cry floated through the crack in the bathroom door. Alec cursed once when he had trouble reaching his lower back – and the act of reaching around was enough to make him want to throw his head against the wall. Fresh blood, diluted by the running water, slid down the drain at his feet.

He was trying to clean the wounds. It was as bad as he had imagined; his hand was shaking so much, he almost dropped the soap. He was biting his lip harshly, tasting copper and salt.

It was only a matter of time before he had to get back into the game, to speak. Before they all had to take a break from the brief lull without fighting demons. Less than a week to enjoy the peace in Idris, following the restoration of Alicante and the formation of the new council.

There had been two parties - the big celebration in the square on the second night, and another smaller, private party at the Lightwoods' home the next day. It was more of a family dinner, everyone still in remarkably good spirits, dressed in casual clothes and sharing an overabundance of food that left them incredibly full and lazing around the house late into the evening - until everyone disbanded to go their separate ways. To their separate houses, and their warm beds.

It was kind of like a vacation, if shadowhunters were allowed the luxury. Time away for good behavior. Time off for services rendered.

But now the Lightwoods had returned to the Institute, and the city that never sleeps, a place where demon towers weren't keeping the bad guys at bay. Which meant Alec, Jace, Isabelle, and all of the others had to get back to work. And the return hadn't come with a welcome home party.

It was rough, and even if he hadn't gotten hurt in the process, he would have been exhausted. In fact, it was the overwhelming weariness that he had experienced – he blamed it on recent travel and slacking in his work-out routine – that had been the cause of his getting hurt. Alec hadn't moved fast enough, reacted the way he should. He had hesitated, was in the act of drawing back on his new bow when the blow came out of nowhere, knocking him and his weapon to the ground.

So it was no one's fault but his own that he was miserable now.

Which is exactly why he hadn't picked up the phone to call Magnus on the spot. Because he didn't doubt the High Warlock would heal him in a second. He wouldn't even hear his objections. He'd insist on it; he'd want to do it. Even at the expense of draining his own energy.

Alec had fought that battle before, and always lost – unless it was something really minor, and then maybe Magnus would let it slide. But this – Magnus would be horrified if he saw his back.

Alec didn't want to see it, himself. He was glad there was only a small mirror in the bathroom, and nothing else to reflect back. It was bad enough feeling it; for some reason, seeing a wound made it even more real, and the experience got even worse. Like looking at a needle going through your arm.

Not that closing your eyes made it go away. But he was still trying really hard to make it happen.

Eventually the water started running cold. He turned off the taps, shivering and clenching his teeth together.

He reached for a towel and wrapped it low around his waist, unwilling to let it anywhere near his back.

His pajamas were waiting on the chair beside the bed, neatly folded t-shirt and pajama pants. Alec tried to dry off as much as possible and stepped into the bottoms, but couldn't bring himself to shrug into the cotton shirt.

For one night, he could sleep without a shirt. It's not like anyone was here to see. And he wasn't a glutton for punishment. Peeling the shirt off the freshly opened up scratches along his back was not his idea of a good time. Better to be a little cold and half-covered up than intentionally put himself through any more pain.

Gingerly, Alec climbed into bed, turning his head sideways on the pillow, lying down on his stomach, arms out at his sides at a slight angle, trying to relax the muscles down his back. Breathe in, breathe out. Shudder through the burn of the marks cut into his flesh.

The pain is a constant. It never fades.

Alec was having trouble sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes, the pain just seemed to intensify. He knew there was no poison in the nails of this particular demon. Only the bite. It was just an ugly, hard-to-heal place. Healing never felt good, and it'd probably grow even more uncomfortable in the next day or so.

It had occurred to him as he suffered through the sting and throb that he should pick up his stele and try to draw an iratze. But where? On his hip? On his stomach? That still wouldn't be enough.

To have full effect, he'd have to draw it on his back and he wouldn't be able to tell an injured spot from an injured one, or correctly draw the rune from behind.

To manage it, he would need to get someone else's help. Isabelle or Jace. Or Clary.

And the thought of asking them for help, especially now – it wasn't an option. Besides, aside from sore muscles, the others hadn't come away injured. He was the only one. He was the big idiot of the night.

Obviously the time off hadn't left them any worse for wear. And flaunting that information, having to turn to them with the embarrassing evidence all down his back…well, it was too much. He'd rather suffer in silence than bare his bloody back to his family and ask them to patch up his careless mistake. It was a matter of pride. His back may be in tatters, but he still had that much.

Besides, if one more thing cut into the sensitive, broken skin of his back, he felt sure he would scream. Because he was holding it together by a string. He was quaking in bed, and biting his lip, and curling his fists.

And when the buzzing sensation tickled his hip, he almost groaned because he felt it all the way down his burning back.

He unclenched one fist and slid his hand across the blanket until he felt for his cell. Flipping it open, he answered the call after a moment.

"Hello?"

"Alec."

It was Magnus.

Still taking suggestions. This is all I've got so far.

Thanks for reviewing! I didn't even think anyone had read this yet!