A/N: Sorry about that! This isn't a crossover; my mouse just slipped.
Alec took them around the kitchenette, dining area and bathroom, before taking Clary to her bedroom.
"Because we currently have so few patients, you'll get your own room." Alec smiled indulgently at Clary, but the more he seemed to do it, the more cracks Clary began to see in it. It wasn't a genuine smile, one born out of professional necessity rather than actual happiness. "This is our residential space," He told the two, leading them down a narrow hallway, rows of closed doors on either side of them. Once more, the doors were modern, with a small rectangular pane of glass in them. The perfect size for someone to stop outside the door and spy upon the occupant.
"I don't suppose I could get a door without the peephole?"
Alec pulled a sympathetic face, "'Fraid not. It's a safety measure. This one is your one." They stopped at the last door on the left, and he opened it. Again, the décor of the room was stunning—high ceilings, delicately painted walls, and a large bay window with a window seat under it and all. But the furniture was modern and basic; one single bed and a plain white dresser. Once more Clary was slightly put out by the juxtaposition of old and new. You think they'd at least try getting gothic era furniture that suited the stunning style of the house. There was a full length mirror in the corner—but Clary could immediately tell it was fake reflective plastic as opposed to glass, like the little play hand mirrors that came with Barbie dolls. Too much risk that she'd smash open a real glass one and use a shard as a weapon against the staff during a psychotic episode. But disappointingly, Clary had never been very good at psychotic episodes or big blow-outs. She was the type to slowly die on the inside. It was much more dignified.
"No lock on the door?" Clary mused, and Alec again looked apologetic.
"Another safety precaution."
"Yes, I feel greatly safe knowing that not only can people watch me change from the hallway, they can also barge in as well." Clary drawled.
"Clary!" her mother scolded. And Alec shook his head in a 'no, it's alright' fashion.
"Should we go see the shared facilities? We do have a rather excellent leisure centre."
Turned out Alec was actually right—not only was there a fully equipped gym, but also a swimming pool and indoor court. Alec explained that it was shared between all the residents of the Fairchild Clinic, and one of the rare opportunities that all of the residents got to mix. Due to the freedom of Clary's ward, she was free to come down anytime she wanted, as long as she informed them at the nurse's station. Alec talked about it as though it was a great act of trust on the clinic's part, but he hadn't realised that she'd spotted the security cameras in each corner of the room.
"We believe exercise plays a great part in relaxation and recovery, so whenever you feel particularly frustrated, I encourage you to come down here. Even for a swim."
Clary frowned, "I didn't bring my swimsuit."
"I'll bring it out to you tomorrow." Jocelyn piped up.
He led them back up to the ward, and Clary listened out for any wailing or muttering in tongues. Unfortunately her knowledge of mental asylums—mostly derived from thriller and horror movies Simon had forced her to watch—seemed to be off, as the halls were silent as Alec led them back upstairs.
"That's the tour finished! Now we'll take you up to go through the usual admittance procedures, and you can do those alone."
The inflection in Alec's voice was obvious—it was time for Jocelyn to leave. Even though Clary had felt nothing but a bubbling sense of betrayal since her mother had backed her into a corner, she still felt a pang at the idea of sleeping in this unusual place—her mother a forty minute drive away. She didn't know if the pretty people upstairs would like her, she didn't know if they'd put sedatives in her food, and after watching that ghost documentary with Simon a few weeks before, she was almost certain a house this old would have a resident evil spirit who was determined on possessing Clary and make her climb the walls while hissing.
"I'll be back tomorrow with your swimsuit." Jocelyn promised, pulling Clary into a tight hug. Clary noticed that Alec had drifted off to give the two a private moment.
"I love you. Just hang in there." Her mother kissed her on the forehead. No matter how hurt, embarrassed, and betrayed Clary felt, she deeply and whole-heartedly loved her mother. The two had only grown closer after the events of the past year. But there were so many unspoken emotions between the two now, and their relationship had become fraught with complications. It was jarred, not as easy as it had been before.
"Love you too." Clary replied, trying to keep her voice from breaking.
Her mother pulled away, giving her a final kiss on the cheek before heading down the stairs.
Suddenly Alec was there, swiping his card to the ward.
"We've got to check your bag, but you can witness that. Then we'll do an evaluation—nothing to worry about." Alec tacked on quickly, as Clary's stomach dropped.
Two of the nurses took Clary into their office, where they unzipped every pocket of her bag.
"Nothing breakable in here?" one of them asked, and Clary took out her phone and laptop. They then up-ended the bag over the table. Clothes, a bottle of nail polish, a hairbrush, and Clary's deodorant and toothbrush, and a leg razor and Clary's sketchbook tumbled out, as they shook the bag to every inch of its life.
"You obviously can't take this in." One of the nurses said, holding up Clary's razor. She was an older woman, with light blonde hair tightly pulled back. Her nametag just said 'Imogen'. Clary figured the whole 'first names' thing was to keep up the relaxation vibe they were trying so hard to achieve. Imogen's face was hard, but not unkind, but Clary made a mental note not to cross her all the same.
"What do I shave with? Do you give me one in there?" Clary asked quietly, trying to keep the whining out of her voice. If they honestly expected her to go 'all natural' with boys on the ward…
"We can give you wax strips, or hair removal cream. But no razors." Imogen replied in a matter-of-fact way, and Clary had to concede.
"That's fine."
"You also can't take this." Imogen held up the nail polish, "It's in a glass bottle."
Clary opened her mouth to protest, but the other nurse cut in. She was young as well, with a sharp chin and distinctly striking face. Her badge read, 'Aline'.
"This is one of the only wards in the place that lets the residents have their own clothes and possessions, so we have to crack down pretty hard on things that come in. Sorry." She at least had the good grace to look apologetic.
"It's fine." Clary said with a sigh.
The other nurse grabbed Clary's notebook, shaking it hard. When nothing fell out, she quickly flicked through each page to check nothing was taped inside.
Clary opened her mouth once more to declare that the notebook was 'private' but it seemed in a place of security cameras and doors with glass panels, 'privacy' was just a word.
It wasn't as though Clary had drawn recently. The notebook had once acted like a diary of sorts, where she'd draw snapshots of the things flowing through her mind. But in the past year, the things she found flowing through her mind were not things she wanted to put on paper. Not only was there a risk of someone finding it, and seeing, but Clary didn't want to see it on paper, solidified. The events existed in a tightly locked away part of her brain for a reason, and even having to recall the detail enough to draw it wouldn't help.
"You can't take this in either." Aline held up a bobby pin.
Clary didn't even attempt to protest, and instead looked at each item in her bag as though she was a murderous psychopath—and imagined every item as a potential weapon. Then she began to see why the nurses were being so cautious.
"Your pencils, you can bring them in, but you'll only be given access to them during recreation time, or under supervision." Imogen stated, and Clary nodded.
After they made her empty her pockets, she was given a chart filled with various questions. They were all along the same tangent, 'how likely are you to hurt someone else', 'how likely are you to hurt yourself', and then she had to mark on a scale of one to five. Barely reading the questions, she circled zero for each one, before handing it back to Alec. He made a disapproving noise, but didn't question her.
Clary headed back to the recreation room, keen to bathe in the sunlight of the bay windows. In all the rooms of the ward so far, she felt the most comfortable in the recreation room. It was thankfully empty when she entered, and she positioned herself in the armchair bathed in the most light. Clary was almost like a housecat in that way—you'd always find her curled up in the warmest corner of the house, eyes closed.
"The rec room is always the sunniest."
The voice had appeared out of nowhere, and it gave Clary such a start that she nearly fell backwards in the armchair. Opening her eyes, she found Jace, the boy from earlier, lounging in a sofa across from her. If Clary was a housecat, then Jace was a lion. The sunlight made the golden hair around his head sparkle faintly like an ethereal mane, and his body was languidly stretched out across most of the sofa. But even though his body language was relaxed, his eyes were in narrowed in on her, watching her with a silent intensity. She hadn't even heard him enter.
"So what are you in here for?" he said lightly, and Clary's mouth gaped open. Was this standard procedure for psych wards? Did each patient tell each other their issues? Or had she missed out on picking up the sticker that said 'Hello, My Name Is Basket Case'?
Clary's mouth popped open and shut a few times, before she felt her eyes narrowing.
"What are you in here for?" she responded, and his analytic expression turned to one of sardonic amusement,
"I was trying to find the café and I made a wrong turn. I've been here since." He said lightly, waiting for Clary's response.
A ripple of annoyance went through Clary. He wasn't going to tell her his issues, but he'd set up a trap in which she almost told him hers. Not to mention Clary could literally feel the waves of superiority and smugness that he was emanating off him. The longer Jace sat there, the less Clary seemed to like him. Two can play at that game.
"I was framed for a murder, by the local mafia. I pleaded innocent and they thought I was mad." She responded haughtily, and she watched a little smile play on his lips. She doubted people indulged his games often.
"You don't want to be making jokes like that around Imogen. She'll hook you right up to the ECT machine." Jace said
Clary felt her mouth pop open, earning a dark laugh from Jace,
"You're not gullible at all, are you?"
Smug prick. In all fairness he'd had her for a second, until she saw his serious expression begin to crack.
"Relax, we're not looneys. I mean, Magnus does tend to think that he's an immortal wizard sometimes, but we're entirely sane usually." He grinned.
"I think I'm a warlock, not a wizard." A voice corrected from the shadows, and Magnus stepped out through the doorway into the sun, "And that's only when I'm not on my meds. They're called 'illusions of grandeur' says Dr. Starkweather."
Jace rolled his eyes, "He does like his fancy Freud terms doesn't he? Where I come from, we call 'illusions of grandeur' being a posh wanker."
Magnus tutted, rolling his eyes at Jace. Clary had to admit, if anyone were to be an allusion of grandeur, it would be Magnus. He was much taller than he'd appeared sitting down, and the sunlight streaming in through the windows caught the glitter that almost seemed embedded in his skin.
"'Posh Wanker Syndrome' I'm so glad you diagnosed me Dr. Wayland. Schizophrenia was going out of fashion anyway." Magnus drawled in an unamused voice.
Jace grinned sarcastically, rising from the couch and stretching his muscles, "Great. Now pay me seven hundred dollars."
"It's dinner time Clary." Magnus nodded in her direction, and Clary looked about confusedly.
"But the sun is still out? It's barely six?"
Jace bit back a mocking grin, "It's five thirty. Clary, you've got to think of this place as retirement home practice. We get fed early, put to sleep early, and there's such high turnover rates that people don't complain."
Magnus shot Jace a look, "When Jace says 'high turnover rate' he means because people leave the clinic, not the mortal plane, like in retirement homes."
Jace had a malicious glint in his eye, "I don't know Magnus, quite a few meet their ends at the ECT machine."
Magnus took a moment to call Jace a few very naughty words. In response Jace shrugged, heading for the dining hall, leaving Magnus and Clary alone.
"I'm sorry about him." Magnus sighed, "He's a shit stirrer if ever I saw one, but for some reason he's taking a particular delight in winding you up. Just ignore him until he gets over it. Believe or not—and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't—he's actually a nice guy under all the arrogant bravado bullshit. And I promise you, they don't do shock therapy here, and there is no ECT machine. And I know that's exactly what I'd say if there was a secret ECT machine, but you'll have to take my word."
Clary laughed, and it felt like the first time in a long time, "Don't worry, I believe you."