A/N: Hello, all!
So here's the post-cliffhanger(s) chapter! It's also back up to length, which is great and owed, so here you go. There's also a small surprise for you wondrous readers that's long overdue for putting up with my antics.
Constructive crit is wonderful!
Beta-ed by the marvelous RedCoral.
"So you wanna play with magic."
Normally Jace's flat voice would compete with Katy Perry's, but the song is quietly relegated to a background noise.
"Boy, you should know what you're falling for."
His knuckles are white against the steering wheel as he drives to the Lightwood house. Jace finished with the apartment not ten minutes ago and sent the team assisting him on its merry way. Its members likely headed back to the station to await another call, or perhaps they hunted down some food along the way back.
He, however, has a much more important mission at hand. He hasn't heard back from anyone yet, which is oxymoronically comforting and disconcerting. Does this mean nothing's happened yet? Does it mean something has but no one's been able to contact him? Or could it mean that the situation is ongoing?
If the fruitless findings of the apartment were anything to go by, he'd say that the house situation is much the same. Then again, it could serve as one giant distraction; he refuses to believe that.
Impatient with the slowly moving traffic, Jace moves to turn on his signal. Although technically he isn't responding to something, he could still justify its use. He's assisting in a possible hostage crisis.
It's just before he activates it that his phone blares over Katy Perry's "'Cause I'm coming at you like a dark horse.'"
Jace takes his eyes off the road for a moment to grope for his phone, and the vibrating and screeching device soon is soon captured. Although he doesn't notice Clary's large name emblazoned on the screen, he taps his phone to accept the call.
"Jace Wayland."
There are undiscernible, bickering voices on the other end.
All of a sudden, one becomes drastically clearer and familiar. "Hi, Jace? It's Clary."
A sigh of relief escapes him. They're finally calling him back. "What happened? Is Max okay?"
"I – don't know."
The moment of reprieve is replaced with a fearful trepidation.
"You don't know?" His voice is rising as he speaks, and he takes a left.
"I don't know. Alec, Magnus, Sarah, and Fred went into the house, and Sarah just called in for backup and paramedics. Sheriff Starkweather didn't tell us the details, but he told me to tell you to hurry back."
A pause. A moment's hesitation.
"Listen, I'm on my way. I should be there in about fifteen minutes."
"Be fast but be safe. See you then."
"Yeah."
When the conversation disconnects, Jace swears loudly into the car and turns on his sirens. If this isn't adequate reason, he doesn't know what is.
White erupts and engulfs his vision, heralding an explosion in his knee, and unintelligible sounds rage in his ears. The exterior world is muffled, leaving him and his excruciating pain suspended in a white fury. Or is it black? He isn't sure, nor is he certain how it got here. How did he get there? He'd been at home moments before, reliving his childhood in their father's study, finding Max during a typical game of intense hide-and-seek.
Max.
Alec's eyes shoot open, and he's startled by the sudden world that's surrounding him. The colors are swirling together, fading from one to another, forming images. That's right; that's what the real world looks like; that's what vision is. He blinks, the sharp pain in his knee momentarily buzzing in the back of his mind, and he scours the shapes, the hues for his younger brother.
He feels bile forming in the back of his throat as he first finds the officer he came in withpressed up against the wall, blood staining his side. Yet the shallow, labored, pained breathing indicates his liveliness. Despite the knowledge, that little comfort, he still feels nauseous. If they don't get help, they won't last much longer. With an increasingly sickening pang, Alec hopes no one does come.
Magnus would be among the rescue party.
With the growing threat of illness, Alec continues to search for Max, for any sign of him. He attempts to prop himself up from the carpet – when had he gotten on the floor? – and promptly falls back against it as a jolt springs from his knee and his head swims. It elicits a yelp from the man, and he squeezes his eyes closed, bites his lip to the point of tasting blood, and waits for the wave to pass.
There are voices, he vaguely notices, but its implications don't dawn on him right away. Instead he's relishing the stable blackness behind his eyelids and tries to suppress the pain coursing throughout him. There are shouts, new voices, followed by muffled gunshots.
Then the cacophony of shattering glass breaks the monotonous sounds, forcing him to reluctantly open his eyes and assess the scene. With a fearful pang, one that rivals the searing pain in his knee, Alec notes his partner in the doorway, jaw set, complexion paled, gun lowering slowly. Behind him is the woman he split with, muttering rapidly into her radio.
No, no, no. Jonathan is here.
Nausea wets his mouth, and he forces it back down with a swallow.
Where is Jonathan?
Before he knows it, Magnus is at his side, muttering words that make no sense to Alec. Could they be Indonesian? It's his native language after all, and he tends to mutter to himself in it when he's stressed – which doesn't happen often. Perhaps it has some sort of calming agent to it. Now that he thinks of it, he's certain he'd be able to reassure himself better in English than in a hypothetical understanding of Indonesian.
"Alec."
He wonders if Magnus would be willing to teach him Indonesian. After all, it could be fairly useful, but, on the other hand, Alec wonders if it'd be a touchy subject for him.
Speaking of touchy, there's a strange weight shifting down his leg and –
Alec curses loudly as his knee springs into flames, clenching his eyes shut yet again and battling the urge to vomit tooth and nail. However the odor of copper infiltrates his nose and its metallic flavor invades his mouth, adding further to push him over that edge. He isn't sure how it happened, but he's on his back now, which worsens the throbbing he now realizes is present in his head. No wonder the room is so sickening.
"Alexander," the voice tries again, and Alec curses it away. It brought the pain to his knee – is still clutching it there – so he has to show it his complete and utter discontent.
"Alexander Lightwood," the sternness in his voice clicks somewhere in Alec's reeling mind, and he he dares to peek through the sliver of cracked eyelids.
That's right. Magnus is there.
"Max," he manages to croak through a dry mouth. Angel, he's thirsty. "How's Max?"
Magnus blinks, but anything else he does Alec doesn't catch; he closes his eyes lest he wishes his stomach to finally betray him. It's been threatening him enough.
"Don't worry about Max right now."
"Magnus…"
"Alexander, listen to me…"
"No! You listen to me!" Alec's eyes spring open, and he whips his head to better see his partner; that was a horrible mistake on his part as both the light and movement send him wheeling (or as much as he can laying down). Perhaps he should be lying on his side instead. He swears yet again.
"Don't move. You're most likely concussed, and you've been shot in the knee."
"Then Max."
Although he's sure he knows the answer at this point. Why would Magnus try so hard to keep from telling him? Why wouldn't someone be helping him?
Silence.
"… He was shot, wasn't he?"
More silence.
"Killed?"
As the sounds of footsteps thrum from nothing into a nearing roar, Alec turns and deposits his copper-infused breakfast on his father's bloodied rug – despite the excruciating protests from his knee, his head, and Magnus.
It's eerily quiet in Alec's pleasant, black world, contrasting to the hectic asylum it provided earlier. It's less tumultuous than the ride to Angel knows where, but thankfully something allowed Magnus to stay through the ordeal. Jonathan indeed hadn't gotten to him – although he's still out and at large – but at least…
Max.
Alec's eyes shot open, stunning him with the sheer sterile white of the walls, bringing his attention to the distinct scent of disinfectant.
He blinks once, twice, three times to force the rest of the room into view. It does so, but incredibly slowly. The colors twirl and meld, stabilizing and sharpening, and the bleached white sheets on his bed wrinkle into focus. It's exactly how he imagines a hospital room should look like.
Alec turns his gaze from the bed to the rest of the room. A television hangs, images are flashingnoiselessly across the screen; curtains are shoved to the side of some machinery; a window indicates it's sometime in the day, but Angel knows what time exactly; and to his left, occupying one of three chairs, sleeps his sister.
Alec shifts to sit up but hisses as a sharp pain shoots through his immobilized knee. That's right. Instead, he sinks back down onto his back and waits for it to subside, for the wave to flow away. It takes a moment for his knee to ease to a dull, muffled roar, one most likely induced by painkillers of some sort. He's surprised his head isn't throbbing, too, but he attributes that to some divine miracle. Or the same painkillers.
When Alec looks back over to Isabelle, he finds widened, brown eyes staring back at him, relief flooding them. "You're alive, you jerk! You had us all scared!"
"It's just a shot to the knee and probably a concussion…" It sounds strange paired with his voice. The sheer absurdity of being stranded in the hospital after such a confrontation is bizarre to him. This is something that happens in movies, to the most skilled and daring of the agents, and they were supposed to be more climactic. Not like this, and not result in the possible death of one of the good guys.
"Just!? Alexander Lightwood," he flinches, "we got a phone call ordering us to the hospital with no explanation except that there'd been an incident, and, when we got there, we were told you were undergoing surgery to fix that 'just shot' knee of yours, it needed reconstruction mind you, and actually did have a concussion; the one guy you were with was being treated for the bullet wound in his side; and Max…"
She's livid. The relief that that filled those brown eyes is replaced with frustration, with worry that had been building up for however long he'd been under, with emotions that need to pour out. Alec has nothing to say to comfort her; any questions or verification he may have had were answered or fled with her small tirade.
Max is for sure dead.
He knows he'll hear it officially from someone sooner or later – Magnus avoided answering his question back at the Lightwood house, and Isabelle couldn't finish that phrase – and Alec desperately hopes for later. He can't face it, not yet, not when Max can still appear in the doorway. Not when he could've done something, acted faster, reacted smarter, done something differently that could've spared them from this situation.
"And Magnus. I swear I've never seen that man like that before, and I didn't think he was capable." Isabelle shakes her head in disbelief.
Alec's confused. "What do you mean?"
She studies him, and he sinks under her gaze slightly. It's a scrutinizing, heavy look where he feels she's boring into him, searching him for something. What forhe isn't sure, but for something private, secret. "I've never seen him that worked up before. I'm kind of thankful we were in the hospital with him, otherwise who knows what could've happened. He nearly strangled a poor lunch lady in the cafeteria after a minor slip up that was his own fault, and then he didn't really eat his food. He never even said much either or do his usual touch ups. Even that's amazing because we had to drag him out of here to eat, and I had to shove him out to actually get some rest. I didn't even know that was possible with him."
Alec watches her as she speaks, lips tightening, eyes dropping, thoughts racing. "He was helpless."
"And he cares about you. Magnus was scared to death even though we knew you'd be okay." She rises to her feet. "I'll come back and see you later, but, now that we're talking about him, I should probably hunt him down and prove that you're awake before he terrorizes some poor nurse or doctor… And tell a doctor that you're awake. But! I swear, if you ever try something like that again, there will be no hope for you."
With that lovely ending note Isabelle departs the room, mission under her feet, and leaves Alec alone.
There's a knock on the door that pulls Alec sharply from the flashing television, his blessed reprieve from the world word, and his eyes snap to the incoming woman. "Mr. Lightwood?"
"Alec," he corrects quickly, studying her deep tan skin, her dark brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, her long strides into the room and his file at the foot of his bed. "I prefer Alec."
"Alec," she starts, tugging a clipboard and some papers from it. She skims them, scribbles something, and turns her attention back to the patient. "I'm Dr. Jani, and I will be your primary doctor during your stay."
Dr. Jani. Got it.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been shot," he deadpans, but he receives a scolding look from her. Magnus probably would've appreciated the dry humor he just mustered. "My knee hurts, but my head surprisingly doesn't."
She nods, writes on the clipboard. "How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten?"
"Probably about a six."
"A six," she repeats, jots, and then looks back up at him. "Do you feel any other pain? Anything feel strange?"
Alec shakes his head. To be honest, no. Nothing else feels out of the ordinary, which in itself is kind of strange. Considering everything, he imagines there must be some sort of ground shattering difference, some sort of worldwide shift. But no. Everything's the same. Nothing's changed.
Except Max – who he should've been able to protect.
Except the other guy – who he shouldn't have endangered like that.
Except him – who probably deserves all this and should thank karma.
And Jonathan's still out there – who is probably laughing his blond head off.
"Alec," the voice urges him back toward the world continuing around him, the world that doesn't pause to give its inhabitants a moment's relief, a moment's solitude.
"Yes? Sorry?"
"We have to talk about that knee of yours."
Alec blinks, furrows his brows. He should have been expecting a conversation like this, but he can't seem to keep up with what's been happening within the past twenty four hours. Is it twenty four hours? "My knee?"
Dr. Jani nods solemnly, pulls the chair Isabelle was previously seated in next to his bed, and she rests the clipboard on her lap. "As you know, your knee was shot. When you got here, we found that the bullet did some significant damage – although not enough to warrant an amputation. That's sometimes necessary due to so many critical pieces in the knee." Her rising voice, the increasing pace of her speech, her changing register hint at nerves. Now that he gets a better look at her, she appears young; her features lack the wrinkles that many experienced medical visages don, her eyes still hold a glimmer of inexperience, and her anxiousness. She's still a fairly new doctor. "Luckily for you, the bullet missed some of those very vital parts of your knee, so we were able to reconstruct it and save your leg. Unfortunately for you, recovery will be a long and painful process. We can talk about that more when you have family or friends here." She's phenomenal at maintaining eye contact, which is an issue Alec has; he's currently watching his fingers fiddle with the sheets. "But there's something you need to know. You will be able to walk again, but not with the same mobility or ease as before."
Alec blinks up to her, confused. He'll berate himself for his lack of ability to connect the dots in the future to come. "What do you mean?"
She inhales sharply and sighs. "You'll leave the hospital with crutches, and you'll have to undergo physical therapy. It's unlikely you'll regain your full range of motion, and you'll probably have issues with pain and stiffness for the rest of your life. At some point you'll want to invest in a cane for bad days, and you'll still have a limp on good days."
Alec stares at her. No, no, no.
"Then again, that's if things go according to how we predict." She shrugs. "It could always turn out better or worse."
He swallows a panicked lump, and she shifts in her chair. "Please know that we have an extensive support system at the hospital. We have professionals in both physical and psychological therapy, in religion, in whatever you may need. As your doctor, I'm also here to help you, and it seems like you have a very supportive family and friends. Remember you aren't alone, and there's always someone willing to help."
Alec's mouth feels dry suddenly, unable to work the clawing at his throat away, and his mind is empty of things to say. Although he's lucky enough to keep his leg, he's never going to experience the same mobility he's used to. Is he going to be demoted to some desk position? What about the case? So many questions, ones he can't voice, swarm his mind. He should've known a knee injury like that would limit him.
"Do you have any questions?" she's tentative now, likely off her mentally rehearsed speech. Alec notes that he likes her; she seems earnest and approachable.
"I… Not right now," is what Alec succeeds to say, and he bites his lip for a moment before speaking again. It feels weird against his strained vocal cords. "Can I ask you if I come up with any?"
Dr. Jani nods assuredly. "Of course. If you need anything, there's a button on your bed rail. A nurse will come in, but if you need me, just let them know."
He licks his lips, noticing how dry they were as well. He'll have to ask for some water at some point. "Great. Thank you."
Dr. Jani rises to her feet, deposits his file at in the folder at the end of his bed, and studies him a moment longer. "We'll give you something for the pain at dinner. It's better to take it with food."
Genuinely pleased at that one tidbit of good news, Alec forces a small smile. If it keeps the pain dulled – if it even scaled it back a bit more – he would be happy. "Great. Thank you."
She smiles in return. "Remember, if you need me, let a nurse know, and I'll see you later, Alec."
Dr. Jani places her pen in her pocket and, as Magnus enters the room, she leaves. Talk about impeccable timing (or courtesy on Magnus's part), and Alec finds himself fiddling with the ungodly white sheets once again.
The ungodly white sheets that keep him strapped to the uncomfortable, restraining, confining, cursed bed in the hellhole of a hospital. He gasps as he fights off a sob, fights back the clenching in his throat, combats the burning in his eyes, and represses his overwhelming emotion, shoving it back into the recesses of his jumbled mind. If it could stay there, stay until he can reorganize his thoughts, he may be able to somehow salvage his sanity. Angels knows that's one of the only things he has left at this point.
"Alec…" Magnus starts, sitting in that ever popular chair. And him.
His voice pulls Alec from his mental fit, and he banishes a leaking wetness in his eyes with his palm. It's strange hearing Magnus at such a tentative loss for words, so it forces Alec's gaze up; it forces him to meet those stunning eyes. His breath hitches, but whether it's from his foolish infatuation with the man, being caught in such a vulnerable predicament, or a mixture of the two he isn't sure.
But, if one thing's for certain, Isabelle was right. The eyeliner that usually surrounds those amazing eyes is smudged, faded, much like the eye shadow he apparently applied. His artfully perfected hair is a disheveled mess, and, now that Alec notices with a slight lurch in his stomach, most of his lip gloss (or whatever he put on that morning) is mostly licked away.
He somehow manages to swallow, raising his eyes to meet Magnus's once again.
Alec's voice is croaky, strained with the effects of the recent news, but he still manages a, "Hello, Magnus."
And, all at once, Magnus seems to deflate. The worry, anxiety, frustration, and whatever else may have apparently been lingering within the man vanished. A small smile tugs at his lips; a warmth sparks in his eyes.
"I see Dr. Jani got to you before I did," he recalls, watching Alec closely. The patient shifts under the gaze, turns his eyes back down to the sheets.
"She did. Nice woman. Did she tell you anything?"
He glances up fast enough to see Magnus hesitate before nodding. It figures. "She did. How are you managing?"
Alec exhales sharply, shrugs. "I'm not sure yet to be honest. There's too much to process at once." It's partial truth; the ramifications of the news have yet to sink in fully, so it's a dreamlike, distant awareness. Yet, at the same, he knows that it'll jeopardize his position in the case, it'll affect his near-future career, and who knows what else in the long run. It's in deprecating humor that he realizes the irony in the phrase "long run".
Magnus nods in understanding. "That's to be expected – a lot happened – but just make sure you focus on getting better. I can't have my partner out of commission for long. Who's going to keep me from going overboard?"
Something springs into a sudden, realistic clarity for Alec. "Magnus, I'm probably not going to be a field agent anymore." The fear grips his stomach, squeezes, and his expression turns fearful.
Magnus shakes his head. "Nonsense. You're a hell of an agent, and I'll fight for you. I wouldn't have anyone else."
Something's clawing at Alec's throat yet again, and he swallows at an attempt at discouraging it. It does very little to help. So he gives speaking a try, his voice scratchy and buzzing in his throat. "I… Uh… Thank you... But that still doesn't mean I'll stay on the case. They might not listen, and there are a lot of other –"
"Alexander," the name falls of Magnus's tongue smoothly, "listen to me. You're the only person I'm willing to work with, and I'll make that very clear to them. They can't lose me, Alec. I'm too valuable with what we're dealing with."
Alec snorts and rolls his eyes despite his anxiety, despite the fears surfacing, despite how increasingly real things are becoming. "If you say so, Mr. Modesty."
"Seriously," Magnus smiles slightly and reassuringly. "They wouldn't get rid of Agent Bane even if he requested so humbly the world!"
A small laugh escapes Alec despite his overwhelming urge to let his body take control, to succumb to an anguished-racked fit.
Then there's another silence, an odd, different sort of silence considering he's with Magnus, and he isn't sure what to do about it. So he drops his gaze once again to the sheer white of the sheets and his pale fingers entwined in it.
And then, before he can register what's happening, before he has a moment to react, he's engulfed in long, warm, sandalwood scented, protective arms. Alec's face is buried in a shoulder, he's bent in an awkward position, and he's trying to keep his knee from flaring up. Yet he feels comfortable; he feels safe; he closes his eyes and allows himself to be enveloped in the cozy comfort.
"And, just so you know," the words tickle against his ear, rustles his hair, "if you pull something like that again I'll confiscate your bow."
Alec's response is muffled into Magnus's shoulder. "It's back at home. I rented one when Jace and I went to the range. Good luck."
"You doubt me. I can always make a day trip back, and, remember, I do have friends back there."
Alec snorts, but does little to move. "I will sabotage your makeup collection."
"It's a small price to pay."
This prompts Alec to pull away, to give him a bewildered expression. "My bow probably isn't anywhere near as valuable as all of your makeup, and that says a lot."
Magnus settles him with a stern look, eyes forcing Alec's undivided attention, and he stares for a long moment. "But if it teaches you not to scare me like that again. My makeup for sanity and you!"
Alec laughs lightly, happy to have the action rippling through his torso, and smiles at his partner. "Drama queen."
"You know it," Magnus chirps, a smile cracking on his lips. He then pauses abruptly, as if light bulb suddenly illuminated some epiphany, and his smile grows. "Chartres."
Alec furrows his brows, smile faltering. "What?"
Magnus blinks as if brought back into the world, and then he positively grins. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Speaking of which, I do believe this is yours."
From seemingly nowhere – and Alec will wonder for years really from where – Magnus procures his scarf, the one he left with the sheriff before heading into the house, the one Magnus gave him earlier. His newfound comfort blanket.
"Had to keep it safe, you know?" Magnus unravels the article and captures Alec with it. Alec reacts, startled, by pulling back against the cloth on his neck, and then he smiles. "I don't think I'll find another scarf like this, one that'll bring out those beautiful eyes so well."
Alec swallows, licks his lips, and fights for words. "Well, it's a good thing you kept it."
Magnus positively purrs. "I suppose it is, and it's practical."
Alec nods in response. "It is. It's very warm."
The other smirks. "That's not what I mean. I think it's time to say 'screw it'." And, with that, Alec's following questioning is curtailed by a swift tug to the scarf, his toppling forward again, and a sort of closeness he's only imagined with Magnus before; the unusually ruffled man's lips are against his own.
It's different than he'd been imagining, fantasizing, dreaming. How, Alec isn't sure. Magnus's lips are soft and warm, a sharp contrast to his own chapped and bitten lips; they remain there for a long moment, one that a taken aback Alec will come to wish no end to; Alec's eyelids flutter close. Butterflies flit around in his stomach, heating a flame that rises to illuminate his cheeks, one that'll lift him into a happy, otherworldly state.
When Magnus does pull back, a beam lighting up his demeanor, he watches Alec for yet another moment. Alec feels as though he should be self-conscious, but he doesn't. Instead he grins back, eyes crinkling around the edges, and pulls Magnus back for another kiss.
Alec's surprised at how tasty the pudding is. Normally he isn't such an avid fan of the weirdly creamy dessert, but this. This is heaven in a portion cup; this is the meaning of life; this is what dreams are made of.
And he's fairly certain that, when it's completely gone, he'd trade the kisses with Magnus for another helping.
Well, maybe not, but he's in a hospital injured, so he's allowed to be a little uncharacteristically dramatic. Maybe it's Magnus rubbing off on him.
So he's mourning the loss of the extraordinarily scrumptious pudding when a new man walks into the room, no knock of warning or the like, and stops at the foot of his bed.
Alec peers up from the pudding cup and freezes. It's his boss.
"Sir," Alec starts and straightens his back, all thoughts and sadness concerning the tragic disappearance of the dessert deserting him.
The man is rigid, hard, icy grey eyes weighing Alec down onto the bed, and calculating. "Agent Lightwood," he begins after a long moment. "Your partner, Agent Bane, is a tenacious one. He insisted you should remain on the case with him."
Alec swallows. His heart sinks as the man speaks. So it's happening after all. Maybe the man's playing a cruel trick on him, leading him one way only to swap directions at the very end. Maybe he'll tell him it'll be okay; he can stay on the case. He can stay with Magnus.
"However, I must resign you from the case. You are in no condition to continue it, considering your injury and recent loss, and we need completely able-bodied and sound of mind individuals conducting the field work. Please keep in mind that this is both for your safety and the safety of the agents involved."
Alec nods, pushing down a ball welling in his throat. It can't be. No, no, no. It can't be. Sure, he has a shot knee – in both senses of the phrase – but he's perfectly sound of mind. He's still capable.
"I have already informed Sheriff Starkweather. You'll be happy to know that I do have some good news, though."
Alec blinks at him but unable to say anything. His throat his rebelling, his mouth isn't working, the part of his brain responsible for producing something, anything to say blank.
"Provided you recover swiftly and adequately, Magnus and you will be partners again. He made it clear that'd be the only way he'd operate, and, to be honest, you two excel as a team. So, for his sake, I recommend you get well soon."
Alec nods silently, the man is studying him, calculating, probably plotting how to take whatever else Alec had away. His brother, his knee, his case.
Figuring it's probably better to leave, the man steps out of the room without a word more. So he comes in, drops a load of metaphorical bricks onto Alec in thirty seconds, and leaves.
It's almost cruel how quick everything can change, how anything and everything can be ripped away at once, how utterly wicked the universe can be. He protests orders once, once, and gets things to go his way, and it goes awry. Max is killed because Jonathan sees it as a way of knocking them off kilter, and, during those stunned seconds after, demobilizes them. Those excruciatingly long seconds that ticked by muffled, slowed. In those seconds, those critical and few seconds, everything changed. He shakes his head, pushes that vague, blurry memory away. On the other hand, maybe it's something he has to learn from.
Maybe it's his fault Max is dead, his knee is incapacitated, Fred is somewhere else in this sterile prison, and Jonathan is Angel knows where.
So maybe it is a good thing he's no longer a part of this.
Maybe it's best left to Magnus and someone else to figure out what to do after all.
Maybe he is better at a desk job after all where no one is depending on him with their life, where things can go so horribly wrong.
Alec wipes away at his burning eyes, surprised by the wetness his hands brush away. Even his own body's rebelling against him, unsatisfied with his command. Fine, eyes, tear. Fine, throat, clench and ache with emotion. Fine, lungs, convulse with the intent of expelling any demons within him; it's not like they'll come out anyway. Fine, knee, throb with each jolt the sobs emit throughout his body, serving as a constant reminder.
It's almost cruel how, in a single day, he can go from confused to foreboding to elated to crushed by the world, by everything. It's almost cruel how life seems to be a rollercoaster he just can't get off, only hang on and hope he doesn't crash.
Then again, maybe he just experienced that fiery collision.
Alec looks to the doorway once more in the vain hope that Max would appear, that one casualty of the chaos is nothing more than a wicked joke.
Alec manages to convince Magnus to retrieve him some more pudding, because Angel knows that's what he needs most at the time. Isabelle and Jace, on the other hand, remain at his bedside, poking and prodding words at each other, making snide remarks, and being their typical self. It doesn't take long for Clary to join in uniform, visibly pleased to be off her feet and in a relaxed state.
He vaguely wonders if they sense it, too: the shift, the sudden clarity that nothing is fixed, nothing is permanent, and that everything can slip away so easily. He wonders if they know that Jonathan is still out there. No, they have to. How couldn't they? They'd surely know if he were incarcerated.
And even if Jonathan were in jail, there's still the question of the Shadowhunters, the Downworlders, the Circle, the Clave, and whatever else there is. Are they really still out there? What does it mean in the grand scheme of things? What could possibly be happening in that world? Where's the FBI's place in it all?
Everything's changing, even if the eye can't see it, even if the perspective is blind. He'll have to find out what's happening, hopefully to prevent more unnecessary deaths like the ones they've been investigating. Deaths like Max…
And then it dawns on him. The people he needs to talk to, the people who know things, the people who owed him explanations long ago.
Mom, Dad, and Magnus. Speaking of which, where were his parents?
"Earth to Alec! Are you there?" the voice cuts through his thoughts, and he blinks rapidly, focusing on Isabelle. Her deep eyes are trained on him, brows furrowed in mild concern. They quickly fall back up to their resting position as Jace sighs dramatically.
"You know, if you don't wish to be blessed by our gracious presence, you could have told us to leave." The mocking woe is laced in his voice.
"I think the only gracious presence here will be the return of Magnus with my pudding," Alec deadpans.
Jace scoffs. "You here that, Isabelle? We've been demoted to a new low! We're below pudding!" A sniffle.
"You know, I don't blame him. I think I'd prefer pudding to you anytime." Isabelle smirks. "I mean, Clary and I aren't so bad, but you."
"Excuse me, I'm an adored angel!" Jace looks downright affronted at such a baseless accusation.
Clary shrugs in her seat, reclined comfortably. "I'd have to agree with her. Sorry."
"I thought you loved me!"
Clary lazily looks at him. "It doesn't mean I can't think pudding is heaven's gift to mankind."
The Pudding Wars, as Alec so eloquently dubs it, continues between the two romantics, and he turns to his sister. "Where are Mom and Dad?"
Isabelle's amusement of the squabble falters, and she runs a hand through those dark locks. "They're working out details for what's going to happen with Max. They need to set dates, talk to people, and plan," he wonders if she's intentionally being that vague. With the vagueness comes a sense of distance, of fantasy, of the possibility of Max hopping into the room and joining them. "They said they'll come to visit you tonight, and they're happy that you're conscious, but they need to take care of Max."
Alec smiles at her, although he isn't sure who he's trying to reassure most and for what. Her to show he isn't mad, her to show that it'll be alright, to show her he's sorry, to show himself he isn't upset, to show himself it isn't his fault, to show himself it's going to be okay, and the list continues. "Don't worry. I understand."
Isabelle returns the same smile as Clary and Jace continue to bicker in the background, as Magnus returns with the pudding, as they are reintegrated into the group musings.
They, however, don't stay for much longer. Alec pauses, hesitant, as he watches his troupe file out the room, pudding still untouched in his hands. Suddenly his voice betrays him, an increasingly common occurrence. "…Magnus?"
The man stops in the doorway, peers back with a curious, raised brow. "Yes, Alexander?"
His lips work, but his voice suddenly doesn't seem to want to produce anything anymore. It's rebellious, sounding when it wants toand not when it doesn't, completely disregarding his own needs. Since when has it become sentient?
He finally croaks, coughs to clear his throat, and tries again. "Could we talk? Could I ask you some things?"
Magnus's brows dip further together, but he nods and returns to Alec's bedside. "Anything. What do you need to know?"
Alec sucks in a breath, a deep inhale, before beginning ever so carefully. "I would like to ask you about your involvement with my parents before," his words are slow and meticulous, "and I would like to know what you know about the Downworlders and the Shadowhunters."
Magnus is eerily quiet, lips pressed into a thin line, and he sits. "I don't know if that's such a good idea..."
Alec stares at him incredulously, and suddenly the anger ignites in him like gasoline. "Not a good idea?! Max is dead, my knee was destroyed, now I'm off the case, and you're clearly hiding something from me! 'Not a good idea' would be not telling me whatever's going on!" He's leaning forward, leaning toward Magnus, and his knee's protesting, screaming with the fury. Not that it matters much; his anger, frustration, his pent up emotions are bursting.
"I don't know if you made a connection, or if you've coincidentally placed them together," he finally starts, "but there is a relationship there."
Really? Alec's silent, but his blue gaze is prodding, unwavering, stubborn.
"Before we were partnered, back when I was still a rookie agent, I was one of the agents in a case dealing with the Shadowhunters and Downworlders. We thought they'd been long gone, destroyed, but we were wrong." Magnus shifts his gaze to his own hands as he speaks. "It was bloody, we had no idea what the scale of the issue was, and, by the time we had the situation partly under control, small factions long believed dead were gaining momentum again. We knew we wouldn't be able to take either side down – not yet – so we worked reconciliation and damage control. That's how I know your parents. They were once prominent Shadowhunter figures, but after their involvementin the Circle for some time, their reputation there had been severely compromised. Still they were useful tools in communicating with the Shadowhunters and gaining insight on the Circle."
"So…" Alec sounds, not tearing his eyes from the figure before him, "the Shadowhunters and Downworlders are still around," he lied to him about that, "my parents are in this," lie by omission, "you're involved in all this," another lie by omission, "and all of this is resurfacing in this case."
Magnus peers back up at Alec and nods. "That's pretty much it."
"So tell me," Alec continues, fingers tapping against the pudding cup, "how in the world did we get placed together? I mean, a Lightwood kid and someone who worked on that case." Then dawning flashes in his eyes, and he chuckles darkly. "It's so you could keep an eye on me, isn't it? Can't have him unsupervised, and who better than someone who's already very familiar with the situation."
"You make it sound harsher than it actually is. Yes, they initially put us together so I could watch you, but it became quickly clear that you knew nothing of what happened, therefore had no involvement or association." Magnus's words are sharp, crisp, concise.
Alec raises his brows. "So why keep us paired, then?"
Magnus continues without hesitation, squaring Alec with a dark look. "Because I insisted. I liked you, and we worked well together. I wasn't up for another reassignment."
A sigh from Alec, but he plows forward shortly after. "And then the case assignment. Is there any coincidence that these murders turned out to be linked to the Shadowhunters and Downworlders, or that we were put on it?"
Magnus shakes his head. "No. They weren't sure, but they had their hunches. They put us on it because of my link, and they thought your Lightwood status would protect you. Obviously it didn't, and it didn't help your brother at all. There they miscalculated."
"They miscalculated?" Alec challenges, incredulous, the ebbing anger flaring yet again. "It has nothing to do with miscalculation! You said my family was involved in this before, so –"
"They thought that Lightwoods were safe because of what's left of their status in the Shadowhunter sphere. The Circle's been compromised for some time, but they're still useful in predicting what they might do next. They were wrong about your identity protecting you unlike the other victims, and both your brother and you paid for it."
"You're not listening to me! Magnus!" Alec's voice is tight, his throat constricting on him. "There's more to what happened than that! Yes, you lied to me both blatantly and through omission! Yes, I'm thoroughly pissed! However, there's still more to what happened than what you're saying."
There's more that happened in the house: there's his insistence on scouting the house and hunting down Jonathan, there are his errors in confrontation, there are flaws in the way he reacted to the attack, and maybe, just maybe, if he had reacted faster. Then again, everything happened so fast, so would he have been able to change anything? Or was he just incompetent? Maybe it was a mixture of everything?
He shouldn't have challenged those orders, he shouldn't have gone through, and he should've thought faster when confronting Jonathan; he was definitely a responsible party.
"And, Alec, there's more to what happened than you know," Magnus replies, tone even, now leaning back in his chair.
Alec blinks at him, his brows nearing his hairline. "Then tell me."
"I… I don't know what I'm authorized to tell you, if I'm even allowed to tell you more, and I'm not sure what would be best to share yet."
Alec's stunned, silent for an abnormally long second, and then turns his attention to his pudding. His less than appealing pudding that does serve as a marvelous distraction. "Then get out."
"Alec –"
"I said get out. Now."
Magnus tries one more time, but Alec snaps his head up, his striking blue eyes sharp and enflamed. "Unless you want to explain the rest to me, you can get out of my room." Magnus is quiet, lips in a thin line, eyes hard. "And, please, don't come back until you're ready to actually speak to me. I'm not some delicate flower that needs protecting – just in case you were thinking of my apparent fragile state or my whole two years younger disadvantage or my Alec-ness." The world's narrowing into the present, his emotions, the situation at hand, the words.
"That's not what I was –"
"Then what?"
"What I can and should tell you are confidential, and I need to make sure I can start with what's most relevant first."
"So you're telling me I was on a case I didn't have clearance to know about? What sort of logic is in that?"
"… Yes."
"Get out."
"Alec, please…"
For a split second Alec wonders if his anger is justified, if his frustrations are really from Magnus or if he's just serving as a target, and how much hurt the situation really warrants. Do intentions count in this situation? Does policy count?
He then realizes that he doesn't care. The release relieves a weight from his chest, a weight he knows will return tenfold that night, but he needs that reprieve. Is that selfish of him?
Again, he doesn't care.
"Get out."
