I am not completely confident in this chapter...seeing as I typed it and posted it without rereading it...Sorry O.o it may or may not make sense and I may delete it and rewrite it...depending on the kinds of reviews...but it's fluffy and happy and I hope you enjoy it!
White sheets, white walls, white gowns, white trays—the reoccurring color scheme of the hospital appeared to be white. Pure, sterilized white coated everything, and Clary absolutely hated it. Her pallid surroundings had turned Clary's creamy complexion into pasty, nearly translucent skin. The blue veins that laced up her arms stood out, stark in contrast to her flesh. The usually brown freckles flecked her skin in a bright red, her nose and cheeks coated heavily in the crimson color.
Her head throbbed, a dull aching pain that did not even compare to the tearing feeling that she felt in her chest. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother's broken expression as she tried to civilly explain the reasoning for lying about Clary's bloodline. Clary still winced at the stone-cold voice that escaped her lips as she told her mother to leave, as she told her to not come back. She knotted her frail fingers into the tangled red curls that spilled across the pillow case, squinting her eyes against the tears threatening to fall.
It had been six hours since she'd found the truth, and she'd spent all three hundred and sixty minutes in wistful nostalgia, trying to decipher between the reality and fabrication of her childhood memories. Every cheerful event that she'd stored in her mind felt dishonest, felt more like a movie than her own life. Each seemingly picturesque moment of her life was just another thread of mendacity, weaving itself into the ever growing web of lies that was her existence. Even up until yesterday felt fake to her.
How could Luke not be her father? He was the man that had strapped on her elbow pads and helmet for the first time she'd ridden her bike. He'd been there to lift her up on his shoulders so that she could reach the branches of the apple trees in his parents' orchard. Luke had been there when she spoke her first words, when she learned to walk. He was the main character of her childhood fairytale, her five-year-old's knight in shining armor. Yet he was never her father. She increased the pressure on her hair, her breath heavy in the darkened room. A wall lamp glowed dully in the corner, and torrent raged outside the window. Clary barely noticed.
Branded against her eyelids was the scene from earlier. Every bat of an eyelid caused another wave of pain to ripple through her body, unyielding no matter how hard she tried to will it away. She'd attempted to seize blinking all together, the most simplistic, involuntary muscle movement causing the worst damage. But she was tired, and could only hold out for so long. Eventually, her strength faltered and the faces leaked in, leaving her breathless and stunned.
The color drained from Jocelyn's features as she peered up at her daughter, the weak redhead gripping the thin hospital blanket with white fingers. Clary's green eyes glistened with unshed tears, her internal confusion masked with an expression of pure rage. Didn't they feel the need to tell her that the man who'd raised her, the man who'd lifted her up to pick apples from trees, the man who taught her to drive, was not the man that had helped create her? Her breathing was shallow, labored as the monitor connected to her heart beeped slightly faster, though not at an alarming rate.
Her anger rooted deep in her chest, blossoming out to every pore of her body. She was filled with so much boiling aggression that she thought she thought that there may be steam radiating from her skin, filling the deadly silence of the room. Clary's eyes narrowed as she forced the wellspring of saltwater to disappear, and she watched as Jocelyn's thin, artist's fingers fluttered up to her open mouth, eyes wide and unblinking. "Clary, just…just let me—"
"Get out," Clary growled. Though it was low and quiet, there was an undertone that was menacing, as if there was an implied threat that went along with the two words. Jocelyn didn't move, and Clary noticed look for the first time, his face sullen as he gripped his wife's shoulders, trying to steer her to the door. Jocelyn shrugged him off, leaning toward her daughter as tears dripped from her cheeks, splattering against the sterilized flooring of the hospital. Clary cringed, realizing the atmosphere in the room was so silent that had actually heard the water droplet hit the ground.
"Clary—" Jocelyn tried again, but Clary wasn't having any of it, crossing her arms and repeating her message, her eyes focused on Jocelyn's. It was green-on-green, the perfect matching irises that had always echoed the same joy and laughter, squinting and softening the edges with smiles. But today, today they were complete opposites. Jocelyn's were wide and shimmering, glazing over as she tried to plead with Clary, beg her to listen. But Clary's, they were slit, barely a sliver of emerald poking through as she shoved her mother away, told her things a daughter should never tell her mother. But what was she supposed to act like? Was she supposed to be all forgiveness and smiles as she realized her whole life was a lie? No, no normal child would graciously accept the fact that she is not of blood relation to her father, so Clary merely glared as her parents' shaking forms excited the room, sniffling and whispering as they went.
Her eyes fluttered open and a whimper escaped her mouth. The light in the corner had been extinguished, and the room was drenched a blackness. The rain had kept pace, morphing into a full on thunderstorm. She shivered beneath the threadbare blanket, blinking rapidly against the wave of emotion coursing through her. Did she still feel that way? She didn't hate her parents, but she was so confused and didn't really want to talk to them.
There was a scuffle from the corner of the room that broke her out of her musings, her eyes widening in terror. Her breath hitched, and she mentally ran through the list of fighting moves she knew. A swift kick to the groin, an uppercut to the jaw and she should be home free. Steeling against her fears, she swallowed the lump in her throat and opened her mouth, "Hello?" There was no reply, and her heart rate on the monitor speed up, adding an eerie, uneven beeping noise to the picture. Her grip tightened around the edge of the mattress, her eyes searching the shadows for a threat. Slowly, the red lines on the monitor's screen slowed and evened out.
Her eyelids drooped again, and she felt her lashes grazing the hollows beneath her eyes. A clap of thunder sent them flying back open, lightening throwing the room into a terrifying white light, illuminating a figure hunched in the chair in the corner. Clary squeaked in surprise, backing up against the headboard of the bed and hugging her knees to her chest. Sucking in a deep breath, she readied herself for the glass shattering scream. Before she could unleash the shrill sound on the entire hospital, a strange, yet oddly familiar hand clamped down over her mouth.
A lamp beside her bed was switched on, and she met gazes with beautiful, tawny orbs. "Jace," she moaned, slightly in awe of his beauty and still heavily sedated. Her voice was muffled against his warm skin. He seemed to radiate heat, her entire body warming from his presence. Her gaze wandered down to his black t-shirt and dark-washed jeans. When it finally rose back to his chiseled face, she saw his lips were graced with a smirk. A blush flooded to her cheeks. He'd caught her looking.
"Are you going to scream?" His angelic voice sent a swarm of butterflies to her stomach. Why was she swooning over this douche bag? She knew she should be fearing him because he'd snuck into her hospital room past visiting hours and could easily overpower her, especially since she was injured, yet she found her red corkscrew curls brushing her cheeks as she shook her head. "Good," he whispered, his breath fanning across her face. His voice seemed tinged with relief as he dropped his hand to his side. They sat in silence for a moment, Clary peering up at him with confusion plain on her face. His sunlight eyes were hooded, his expression neutral as he shoved his hands into his pockets.
"How did you get here?" she asked finally, the weight of the silence crushing against her. Jace lifted his fingers to his chin, his tongue darting out to lick at the corner. Clary had never seen a more perfect tongue.
"Well, young Clary, when a mother and father love each other very, very much—" Clary waved her hand in annoyance.
"No," she clarified, "in my hospital room." His face shifted for a fraction of a second, and if Clary hadn't been studying it so carefully, she would have never noticed. It seemed for almost a second that he cared about someone other than himself. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his t-shirt riding up and showing a line of golden skin above the waist of his jeans.
"I, um, I felt like I owed you a visit…you know…since I was there an all." His response was mumbled, unsure even, and that filled Clary with a tinge of anger.
"You, Jace Wayland, owe me nothing. I don't want your pity," she spat between gritted teeth. Her heart warred with her mind, the swooning fantasy versus her own self value.
Jace thrust his hands into his hair, sighing audibly. "It's…it's not a pity, Clary," he said quietly, his golden gaze moving from the floor to her face, flickering between both of her eyes. She took a moment to study his, shocked by the well of emotion residing inside them. "Look," he said, returning his hands to his pockets and his gaze to the floor. "Do you want to take a walk with me?" Clary's jaw nearly dropped.
"My butt hangs out of the gown, Jace," she stated plainly, thinking of no other excuse fast enough. She did not want to become another notch on Jace Wayland's headboard. His teeth caught his lower lip, and she could tell he was biting back a smile as he tossed a discarded sweatshirt at her. It was a football hoodie, with Wayland stretched across the back in big, block letters. She tugged it over her head, not planning on going with him but grateful for the coverage and warmth. She paused momentarily as it was over her head, inhaling a quick sniff of his sunshine and Axe scent.
"Did you just…sniff my sweatshirt?" There was a lazy grin on his face as she poked her head through the hole.
"No…" she said unconvincingly as her cheeks and neck heated. Jace rolled his eyes, his smile and ego growing bigger.
"You ready now?"
"It's past visiting hours, Jace. We could get into trouble." Her excuses were getting lamer and lamer as she attempted to deflect his offer. His answering smiles were like a push toward him, and she knew he was winning already.
"Awe, come on. Live on the wild side, Testarossa." Her mouth was opened, ready for another explanation to roll off her tongue.
"I have a heart monitor, and I'm dizzy, and—wait, what did you say?" Her pulse quickened again as his gaze rolled up to the ceiling, confused.
"Um…I think I told you to live on the wild side…you know like…'Welcome to the jungle, where we've got fun and games—"
She cut off his Guns N' Roses rendition, standing up swiftly from the bed, ignoring the severe head rush that accompanied the movement. "After that," she whispered, slowly closing the distance between them. Their toes were touching, his warm exhales tickling her hair, which was level with his chin.
"Testa-Testarossa," he stuttered, his hands falling from his pockets to his sides, twitching toward her small waist.
"What are you really doing here?" she asked, bhe didn't stop, fisting her hands into his t-shirt and raising the thin fabric, exposing the taut muscles of his abdomen.
"Clary," his voice was pained as he choked out her name, though he made no move to stop her. She flattened her palms against the ridges of his stomach, slowly pushing the black shirt higher, over his abs, up his chest. He lifted his arms as he pulled it off completely, dropping it in a pool of black at their feet.
There it was, directly in front of her. It was exactly like her picture, golden and tan and beautiful. She breathed evenly, unafraid. For some reason, this didn't scare her. It was familiar, like it was something she had memorized one time. She knew the curve of his pecks, she had memorized every swirl of the inky tattoo, the one that mingled with the raised, red lines that slashed randomly across the front of the flawless skin. She pressed her palm against the area above his heart, feeling his heat soak through her own skin, down to her bones, sending electric shocks up her arm.
It was addicting and perfect, and she didn't want to stop touching him, ever. She looked up at his face, a surge of lost memories rushing back into her mind, snapping everything into place.
Sebastian telling her he'd gotten Aline pregnant for the first time, Simon and Isabelle together at the bar, Jace and her sharing the taxicab, the hard wall against her back as Jace supported her, the stimulating kissesshared between them, Her fingers in his hair, his hands at her waist, Isabelle warning him not to take advantage of her, Jace assuring Izzy that he wouldn't just before Clary passed out.
She bit her lip, seeing Jace's sad expression. His eyes wouldn't meet hers as he reached out to pull his shirt back on, firmly keeping her hands away from the thing she'd been searching for. "Gruesome, isn't it?" His voice wavered as he sat on the edge of the bed, dropping his face into his hands. Clary's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, eyeing the submitting pose of one of the strongest men she knew, yet she didn't skip a beat before responding.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, averting her eyes as he looked up. She hadn't meant for him to hear her admit that, but the wet shimmer that had glazed his eyes told her he needed to.
"No one has ever seen me shirtless before," he murmured so quietly that Clary believed it was to himself. She found that hard to believe, though the look in his eyes, the vulnerable, open depths told her that it was the complete truth. Her mouth opened. "I always had a tank top on." He had known what she was going to ask.
"Why?" she managed to ask after a moment, biting her lip as she waited for him to reply. She heard a ragged sigh as his hands knotted deeper into his hair.
"They'd cringe at the scars. They're jagged and ugly."
"I didn't cringe," she pointed out, wishing she hadn't when Jace's eyes grew wild.
"Why didn't you? They represent my weakness. They represent my pain and my failure. They are gross. The tattoo can only hide so much."
"I don't think they show your weaknesses. They show that you were strong enough to pull through."
A lifeless laugh filled the air. "Pull through, what exactly? You don't even know."
"I'd like to know…" she said, positioning herself on the bed beside him.
"I don't want your pity," he snarled, and she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. His fingers moved to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You remember, don't you?"
"Remember what?" Her eyebrows rose at the suddenness of his question.
"The night, after the party."
"Yes."
"Good." He replied simply, before returning to silence. Clary had no idea what to do in a situation like this, so she just sat there, her shoulder pressed against his arm for support. It had to have been nearly ten minutes of silence before he spoke again.
"I broke up with Kaelie, you know." Clary sat there, waiting for him to expand on the topic. "Right after I made sure you were safely in the ambulance." She knew Kaelie had pushed her in front of the car, but she had forgotten that Jace was even there.
"You called 911?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He answered quickly. "You were hurt. You needed medical attention."
"So then, why are you here, and don't give me that, 'To make sure you're okay,' crap because if that had been the case, you would have shown up roughly five hours ago." His muscles tensed, his jaw tightening.
"Because ever since I saw you, I…I…I just…"
"You what, Jace?" He turned toward her, a softness in his features that she'd never witnessed before. His finger reached up to lift her chin as his face loomed pleasantly above her. She allowed her eyelids to slip closed as she felt the energy between them grow stronger, sparking and igniting heat that spread from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. His lips touched hers gently, just a soft, closed-mouth kiss. He left his finger hooked beneath her chin as he pulled away, her lips tingling delightfully, a smile pulling at the corners. She saw her expression reflected on his face.
"I care about you, Clary." She twirled a piece of hair around her finger, contemplating the multiple meanings behind those five words.
"Jace," she sighed, watching him wince because she sounded as if she was rejecting him. "I just, I don't want to be another one of your quests."
His hair fell around him like a golden halo, swirling around him as he turned toward her, pushing against her shoulders until she was laying back on the bed. He planted kisses against where her neck met her shoulder, tracing a trail up until his lips were against her ear, his breath hot and labored. "I can't explain this feeling. I've never felt this way before. You make me nervous. You make me question my words and my actions. You make me want you. And that's weird because usually girls just want me. But one thing I know, is that this feeling is strong, and you won't just be another girl. Even if I have to wait forever, you will be my girl." With that, he planted one final kiss behind her ear and snuggled up against her, throwing a heavy arm over her waist.
"Will you tell me why you're so afraid of what people think of your scars?" His face was buried in her hair and his reply was muffled, humming against her scalp, though she caught it, oddly in tune to his voice. It sounded like someday. She rolled to face him, careful to keep his arm over her. The alive feeling that she'd felt the night of the party was back, waking every pore in her body, making them yearn to be closer to Jace. She felt like she belonged in the crook of his shoulder, like his fingers were made to weave with hers, like his lips were a perfect match to her own. She reached up and curled her fingers into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. "Well, I think they are perfect."
She closed her eyes, comforted by the mint aroma of his breath over her face, of the weight of his arm over her body, of the warmth flooding into her, of the smile on her lips. Her last coherent thoughts were Jace Wayland. What are you getting yourself into girl?
So? Reviews make me write faster...just sayin.
