I don't own. Please make sure to read the author's note at the bottom.

Finally dressed and out the door – six hours later, albeit – Clary's stomach was growling loud and often.

"Wow, Clary. Could you be any louder? You're not supposed to distract a driver." Jace teased incessantly, but he reached over to grab her hand, playing with her fingers and tickling her palm.

Clary smiled devilishly. "Well, if you want a distraction…" she trailed off as, unbuckling the seatbelt, she leaned over and placed her lips on Jace's collarbone. Up the curve of his neck. Over his cheek. The corner of his mouth.

Jace moaned a little in the back of his mouth and pulled off of the street into a side alleyway and turned off the car. Clary's eyes widened; this was not quite what she expected. "Jace," she said, slightly alarmed.

"Hey, you wanted a distraction," he murmured as he reached for her face, cupping her cheeks and pulling her in for a long, sensuous kiss that made her absolutely melt in her seat. Jace reached across her body to lower her seat back, and she reclined as Jace crawled over top of her.

"Jace, don't do this." She warned. "I'm starving."

"Mmm. Me too." He muttered against her mouth. His tongue slipped from his mouth to delicately trace her lips before he planted one, two, three soft little kisses there. Clary made a little noise of contentment in the back of her throat. Jace's long fingers drifted over her neck; one finger traced her collarbone, down over her ribs, and across her stomach.

Which then growled, a loud and long angry sound that ripped through the small interior of Jace's Aston Martin.

She giggled when Jace's head hit the roof in surprise and laughed out loud when he cursed. "I guess that's why they say you shouldn't make out in sports cars." She whispered against his lips.

"Well, if you wouldn't have tried distracting me," Jace answered with a kiss as he maneuvered his way back to his seat.

"Hmmm. Worth it." Clary said under her breath.

"Speak for yourself, woman. I'm going to have a goose egg."

"Oh," Clary made a noise of mock sympathy, much as an adult would give a temperamental toddler. "Did your ego get knocked down a peg?"

Jace faked a chuckle as he pinched her hip, making her squeal, jump, and smack her head off the top of the car. Clary made a little noise in pain as she rubbed the top of her head, trying to sooth away the dull ache.

"I'm going to have a bruise, you jackass!" Clary complained.

"Oh," Jace said condescendingly, mocking the tone Clary carried just a moment ago. "Did your ego get knocked down a peg?"

She scoffed, but the second Jace took her hand and brushed kisses over her knuckles as he pulled out in to traffic, she forgave him. She blew deep sigh from the very bottom of her lungs.

Jace looked over, slightly concerned. "What's wrong, Babe?"

Clary gave him a wry side look. "You mean, aside from the major concussion my boyfriend just gave me?"

Jace snorted, but her words struck a chord. Boyfriend. It was the first time he heard her say that word. In his mind, it was built up to be a dirty word, something that only weak men became, men with no libido, no drive for passion or something more than flowers every Valentine's Day, a kiss on the forehead before bed, stagnant, stale lovemaking sessions on the weekend.

But he called Clary his girlfriend. So what was the difference? He was still pondering this as they pulled into the parking spot a few blocks from the restaurant and walked the rest of the way in silence; hands molded together, Clary's small hand on his bicep as she leaned into him to avoid the midday rush of the crowded New York streets. He still thought about it as they were seated in a small booth and received their menus.

What the hell was the difference? Why did it bother him when Clary said the word 'boyfriend?' That's what they were. They were in a relationship – something completely foreign to Jace. But calling Clary his girlfriend implied that he owned her; no one else dared touch her, look at her, feel her kiss, be privy to that look that she gave him and only him. He did not want that restraint for himself.

He needed to be able to leave at a moment's notice, to see another girl and take her right then and there. Jace was selfish. He wanted the freedom to do that, but one mental image of Clary stopped him cold – Clary, wrapped up in the sheets with another man. Moaning his name. Her eyes rolling back into her head because of his hands. Sweating and panting because of another man. Not Jace. And his blood ran hot. He glared at the menu, hands gripping the menu until his knuckles turned white.

Thankfully, he came back to the present before Clary could notice, and he relaxed his grip. He knew that he lacked the power to just leave Clary. Deep down, far beneath his heart, within the very recesses of his mind, Jace could sense that he belonged to Clary. But he would not admit it. Admitting it to himself meant that something new was taking over, causing a catalyst that would forever change his life.

And that could not happen. He could not allow something of that magnitude to come sweeping in and alter his persona, someone that was carefully walled up inside him and dammed up so no one could ever reach him. Could ever hurt him.

After all, to love is to destroy.

This same train of thought plagued Jace all day. He was absent minded during lunch with Clary, he border line ignored Matthew when he went with Clary to pick him up from his friend's house. He gave Clary a peck on the lips in the car instead of walking her to her door like he usually did. He definitely did not stay the night. Drawing his phone out of his pocket, Jace dialed a number he had not called since he met Clary.

"Sebastian." Jace's tone was gruff. He knew he should not be doing this. "Let's go out tonight."

"Hey, yo, Barkeep, hit me again!" Sebastian's voice grated on Jace's nerves, as always, but the irritation was subdued thanks to the alcohol. Jace'd had wine while out with Clary, but he hadn't had any liquor or beer in months.

How he had missed the burn of the alcohol, the immediate lowering of his inhibitions, the way that the women in the club looked at him with only one thing on their minds. In his pocket, he felt the cellphone buzz. He pulled it out, saw Clary's laughing face on the caller ID photo, ignored the call, and shut off the phone, sliding it back into his pocket as he called for another shot of Patrón. As he downed the alcohol, he felt a slight twinge of guilt. He thought of that picture. Clary was laughing at something that he'd said, trying to sound sexy, but it just came out stupid and she saw right through it. Her smile nearly split her face open, and she bent over laughing. She always saw right through his smart remarks, and this time, he had amused her so much that she snorted.

"Did… did you just snort?" Jace asked incredulously, laughing a little bit himself.

"I… didn't mean… to! Stop, no, don't… take my picture!" Clary's words were broken up in fits of laughing. She put her hands up to stop him from whipping out his phone to take a picture, but he easily overpowered her, and they fell to the floor together, Jace managing to snap the picture of her blushing face. When they realized the position they were in, they sobered, and their lips came together. They kissed and kissed, right there on the kitchen floor, Clary's curls spread out over the linoleum, Jace's hands on either side of her head.

Jace smiled wistfully, running his finger around the rim of the shot glass that the bartender had so thoughtfully refilled.

"What's her name?" The bartender was rather sparkly; his hair in spikes all over his head, eyeliner and glitter outlined his eyes. His nails were painted black with a silver and purple crackle overcoat. He pushed another drink toward Alec with a wink. Alec blushed and looked away.

Jace knocked back another shot, noticing out of the corner of his eye a mural painted on the far wall of a cityscape next to the water. He assumed it was of New York. It echoed within him, though, familiar somehow. He couldn't place it immediately though, and lost interest.

"What are you talking about?" Jace asked. Even though he was quite a few shots in, his voice was not yet slurred, his face not yet flushed. Over the years, Jace had learned how to hold his liquor.

"That look on your face." The bartender answered smartly, raising his voice over the pounding bass. "That look means one thing. Girl trouble. Another one?" He tacked on the end, holding the tequila bottle up.

Jace tossed the drink back and nodded, tapping the glass with his index finger, calling for one more. "The only girl trouble I'll have tonight is that fact that she'll want to keep me around until the morning." He jerked his head once at the bartender. "Give me a vodka. Neat. Strongest you got."

The bartender shook his head – in disapproval? – and got Jace his new drink. Jace jerked his head once more, this time in the direction of Alec, and said, "Don't let him get drunk. He's much sloppier than me," Jace took a second to sip at his vodka – the bartender seemed to know what Jace was trying to do, he poured three fingers of the clear liquid into a whiskey glass – "and he's the designated driver."

He smiled a very feline smile, slightly threatening, in Alec's direction. "Will do, pretty boy. Will do."

Barely, through the music pulsing through the air, Jace heard the bartender introduce himself as Magnus, Magnus Bane, to Alec.

The air in the club was stifling. The sound was so loud it hammered through his skull, so thick it was almost tangible. Jace nursed the vodka in his hand as he moved to the dance floor, the strobe lights that flickered from the ceiling cast an eerie sensation over him; he suddenly remembered the fairy tales his mother read to him, stories of fairies that drug men down to their dens and devoured them. The alcohol mixed into his blood as he danced, girls slinking around him as though they wanted to drag him off and have sex with him in the filthy club bathroom. He lifted his arms above his head, careful of his drink, and let the music move through him as a redheaded woman rubbed her hips against his and attached her lips to his neck, sliding her hands underneath his damp-with-sweat shirt to feel his taut abdominals.

Red hair… Clary.

He breathed in deep through his nose, the sickly sweet scent of sweat, sex, and drinks filled his nose. The alcohol had gone to his head by now; he'd completely lost track of what he'd drank. At least three shots of Bacardi, five of Patrón, and two of the vodkas. He was lost to the world.

The red head was telling Jace her name, but between the drinks and the pounding music, there was no way he could understand. But he definitely understood what she did next. She slid her hands down over the front of his jeans.

"Forget it." Jace muttered under his breath. He grabbed the girl by the back of the neck and drew her in for a hard and fast kiss. Her tongue poked through his lips as she ground her hips against his, and Jace started leading her out and away from the dance floor.

"Hi, Momma." Came a little voice from the archway into the kitchen.

"Hi, Baby," said Clary curiously. "What's up?" She asked.

A heavy sigh came from the small boy; he was clearly uncomfortable with whatever he was about to say. "Well, first of all," Matthew tilted his head to the side and widened his eyes. "Can I have some chocolate milk? I feel like that would help me be calm."

Clary snickered, raising her hands just in time to cover offending laugh before Matthew saw it. "Well, alright. Let's go." She stood from her place on the sofa, still that same beat-up old sofa that she'd bought used when she found out she was pregnant with her son.

"Ok, here's the deal." Matt broke down while sipping his milk from his seat at the table. "How come Jace is the first guy I've ever met?" In typical little boy fashion, Matthew over exaggerated the words he wanted to emphasize, which included hand gestures and facial expressions.

Clary, in turn, over emphasized her nod. "The only guy?" She asked back.

"Well, I think you know what I mean." Mattie rolled his eyes and wiped away his milk mustache.

"Don't use your sleeve," Clary corrected automatically, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her son's ear. "I think it's high time that you," she paused and tapped Matthew's nose, getting close enough to give him an Eskimo kiss, "Little Man, get a haircut."

"Mom, you're changing the subject." Matthew's arms waved around in exasperation. "Why don't I know any other grownups? Partikly," Clary fought to hide her smile again at Matthew's mispronunciation, "boys."

"Well, Baby, you're the only man in my life."

"What 'bout Jace?" Matt's answers were quick, and Clary was starting to hate her son's intelligence. "He sleeps over. A lot."

Clary sighed and shook her head. Definitely starting to hate her son's intelligence.

"Jace is… special. He went through a very rigorous screening process." Clary said, a smile breaking out on her face no matter how hard she tried not to let it escape.

"What does that even mean?" Matthew asked, clearly irritated that his mother was dodging his questions.

Clary looked at the clock on the wall and sighed dramatically. "It means that Jace is special, and that it's time for you to brush your teeth and get to bed."

"Okay, but is Jace special like I'm special or special like Robbie who was in my class and kept eating the glue special?" His words all came out in one rapid breath, knowing that he was running out of time to have his questions answered.

"Jace is a different kind of special," Clary answered, starting to hate the word, "special." She was struggling to find the words to answer her intuitive son. "There is a different kind of special that is only for grownups. It's like," she scrabbled, searching for the right words, "it's like movies when a nice man comes and finds a nice lady and they become friends."

Matthew looked at her suspiciously. "That doesn't quite answer my question, but I guess it will do for now." With that little outburst over and done with, he hopped down from his chair and disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Clary laughed to herself and sat back down in the chair. Speaking of Jace…

He'd been weird all afternoon. After last night though, she could not figure out why. He'd been distant since they had got in the car to go to lunch the previous afternoon. Suddenly, the switch had flipped. He was an attentive, wonderful, caring boyfriend who bought her dinner, helped her move, even bought her a mattress, but literally overnight, he was different.

She couldn't help but wonder if it was because she finally slept with him. Clary knew exactly what kind of guy Jace had been – he was the kind of man that got arrested for public drunkenness and got assigned community service because he was a public figure. She had hoped that he changed. But apparently not. It was starting to look like she was wrong, maybe Jace wasn't special.

Or maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Maybe Jace was just sick. Everyone has an off day; after all, Jace was only human. He was entitled to have a crappy day every now and then. That was probably it. Clary felt much more at ease now.

"Momma, I'm ready to be tucked in and read to!" hollered Matthew from his bedroom. Clary smiled and maneuvered into a standing position. Mattie had to have a story before bed, no matter what. Clary had started it when he was a baby. At just two weeks old, he'd had a horrible ear infection. Clary, who had turned sixteen only two months previously, had no idea what she was doing. Living on her own in a pay by the hour motel, desperate, confused, and sleep deprived, Clary was at her wit's end. She was nearly ready to tear her hair out, return home to her own mother, and give Matthew up for adoption when she grabbed a book of Blake's poetry and started reading. With tears in her own eyes, her voice was shaky and raw, but it worked. Matthew had stopped crying. Clary had sobbed in relief as she rocked her infant son. Collapsing back against a filthy pillow that night with Matthew asleep on her chest was the only time in her life that Clary had ever doubted herself.

The next morning, Matthew had started crying again. Hesitantly, with a bit of fear in her heart, Clary had opened the book of poems to where she had left off and continued reading. And just like the previous night, Matthew stopped his crying. From the moment on, Clary knew she would e alright. She would figure things out, just like she always had. That same day, she sold her painting "Brooklyn by the Water at Night," to a gallery owner for eight hundred dollars. That was enough for one month's rent in Dorothea's apartment complex, a stroller, a high chair, two weeks of groceries, and one beat up, broken-down crib. Later that week, she applied for a job at Taki's. Over the course of three months, that gallery owner had purchased the rest of the paintings she had in her possession – a total of $3,600 in her pocket. She would make it work.

Coming back to the present as she sat on the edge of Matthew's bed, she leaned over and kissed his forehead, lingering for a moment. She would not cry. She would not cry.

Pulling back, she smiled lovingly at her son. "What are we reading tonight?"

"I want some poetry, please." He answered smartly, wriggling down underneath the sheets. It could be a hundred degrees of heat and that boy would still be under the covers.

"Ah, I see. Going back to the classics." Clary said teasingly. "What kind of poetry, Baby?"

"Hmm. I dunno. You pick." Matthew answered, closing his eyes and resting back against his pillow.

Feeling sentimental, Clary reached for the exact book of Blake's poetry that she had read almost exactly six years ago. Flipping open to a random page, she began reading.

Jace slammed whatever her name was – Cindy? Suzy? Jane? Something like that – against the wall and shoved his tongue into her mouth. He was interested only in the release she would bring; the release from restrictions, from consequences, from the image of a certain redhead shaking her head in disappointment and sadness.

The girl was moaning and hissing in pleasure from her trapped spot. Jace wrapped his hands around her thighs and lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist. The bathroom stall they were in did not provide much room to move around, but that was alright with them. Suddenly, the girl's dress was unzipped and Jace's shirt was off, pooling on the floor in a bright splotch of fabric.

"I don't wanna do this here. Let's go out to my car." The girl whispered against his lips. "It's disgusting in here. Let's go."

"Whatever," Jace bit back, allowing her to disentangle herself from him. She slid into her dress and took him by the hand and led him from the bathroom. He removed his hand from hers, not wanting even the slightest attachment to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mural again and froze stark still and stared at it. He knew why it was familiar now; it was Clary's. It was the painting she had won an award for, the one she was in the paper for.

Guilt flooded into Jace's soul then, rushing in and illuminating all of the sins he had committed that evening. The drinking, the women, the ignorance that he now cursed. The girl, noticing that he was no longer following him, stopped and turned, grabbing his hand to tug him along.

"Don't touch me." Jace snapped, still staring at the painting with a dismal feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Get away from me."

"Well, if I get away from you, it will be kind of hard to…" The girl trailed off as she reached up to whisper in his ear exactly what she planned on doing to him.

Jace shoved her away, not even caring that he just pushed a woman. He was too drunk and too pissed to care. "I said, leave me alone. Get the hell away from me."

The girl made an affronted noise, but obeyed his wishes and moved away from him.

"Slut." Jace muttered under his breath. Striding (stumbling?) out the door, he hailed a cab and barked Clary's address to the driver, promising an extra twenty if they got there in less than twenty minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, Jace threw the cash over the seat back and jumped from the cab. For being this drunk, he was surprisingly agile, but he was certainly not graceful. He leaned against the wall as he climbed the stairs to Clary's apartment. He pounded on the door, calling her name.

The door opened a crack, the chain glinting in the limited light offered from the ceiling light in the hallway. Through the slightly ajar door, Jace could see that Clary was in an oversized cotton t-shirt, maybe one of his, and that sleep was still plainly written on her face.

"Jace, what are you-"

"Clary," he exclaimed, "Hey, Baby, let me in. I need to talk – hic – to you."

"Go away, Jace. You're drunk. Go home." Clary's face was tight with anger, but he couldn't see that.

"I know I'm drunk," Jace slurred as he slumped against the door, "I almost slept with someone tonight. Someone that wasn't you." At this, Clary's eyes widened in hurt and she attempted to slam the door closed. Jace put his hand out to stop her. "No, no, no. Don't do that. Listen to me." Jace put his forehead on the doorjamb and peered in at her. "I said I almost did. But I didn't because she's not you!"

Matthew was asleep before Clary finished the poem, the even tone of her voice lulling the tired boy to sleep. Yawning, she thought about turning in herself. She kissed her son's forehead before quietly backing from the room and flipping the wall switch to extinguish the overhead light.

She decided she would get one more load of laundry done before retiring for the evening. Moving around the apartment and collecting the dirty articles of clothing took little time, and before the turn of an hour, she was happily in bed with a book and a mug of cocoa. Before long, Clary was nodding off, the book drooping to her chest even as her eyelids drooped to her cheekbones. In what felt like the span of only a few minutes, she heard a pounding at the door. Startled, she jumped from her bed, the book falling to the floor with a resounding thump. Clary hastily donned a robe and moved to the door, frantically trying to shake the sleep from her eyes. In mild surprise, she noticed the clock in the living room read one in the morning. Four and a half hours had passed since she put Matthew to bed.

"Clary!" She heard her name called from behind the door. She froze. Even in the muffled state, she could place the voice. It was Jace.

Opening the door only a crack, she left the chain intact. "Jace, what are you-"

"Clary," he shouted, "Hey, Baby, let me in. I need to talk – hic – to you."

"Go away, Jace. You're drunk. Go home." Clary was furious. She could smell the alcohol on him; the scent, strong and nauseating, wafted through the crack in the door and made her anger grow and grow.

She listened in disbelief as Jace affirmed that fact that he was drunk, and then proceeded to recount his exploits of the night… or near exploits, as it were.

"Mommy, what's going on?" A small voice made itself known behind her, and internally, she cursed. Jace had woken Matthew.

"Nothing, Matthew. Go back to bed. I'll be in in a minute." She turned, trying to block the limited view of Jace that the door provided, but she could not block the sound.

"Is that Jace?" he asked, craning his neck to try to see around her.

"Yes, but he's not feeling well, so he's not himself." Clary tried to shut the door again, but Jace's hand blocked her way. "Now I said go back to bed. I meant it. Go." Her "mother voice" kicked in, and Matthew obliged, though somewhat grudgingly.

Now that matter was taken care of, Clary turned back to the man outside. Still using the authoritative tone, she hissed through the door: "I said, go home Jace. I don't want to see you right now. Leave, or I will call the police. I'm sure they would love to hear from you again."

Jace's face fell and a hurt tone crept into his voice. "But, sweetheart-"

"Don't 'sweetheart' me. I said leave. I don't want to see you right now. Or ever again." Clary's voice shook in anger and injury. Jace slumped against the door just as she slammed it closed.

His fist pounded on the outside of the door. "Clary!" He called again. "Let me in!" He repeated this phrase several times until Clary opened the door again. Jace, who had been leaning against the door, fell into it as it swung open, hitting his head sharply against the paint chipped wood.

"Leave!" Clary yelled. She knelt down to his level and put her lips against the doorframe. "I am going to call the police if you are not gone in the next two minutes." Having said that, she slammed the door closed once more and angrily stomped to her bedroom.

Apparently, she had been wrong. Jace had not changed a bit.

Well, I promised you a chapter before the weekend was out, and I did it! (Just barely, but still…) I had a really nasty cold and all I wanted to do was lie around and sip tea all weekend, but I did it. And I did it for you. (Imagine that in a really raspy, creepy voice. Hehehe… )

You guys are really sweet! Ya'll are like, "Oh, we're content with the teasers, we're happy waiting for the next chapter…" but seriously, dude. Give me some prompts for a drabble fic. Writing short little stories like that keep me inspired. And being inspired makes me write faster… hint hint, wink wink. : )

Also, I'm reinstituting my questions:

What is your prompt? ; )

What would you like to see more of in the story? The plot will remain the same, but I would like to work in some more of what you would like to see, whether it is more Matthew/Clary interaction, more Alec/Jace interaction, or whatever. Let me know!

What is the last movie you watched it did you enjoy it? For me, it was The Raven (2012) and I enjoyed it immensely.