Chapter Twelve: Magnus

It takes Alec thirty-nine minutes and 16 seconds to get to my door.

I know that, because as soon as we hang up the phone I go into a state of semi-panic. Alec was raised by two army officials and he spent the last four years of his life training and fighting in an elite military squadron. My house makes me look like I was raised in the hills of Mongolia by Genghis Khan, and I'm afraid it will send him into some kind of mess-induced neurosis and that he'll never come back.

So, thirty-four of my precious preparation minutes are used up trying to cram all my shit into my bedroom – not that I think I couldn't get him in there if I wanted to, but for once, it isn't about that – leaving just over five minutes to get ready. Five fucking minutes. Good thing I'm naturally fabulous; all it takes is a quick change of clothes and some eyeliner, and I'm set. Ready to sprawl out on the sofa and act completely collected.

So collected, in fact, that I almost roll onto the floor at the sound of the buzzer.

When I buzz him in, I hear Alec's thumping all the way from the bottom of the stairs and can picture the scuffed black combat boots he was wearing at the café. Horrible boots, and I really couldn't care less. I walk over and open the door so that he doesn't have to knock a second time, and he almost barrels into me.

"In a rush to get somewhere?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

"Sorry," he answers. I can feel his breath on my cheek, we're so close. I don't know why that affects me; I dance this close to people all the time.

"Come in," I say, taking the opportunity to brush my hand against his arm. "Do you want to take off your sweater?"

I regret the words as soon as I say them, but they don't seem to affect Alec that much. He just shakes his head and draws his sleeves down farther, clasping them in his hands, drawing into himself. It makes my heart twinge but I doubt it's even a conscious movement for him.

While Alec wanders into the living room to get comfortable, I run to the kitchen to get some water. I bring out a glass for him, figuring that he'll need it with the sweater, and find him on his knees in front of the couch, his hand stuck underneath. Despite the fact that he's wearing the shittiest pair of jeans I've ever seen, being greeted by the sight of his ass wipes my mind so blank that the glass of water tumbles right out of my hand and onto the floor. The glass doesn't shatter, but the sound certainly scares Alec; he snaps his head up with a jolt, and his hand tightens around my cat – the reason for his position, I assume – who gives him a good bite before taking off.

"Oh my god, let me help you," he half-squeaks, scooting across the floor to pick up the glass and put it in my hand. His fingers rub gently against mine, and I step forward involuntarily, getting my foot completely soaked in the process.

"I should get something to clean that up," Alec whispers, turning his flushed face down to the floor.

"Nonsense," I reply, internally delighted at the fact that he seems to be just as affected by my presence as I am by his. "Park that adorable ass on the sofa and I'll be right back."

He doesn't argue, and when I come back I bring some antiseptic cream and a bandage for the cut on his hand. I almost hand it to him, but the urge to touch him is so powerful that I just take his hand in mine, praying that he won't yank it away. He doesn't, but I can feel a slight tremor at the contact, and I do my best to peer up at him covertly as I'm applying the cream.

His impossibly blue eyes are wide and bright, and he's breathing with an exaggerated slowness that I know must be forced. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and he seems entranced by my fingers.

I remove a purple Band-Aid from its package and smooth it over the back of his hand. "I'm sorry that happened. Chairman Meow doesn't usually bite."

He runs his tongue over his lips before answering and it takes all my self-control to stop myself from leaning down and licking them myself. "It's okay, I get bitten a lot."

He doesn't catch what he's said until it's too late. "Well that's good news," I tease, grinning. "Because I like to bite."

He looks panicked at my comment – as if he thinks that I really take him for some sort of sexual miscreant – and scrambles to save face. "No. No, that's not what I meant." He looks down at his feet, and I feel a little guilty for teasing – I didn't realize the actual extent of his innocence. I make a mental note to keep the innuendos to a minimum. "I just meant that I have a cat," he says, looking up to take in my reaction. "His name is Church."

"Church?"

Alec nods. "Yeah, Isabelle and I found him in this abandoned church near our house when we were kids, and that's what we decided to name him. We thought he was an angel cat that had turned up just for us. Too bad he actually turned out to be the spawn of Satan."

I laugh at Alec's expression, and he allows himself a quick grin. The motion lights up his whole face, and I make it my personal mission to make sure it happens more often. "Poor thing. He can't be all that bad."

Alec looks solemn as he answers, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing again. "Seriously," he insists, "if there was a kitty cult, Church would be the one handing out the Kool-Aid."

My laughter seems to make him relax, and he settles back into the sofa, his head tilted to the side. Strands of hair fall over his eyes but he doesn't seem to notice. I'm just about the reach over and push them back when he leans forward. "I love that print," he says, actually getting up from the chair to walk toward the painting on my wall. "I wanted to go to the Van Gogh museum the last time I was in Amsterdam, but all Izzy wanted to do was get drunk and hook up with hot Dutch guys."

I join him by the wall, taking in the colors and strokes, and also taking in the awed look on his face as he admires the painting. "It's not a print," I say, interrupting his thoughts.

"What?" Alec's mouth hangs open. I can't help but feel a little proud. "That's the. How did. What?" he says again, unable to come out and ask how I managed to get the original.

"The owner was a client," I say. "I did him a favor and that was how he decided to repay me."

"That must have been one hell of a favor," Alec murmurs, looking even more enraptured by the painting. "What exactly do you do?" he asks without looking up. "All I know about you is that you do 'favors' and that you live in a gigantic apartment." He looks at me, worried, and I I'm pretty sure I can follow his train of thought all the way to…really expensive call-boy.

"Well, I'm not a hooker if that's what you're thinking," I reply, knowing by the look on his face that I've guessed correctly. I shrug, wanting to make him work for it. "I just know people. I have a lot of connections."

"Because that's not deliberately vague." He gives me a pointed look and I stop teasing.

"All right, if people need things done, they come to me. I have connections all over the city – across the country, really – and I know how to get things done fast. If someone needs to prove an ex-boyfriend is spying on them? I can get it done. If someone needs to track down a long-lost sibling, I get down to it. Tickets for events, agents, auditions – I can usually give people what they want."

Alec still looks confused. "So, you're like a private investigator?"

I give a fake shudder. "Not really. Sleuthing isn't really for me – all night stake-outs really cut into my extracurriculars, if you know what I mean." I resist the urge to wink. "I'm more like the middle link in a chain, you could say. I know who to get in contact with to solve just about any problem." I pause, needing to give credit where credit is due. "And uh, Ragnor helps a little, too. He's the technical side of the operation."

"Sounds like magic," Alec says, finally satisfied with an answer.

"That's me. Magnus Bane, granting people's wishes every day."

Alec looks like he's about to say something further, but decides against it and goes back to admiring the picture. I leave him in peace; I reacted much the same way when the owner – an art dealer who'd needed my help to prove that he wasn't selling fake prints – offered it to me as payment. He insisted that since I'd saved him millions of dollars and his reputation, I could have whichever piece of his I wanted. I know he thought that I was taking Irises for its value, but he was wrong. When I was a kid, during the few years I spent with my mother that I can actually remember, we would spend out weekends at museums. It was the only thing that we both liked. The one thing that made me feel closer to her than anything else. Van Gogh was her favorite, and looking at that painting helps me recapture that feeling, even if it's just for a second.

When I snap out of my thoughts, I notice that Alec is staring at me. Unlike me, he seems unable to do it inconspicuously. "I dream of painting and then I paint my dream," he says.

I raise my eyes and he continues.

"Van Gogh said that. 'I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.'"

"Do you memorize famous quotes to impress all your dates?" I ask.

Again, there's no beating around the bush. I doubt Alec could be coy to save his life. "No, it's just something that I used to do," he answers. "And this is my first date." He looks back toward the picture, embarrassed, but I couldn't be any happier about his confession: there's something about his lack of experience that both intrigues me and makes me feel a nervous rush that I haven't felt since I was about thirteen. It makes me not want to fuck this up.

I just smile at him, and walk back to the sofa. "So, you memorize quotes for fun? Why on Earth would you want to do that?"

Alec folds one of his legs under himself as he sits down. "It wasn't really by choice. When I was on assignment in Iraq, I was placed in a squadron with a bunch of guys I'd never met before. Most people know about me because of my parents, so it wasn't really easy to get to know new team members. People usually assumed that I was sent on assignments directly by my mother so that I could report their mistakes back to her. Or that I wasn't really a good soldier and just coasted on my mother's status. Or both."

He pauses, and I nod to show him that I'm not bored. He takes a deep breath and continues.

"But there was one guy who was worse than all the others. He did whatever he could to try to get to me, which included always quoting passages from other languages and famous poems and acting like he was completely getting one over on me. Then one day, when he was being particularly obnoxious, I kind of snapped." He gives me a sheepish grin, as if he can't believe he did something so crass. I sincerely hope he never sees me get into a bitch fight with Kelly – he would probably never get over it.

"Anyway, I just started quoting random passages in all the languages I know. It took like ten minutes for them to get out, and by the time I was done, he just grinned at me, as if the torment was just some kind of test that I had finally passed. Anyway, after that it kind of became a competition between us." He stops, and I notice a change in his expression – something that he's trying really hard to hold back.

"Are you okay?" I ask, shifting a little closer to him.

"I'm fine," he answers. "It's just that I haven't really talked a lot about what's happened since I got back. I'm glad I can talk to you." He smiles shyly.

I smile back. "So, what's the name of the torture-friend that I have to thank for impromptu Van Gogh quotes?"

"Jace," he says softly. The word comes out as a murmur, a caress. "Jace Herondale."

So much for having no competition. I feel a strange bubbling of envy, and realize that I'm jealous. Jealous of this boy I've never met. A boy that Alec clearly loves. A boy that Alec would – and almost did – die for.

Thankfully, Alec doesn't seem to want to rest on this topic any more than I do, so it isn't hard to get him started on something else. Once he gets going, he has more interesting to say than anyone else I've ever met. I hear a lot about his adventures with Isabelle as an army brat, and it's nice to watch as he slowly relaxes, until he's folded into the sofa and talking with exaggerated hand gestures. With every laugh and nervous pause I find myself becoming more invested in him – more eager to know everything about him.

It's past midnight before we realize the time. Izzy texts Alec in a panic – thinking he was abducted by a creepy cabby or something – and his disappointment at having to leave makes me forget about Jace Herondale…almost.

I walk over to see him out. Once he's ready to go and we're leaning against the door, I feel the familiar rigidity wash over him. All traces of calm are gone, and bright, nervous eyes are back.

I see him reach for the doorknob, but I lean forward and place my hand over his. "If I kissed you right now, would you run away and forget to call me again?"

He shakes his head, and I reach out to run my fingers through the pieces of hair that are curling around his temple. He makes a small hitching noise, and I rub my hand down his cheek before wrapping it around his neck. The other snakes around his waist.

Holding true to his word, he doesn't flinch. Instead, he wraps both his arms around my neck, pulling me closer. As his fingers graze my skin, I feel a shudder go down my spine. I feel a tingling, running all the way up to my throat, and although I've kissed more people than I could ever hope to remember, this feels like the first time. Sloppy drunk kisses followed by sloppy drunk sex can't compare to the way I feel as Alec presses his body against mine, parting his lips in anticipation.

When my lips finally graze his, I can feel him melt into me. My leg brushes against his, and he sighs, sending a wave of warmth through my whole body. This kiss is deeper than the one in my bedroom and Alec's tongue reaches out tentatively to meet mine. He tastes exactly like I remember.

When he finally needs to breathe I trail my lips down his neck, kissing the small section of skin left uncovered. My senses are overloaded; all I can smell, taste, and feel is Alec, and when he breaks away I can barely stand up straight. He looks to be in the same condition, his lips now shining as brightly as his eyes.

When he leaves, I hide behind the curtains and watch him climb into his cab. I can still feel the weight of his arms on my neck, and all I want is to follow him across town. His smell is infused in my t-shirt and his taste lingers on my lips. I start to walk toward the bathroom, but then think better of it, instead going straight to bed. And I fall asleep surrounded by Alec Lightwood.