Chapter Twenty-Five - "Safe and Sound"

I adore this chapter. Especially the end.

This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

Chapter songs:

**Barely Breathing - Duncan Sheik

**Fix You – Coldplay

**Safe & Sound – Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars (listen to this w/the last scene. Seriously. It makes it soooooooo much better.)

Vulnerability is the ultimate weakness, and weakness is the surest way to guarantee destruction. Real men do not allow vulnerability or weakness to taint them. We allow only strength, only confidence. Everything else is to be buried beneath and denied.

Jace could hear his father's voice replaying that philosophy over and over inside his mind, as if his father were sitting right there in the booth. Jace had made it a point as of late to effectively ignore each and every shitty piece of "logic" Michael Wayland had ever given him on the ways to be a man. But this one piece, this one lesson, would not let him go. And Jace really wasn't sure he wanted it to. Especially considering he was sitting across from the one person in the entire world that he did not want to let see that side of him.

He needed to remain stoic, strong, calm. He didn't want to show any sign of what really lay beneath the exterior: a scared, sad, lonely little boy who would always crave, yet didn't want to want, the love of the man before him. So he straightened his back and tightened his jaw, holding—with every ounce of strength he had in him—all those broken pieces of himself inside.

Stephen Herondale rifled through his briefcase, pulling out several folders and a large hardback journal of sorts. Jace fought with his own body to keep his face and movements neutral, but despite all his efforts to appear unaffected, his damn leg would not stop bobbing beneath the table.

"Okay," Stephen paused before his open briefcase for a moment, then closed it carefully, snapping the latch and pushing it aside, "this should be everything." His fingers tapped the top of the pile.

Jace's gaze locked on the long digits, and he swallowed thickly at the familiarity of them, quickly dragging his own beneath the table. He spread his damp palms across his thighs and wiped them against his denim-clad legs. His grip tightened on his moving knee, willing it to stop.

No vulnerability. No weakness. Stop noticing your own features in him. Stop noticing him at all.

But his leg would not stop its incessant shaking.

Damn it, Jace just wanted to go. No matter how cowardly it was, he wanted to take Clary and run away, leaving behind the smell of grease and cinnamon apples, and this whole damn situation. And he especially wanted to not be near his biological father. Just looking at him, being in the same room, breathing the same air as him, made Jace remember all the things he'd wondered about since he was young enough to realize his real father was not there.

So many questions, so many hurts and doubts and feelings all coiled up inside of him and ready to burst.

Jace couldn't take them all rolling around in his head. The questions he had he knew did not come attached to simple answers. How could they? He knew from his own experience that choosing whether or not to be a father to a child was possibly the hardest decision a teenage guy like himself could make. He couldn't imagine it being any different for anyone else—Stephen Herondale included. But maybe it was. Maybe Stephen didn't feel that sense of responsibility, that guilt that gnawed away at his soul every time he thought about his child and the woman he'd left to deal with all that shit alone. Maybe other guys really were huge assholes like they were depicted on television.

Jace dug harder into his flesh, trying his damnedest to stop the relentless fidgeting and thoughts, when soft, warm skin moved over his. Glancing over, he met Clary's gaze, and let out a shaky breath when her fingers squeezed his. She knew he was losing it. She always knew how to read him.

"Most of these are just forms giving me permission to legally represent you." Stephen's voice broke into Jace's thoughts and drew his attention forward. "You'll need to sign them all before we can discuss more than the basics of your case."

Jace reached across the table and drew the forms toward him with only his fingertips. Glancing down, he realized he had no idea what any of this shit meant. It was all legal jargon that made no sense at all to anyone who wasn't a lawyer.

Stephen must have recognized the confusion on Jace's face because he said, "I know it looks like a lot of hoopla just to say I'm your lawyer, but I promise that's all it is."

Clary scooted a little closer to Jace, her hand moving from on top of his to under it, and she slipped her fingers between his. Jace licked his lips and chewed lightly on the bottom one, as he reached for the pen Stephen had placed in the center of the table. He heard Stephen's breath hitch and looked up in confusion. Stephen's eyes were glued on Jace's hand.

"You're left handed."

Jace's gaze flicked down to his own hand and swallowed. "Yeah."

"My father was—"

Jace stiffened.

Stephen shook his head and blinked, his Adam's apple bobbing as he struggled to maintain a neutral face. "Never mind," he said, looking up and smiling a forced, unnatural smile.

It took Jace a moment to tear his eyes away. He felt as if he'd been struck, his skin stinging and flaming hot, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He didn't want to have his familial similarities pointed out to him. It was hard enough to hold it together knowing whom this man really was, he didn't need it pointed out to him. Clary squeezed his hand once more, and it was all he needed to snap back to the task of scrawling his name across the lines at the bottom of the pages. When he was done, a wave of nausea passed over him and he pushed the papers back across the table. He didn't dare look up, didn't dare catch Stephen's gaze, and instead studied the scratches and mustard stains on the Formica tabletop.

Stephen gathered the stack and placed them into his briefcase, before clearing his throat and speaking once more. "All right now, I'm not sure how much you've researched on the laws pertaining to statutory rape in this state, but though the guidelines seem pretty straightforward, there are actually several loop holes we might exploit."

Jace finally met Stephen's gaze. "Like?"

"Well, maybe we should discuss what the law actually says before we get into that."

Jace nodded.

"First of all, yes, Mr. Morgenstern has grounds to file these charges against you." His eyes drifted to Clary and she shrunk back into the booth. This time Jace squeezed her hand. "Clary was under the legal age of consent at the time. Even if she said yes to any sexual contact, according to the law, she is not allowed that right." Clary huffed, and Stephen shook his head. "I know it seems ludicrous—that any law can say when you can consent to sex—but it really is there to protect minors."

"But Jace was a minor too," Clary said, her voice and expression flustered.

Stephen held his hand up for a moment. "If that is the case—"

"What do you mean 'if'?" This time, her voice was challenging.

"Clary—" Jace said.

"No, Jace." Clary turned to him, her brows pinched together and her eyes angry. "You didn't turn eighteen until the next day! You were a minor too." She turned back to Stephen. "He was still a minor."

"I'm not disputing that fact, Clary, but the prosecutor will."

Clary sat back with a hard thump against the back of the booth and let out a huff.

"We have to be prepared for the question to come up," Stephen continued. "The fact that it was a matter of hours between the start of the party and Jace's eighteenth birthday—"

"But, I mean, technically, he wouldn't be eighteen until the exact time he was born on the seventeenth." Clary's words were desperate and somewhat hopeful. "Can't you argue—."

"I was born at twelve o' three A.M.," Jace said, his voice low, quiet, as he turned to Clary, watching as the sliver of hope in her eyes melted into the green abyss surrounding it. "So that really won't matter."

"You can understand how difficult this is going to be. You can bet Morgenstern's lawyers will be all over us to prove without a doubt that the act happened before midnight. Before twelve o' three A.M."

Jace ran a hand through his hair. "How can we do that? We don't remember it. I don't know what time it was. Even if we did remember, it's not like I would have been looking for a clock."

"Then you'll need to find someone who does remember."

Clary snorted. "It's not like there was someone in the bathroom with us at the time."

"There has to be someone who saw you leave, or saw you go into or come out of the bathroom. People remember all sorts of trivial details when asked to recall them later. Somehow our brains retain that insignificant stuff, and we need to find someone who has in this instance. It's imperative we nail down the time as closely as we can."

"Why?" Jace asked. "What difference is it going to make? It's not going to prove me innocent or guilty. There's nothing I can do to prove that since I am guilty." He gestured to Clary's protruding stomach. "All the proof they need of that is right here."

"Jace . . ." Clary said.

Stephen met Jace's gaze, his hard and determined. "I'm not trying to prove you innocent. I'm trying to keep you out of jail." He leaned forward in the booth, his elbows resting on top. "If we can supply proof that you were still a minor, the sentence is far less. As an adult you're looking at one to three years in jail, then two years probation. As a juvenile, it's one year probation and no jail time. That's it. If we can find someone to corroborate that this all happened before your eighteenth birthday, then we can avoid a trial."

Clary let out a little cry and tightened her grip on Jace's hand. Jace couldn't breathe.

"And what if I—" Jace's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and started again. "What if I can't find anyone?"

Stephen sighed and sat back into his seat. "Then we go to trial."

Jace scrubbed his hands over his face and whispered, "Shit."

"A trial isn't necessarily bad," Stephen said. "But it's risky. The burden of proof is on them, and they may have just as difficult a time proving you were eighteen as we will have proving you weren't. But we don't want to take that chance if we don't have to. I'm sure you're aware that Valentine Morgenstern is a very influential figure in this town, and we'd be hard-pressed to receive a fair trial."

"What about a change in venue?" Clary asked. Stephen looked at her in surprise, and Jace lifted one brow in her direction. She blushed. "What? That's what they always say on those law shows on T.V. when they don't feel like they could get an impartial jury."

Jace blinked, and Clary turned even redder.

"Shut up," she said, elbowing him in the side.

He couldn't help himself and tucked his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him and kissing her temple. "I love you so damn much," he whispered.

She looked up at him and smiled, her cheeks so red she looked feverish.

"A change in venue is an option," Stephen said. "But avoiding a trial all together will be the safest bet."

"Pie?" said a jovial voice to Jace's right.

He jumped slightly and turned toward it, seeing the woman who'd greeted him at his arrival standing next to the booth, the smile on her worn face stretching the width of it, and three pie plates in her hands.

"Sure, Nana. Thanks," Stephen said, clearing away the remaining papers to allow her to set the plates down.

"Oh, good. This is piping hot. Fresh out of the oven." She bent over and placed a steaming piece of pie in front of each of them. Normally Jace would have dug right in, but today the sight and smell of the sweet concoction turned his stomach. The woman turned to Jace and settled her kind eyes on him. "Would you like some milk with that, dear? Stephen always insists on milk with his."

"Nana," Stephen scolded, his cheeks tingeing pink. "Please."

The woman straightened up and looked abashed. "I apologize. I didn't mean to . . ."

Jace looked at Stephen and then back at the woman, watching the exchange go on between them. "It's all right. And no thank you, ma'am."

Clary expressed her thanks and she and Stephen started eating the pie in earnest. Jace just stared at his. Stephen discussed a few more elements to the case at hand, but most of it went over Jace's head. He tried to listen, to pay attention and absorb everything he possibly could, but he couldn't concentrate. His brain was on overload with everything they had already discussed, and the fact that he was there at all. He'd known this wasn't going to be easy, but he'd never imagined it to be this hard.

Jace had always hated Stephen Herondale. Hated him with everything in him. But the man before him was not the monster Jace had conjured in his mind. He didn't look at Jace as if he didn't exist, as if he couldn't give two shits about him. He actually looked at him in the exact opposite way. And that fact disturbed Jace more than if he did look at him in the way he'd expected. He was used to vacant, uncaring expressions leveled his way—he'd gotten them for years from his adoptive father. But the way Stephen Herondale looked at him, as if it physically hurt, as if he'd found something he'd long ago lost, as if he couldn't believe Jace was sitting there in front of him too, as if he were sorry.

But he didn't want Stephen to look at him that way. He didn't deserve to. Jace couldn't bear it. The man didn't want him. He'd turned his back on him and his mother before Jace was even born. He didn't get to look at him that way.

A feeling of regret swept over him. This was a mistake, he thought. He should never have agreed to allowing Stephen Herondale into his life, even for this.

"Mmmm," Clary moaned, completely oblivious to the torment wracking Jace's conscience. "I honestly think that was the best apple pie I've ever had."

Stephen chuckled, shoving another bite into his mouth. "Nana's won the pie baking contest at the county fair for the past eleven years with this recipe. People come from all over just to have a piece." He leaned forward and whispered, "But don't make a fuss about it around her or else she'll be sending you home with a half dozen of them."

"I wouldn't mind," Clary said, smiling. "Not that I need the extra weight."

What the hell was this shit? Jace stared at the both of them, at their easy conversation, at the way Clary smiled and Stephen smiled back. She wasn't supposed to smile at him. She wasn't supposed to like him. She was supposed to be on Jace's side, and talking to him, smiling at him, was not what Jace would call being on his side.

Clary turned to Jace, a question poised on her lips, but when her gaze moved over his face, the light faded from her eyes and the question disappeared into the ether.

Jace couldn't help it, couldn't help the anger and resentment simmering at the surface. He felt . . . betrayed.

Clary looked rightly embarrassed. "Are you going to eat that?" she asked, quietly, and pointed to the pie in front of him.

Without moving his eyes from her, Jace pushed the pie toward her. She met his stare and squeezed his hand under the table, and Jace could read it all there. I'm sorry, they said. The muscles in Jace's shoulders started to loosen, until he heard Stephen chuckle once more, completely unconscious of the silent argument happening on the opposite side of the table.

"You remind me so much of my wife, Amatis, Clary. She craved Nana's pie like nobody's business when she was pregnant with Samuel."

Jace's heart stopped, and Clary froze.

Stephen, suddenly aware of what he'd just said, looked up cautiously, his mouth opening as if to say something.

But Jace shook his head, not wanting to hear another word. He couldn't speak, couldn't think. Had Stephen just said . . . Was he saying Jace had . . . Suddenly, the room around him felt as though the heat had risen to a thousand degrees. Jace felt the sweat beading on his forehead, the dryness of his throat, the clenching of his chest. His leg bounced even faster and his stomach twisted so hard he was afraid he might vomit right there.

"Jace?" Clary said, her brows creased and eyes concerned. Her fork clamored to the plate that contained Jace's half-eaten piece of pie, and lifted her hands to his face. "Jace, are you—"

Jace shot up out of his seat, his knees banging the table and knocking over the nearly empty glasses of water on top. Other patrons turned to see what caused all the racket, and Jace could only imagine what they thought when they spied his ridged, quaking form. But he didn't care. He couldn't take it anymore; he had to get out of there. "I have to go." He looked down at Clary. "Now. I—I have to go."

And without another thought or word, he allowed his shaky legs to pull him toward the door. All the sounds around him blurred into one loud buzz and lights flashed before his eyes, though he did think he heard his name amongst the cacophony in his mind. He could feel the anger and resentment building to a crescendo inside of him; the way his nails dug into his palms was evidence of its power.

He reached the front of the diner and pushed against the glass doors. Cold air engulfed him as he stepped outside, and his breath caught in the frigidity. Jace took a few steps forward and nearly fell from the weakness in his knees.

Stephen had a son. Another son.

He'd left Jace and his mother alone because he couldn't handle being a father, and now . . . now he was. To someone else. Jace had spent his entire life being raised by a woman who was so depressed she ultimately took her own life, and then was left to live with a man who resented his existence, while his real father started a new life. A new wife. A new son.

Jace clenched his fists harder and squeezed his eyes tight. The pain in his palm was nothing compared to the ones in his chest and stomach. And he was pissed that he was upset at all. He didn't want to care. He shouldn't care.

The door behind him swung open and a waft of warm air hit Jace's back.

"Jace . . ." Stephen's voice called out.

Jace bit back a groan.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out about Sammy that way. I—"

Jace held up a hand. "Don't. I don't care," he said.

"Please." Jace felt Stephen's hand cup his shoulder, and he jerked away.

"Stop." He spun to face Stephen, his heart speeding as if he were in a race. "Why are you doing this?"

Stephen looked confused. "I just want to explain—"

"No, not this," Jace gestured between them. "This. All of this. Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

Stephen paused, his mouth open. "Nothing. I just want to help you."

"Why?"

"Why? What do you mean 'why?'"

"What do you think I mean? No one in this city wanted to help me. Why do you? And I don't want a bullshit answer. I want a real one. The truth."

Stephen swallowed visibly. "Because you're my son."

Jace choked out a laugh and shook his head, looking out into the parking lot. "No, I'm not. You already have a son."

"Jace, please—" Stephen reached out for him once more, but Jace jerked his arm away before Stephen's fingers connected.

"No!" He stepped back a few paces, glaring at Stephen. "No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to come back after eighteen years and say that. I am NOT your son." Jace's body shook with his anger, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get it to stop. "You may have contributed some genetic material, but you're not my father. You don't get to call yourself that. You don't get to call me that."

"Okay. Okay." Stephen held up his hands in defeat. "I understand. I really do. I guess I'd just hoped . . ." He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture Jace knew well and made him even more angry that he shared it with this man. "I've made so many mistakes, Jace. So many. I was such a selfish, arrogant, fool, and I just—"

The door to the diner opened once more, and Clary stepped out onto the snowy walk, her eyes wider and more frightened than Jace had ever seen them. She took one look at Jace, and her features changed, morphed into something more, something protective. She stepped between the two men and faced Jace. "Let's go," she said, her voice nearly begging. "Let's just go."

"I'm sorry," Stephen said. "I'm so sorry."

"Jace, please. Let's go," Clary said.

But Jace's eyes were glued to Stephen's. His body vibrated and was so tense it ached, but there was one more thing he had to say. One more thing he had to make clear. "You're my lawyer. Only my lawyer. That's what I need you to be. If this is going to work, that's all you can be."

Stephen nodded, his blue eyes pained. "I understand."

"I don't think you do," Jace said. "I'm not the boy you fathered right now. I can't be him. I don't want to hear about your wife or your real son. I don't want to hear about your parents or grandparents, or how I might have some trait in common with them. I can't be that boy. I can't. All I can be is Jace Wayland. Your client. That's it. Okay? And all I want from you is for you to make it possible for me to be the father to my son that you never were to me. Can you understand that?"

"Yes," Stephen said, his gaze intent, though still sorrowful. "I can."

Jace stared at him for a few more seconds, seconds that felt like an eternity, then turned quickly and made his way across the lot to where he'd parked his car. He pulled his keys from his pocket, but his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't get it into the lock.

"Shit," he said to himself, stabbing at the door once more, the key slipping and scratching a bit of paint. "God-damn it."

A hand closed over his, stopping him from damaging he car door further.

"Let me drive," Clary said, her lips close to his ear, her presence warm.

Jace closed his eyes and drew in a breath of frigid air, the coldness burning his lungs. "You don't have a license."

"But I have my permit, and you're eighteen, so I can drive with you." His hand tightened over the keys and hers tightened over his. "Please, Jace, you can't drive like this. Just let me."

Jace's stomach rolled uncomfortably once more, and he relented, dropping the keys into Clary's hands, before moving to the passenger side. Once she unlocked the doors, Jace climbed in, his eyes staring straight forward, his body still quaking almost violently, and his stomach roiling. Clary started the car and carefully maneuvered out of the parking lot. Jace could feel her eyes flit between him and the road, her concern flowing over him in waves. But he couldn't calm it for her just then. He couldn't even calm it for himself.

They'd barely gotten a block away when the reality of what had just happened, and the pain in Jace's stomach, got to be too much. Bile rose into his throat. "Pull over," he groaned out.

Clary looked over at him, alarm etched into every line of her face. "What?"

"Pull over!"

She whipped the wheel to the side and had barely come to a stop, when Jace thrust the door open and lost his lunch all over the side of the road.

.o.O.o.

The drive to Jace's house from the diner was excruciating. Clary tried to keep her focus on the snow-covered road ahead—not wanting to push her driving in snow abilities too much just yet—but she couldn't help flicking her gaze to Jace several times every minute. His skin was sickly pale, and the circles under his eyes made it look as though he hadn't slept in days. Clary had seen Jace upset before, but this . . . this was something else entirely. He was more than upset. He was angry. Furious, even.

What had Stephen Herondale said to him that made him so angry? She could only imagine what had gone on between the two men before she'd managed to escape Nana and get outside. She knew that learning about Stephen's other son—Jace's half-brother—couldn't have been easy for him. Jace had spent his entire life living with the fact that his real father left because he didn't want to be a father. Now he was. He was some other boy's father, when he'd never been Jace's. That was probably something he would never get over.

But what exactly was he feeling now? Clary couldn't stand not knowing what to do for him. Usually she could tell what he needed from her, and on the off chance she couldn't, he would always tell her. He'd always been so open and honest with her about his thoughts and feelings from practically the first moment they'd realized who the other was. But he seemed so distant now, so unreachable. It scared Clary to see him this way. This was a Jace she didn't know.

Since he'd made her pull over, he hadn't said a word, hadn't made a sound. He just sat in the passenger seat, his hands gripping his thighs hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and his eyes focused straight ahead.

Clary wanted to ask him if he was okay, but even an idiot could see that he wasn't. Far from it. She had no idea what to say or do. She wanted to hold his hand, to rub her thumb across his palm in that way he did that always made her feel better. She wanted to touch his face, soothe his hurt with a kiss, but she was afraid he would push her away if she tried to touch him. So she did the only thing she could imagine she'd want in his situation: she stayed quiet and kept her hands on the wheel.

Before long, Jace's house loomed in the distance. Clary felt a sort of relief and also fear about what would happen when they got there. Would this awkward silence continue? Would he finally want to talk? She had no idea, and having no clue was not how she liked being with Jace.

She pulled up to the gate, her hands shaking so badly it took three tries to enter the code to open it. Once it was, she noticed a large white overnight envelope sticking out from the slot next to the keypad.

"Do you want me to—" she started, turning toward Jace, but her voice cut off when she noticed he was looking down at his lap, his jaw clenched tight.

Instead of finishing her thought, she grabbed the envelope, dropped it into her lap, and rolled up the window, carefully maneuvering the rest of the way up the drive. When she pulled the car to a stop, Jace undid his seatbelt and jumped out of the car. Clary had barely cut the ignition, and he was already opening the front door. She quickly undid herself and climbed out of the vehicle, wondering if he was going to be sick again. As fast as she could, she followed him into the house and up the stairs to his room, the envelope she'd collected clutched in her hands.

Jace crossed his room without looking behind him to see if she was following and entered the bathroom. Clary lingered behind, trying to give him some privacy in case he was going to throw up again. But she didn't hear any retching through the open door, and decided it was safe once the water in the sink turned on. Slowly, she crossed the room, pausing only momentarily to drop the envelope on Jace's desk. She paused when she reached the bathroom doorway. Jace stood at the sink, spitting out the remains of toothpaste, and rinsing his mouth by bending to take water directly from the tap. When he stood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned forward, his hands hanging onto the edge of the sink, his head down.

Clary's nerves jumped and sparked as she crossed the threshold to stand behind him. He was still so tense, his t-shirt stretched noticeably tight across his taut back, and she still had no idea what to do for him. What did he want? What did he need? Ignoring the warning butterflies in her stomach, she moved forward another step.

"Jace?" she whispered.

He still said nothing. The only sound in the room was their breathing.

"Jace?" she said again, taking a chance and reaching out, her hands resting lightly on his biceps. He shuddered under her touch, and it made her want to wrap her arms around him, to hold him close and secure, to take his pain and absorb it into herself. But she knew even if that were possible, he'd never let her. Closing her eyes, Clary leaned her head forward until her forehead rested against the space between his shoulder blades. "I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do."

And she didn't. Somehow, she'd managed to help him through his grief and shock after finding him in the cemetery, but this was not like then. Then, she could see how much he'd needed someone, how open he'd been to being cared for. This time he was closed off. She'd seen it in his face, in the way he clenched his hands. He wouldn't even look at her, let alone speak.

"Jace, please."

He let out a breath, but it did nothing to relieve the tension in his shoulders. And then it came, so quiet Clary wasn't quite sure she'd heard it.

". . . alone."

"What?" she said, removing her forehead from him.

He cleared his throat. "I need to be alone."

Clary couldn't help the tears that stung her eyes. "You want me to leave you alone?"

"Yes," he said, his voice low, quiet, void.

Clary took an involuntary step back, her hands slipping from his arms. "But I can—" I can help you. Let me fix this. Let me fix you.

"Now, Clary." There was something urgent lacing the deadness to his tone, but he didn't look up. She needed to see his eyes, and he wouldn't show her his eyes. "Go. Now."

A tear slipped down her cheek as she turned toward the exit. His voice reached her once more just as she'd crossed into his room.

"Clary?"

She sniffed and turned back around. He hadn't moved; he was still curved over the sink in that same defensive position. "Yeah?"

"Close the door," was all he said.

A choked cry escaped from her lips, as she reached out and grabbed the edge of the door, closing it tightly. And just as she turned to lean her back against it, a loud crash sounded from the other side. She slid down the door, feeling the reverberations of whatever it was Jace was doing on the other side against her back. Once she reached the ground, she lowered her head to her knees and wrapped her arms around them, the pain inside of him coming out of her in ragged, aching sobs.

It hurt to cry. It hurt that he hurt. And it hurt even worse that he didn't want her to help him take it away.

.o.O.o.

Dozen's of Jace's stared out from the spider-web cracked surface of the mirror, all with pale white skin tinged with green, and red rimmed eyes. All looked lost and unsure and afraid, and none looked a thing like anyone Jace recognized.

He turned his face from side to side slowly, taking in the sweat beaded across his forehead, cheeks, and neck, studying the damp pieces of hair curling tighter from the moisture. He was disgusted. Disgusting. He couldn't stand the sight of himself. Jace lifted his hand and placed it over the glass, so he couldn't see his reflection anymore. Jagged, uneven pieces of glass cut patterns into his palm.

When he pulled his hand away, the glass was tinted red in the place he'd touched. A long cut stretched across his knuckles, and drying drips of blood stained the spaces between his fingers and palm. Jace's shoulders rose and fell quickly, adrenaline still pumping furiously through his veins. He flexed his fingers and pain lanced through his hand. Lowering his head, Jace drew in a breath and closed his eyes. Letting loose on his mirror really hadn't helped anything at all. He was still pissed beyond all reason.

Part of him wondered if he'd ever feel normal again. And another part wondered if he'd ever felt normal in the first place. He thought he had, when it had just been about football, and impressing his dad, and getting to play in college. When he'd been the king of his school, and his classmates didn't take such large measures to avoid him. He wanted to not care about being a social pariah; he wanted it to not matter what other people thought of him. But no matter how much he acted like it didn't, it did. It always had.

Being special had always made him feel . . . well, special. He craved that spotlight, that adoration. He'd be a lying piece of shit if he tried to claim otherwise. But, although it hadn't helped, what happened at school that day was not what this rage was all about. He didn't even want to think about what it was really about. But he couldn't help it.

Stephen's face flashed through his mind, the way his blue eyes softened and his smile widened when he mentioned his other son. Jace tried to remember when his own father had looked at him that way. He couldn't. He couldn't even remember when his mother had. Sure, she'd loved him. She'd said so all the time. But it wasn't in her eyes like that. It wasn't in her smile. When she'd looked at Jace, it had been with a hint of resentment, of sadness. Not love. Not adoration. Not anything that could even compare to how Stephen Herondale had looked at the mere mention of his child.

And Jace was jealous. So God-damn jealous he could feel it in his bones, twisting and aching and bending. He didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to give a shit. That man had been nothing more than a dark presence in the back of Jace's mind his entire life. He'd been the villain to every story. It was his face he'd seen in every nightmare. He was every monster and every bump, creak, and howl in the night. He was every evil and every pain-riddled shred of black.

But now his face was different. It was not monstrous or unkind or evil. It was Jace's own. And it was happy. It was loved and in love, and it made Jace hate him even more. He should have been miserable too. He should have felt like he was pushed down and buried under every resentful second of his life. He shouldn't have been able to move on, to be happy, when he'd walked away from his first child, leaving him to wonder why. Why? Why hadn't he been enough? Why hadn't he been good enough for him to stay and to look at him the way he'd looked at the mention of the other boy? What the hell had Jace done before he was even born to deserve to be alone? To have no one that looked after him, who cared enough about what happened to him, who's face lit up and smile widened at the sound of his name? What had he done?

Jace slammed his already aching fist down on the edge of the sink, and reached up with his other hand to grip his hair. Nothing seemed to take the ache away, nothing seemed to soothe it even a fraction. He looked around at the mess he'd made, at the cracks stretching the length of the mirror, the blood-laced shards of glass scattered over the tile floor, and none of it, none of the destruction and release of anger made any of it better. He was still Jace. He was still facing jail time. He was still watching his dreams circle the drain. And he was still alone.

A soft shuffling sound came from just outside the door, and Jace realized with a start that he was not alone—at least not in his room. Clary was here, waiting for him in his room. In all his rage and self-pity, he'd been unable to look at her, unable to let her see the monster that lived inside of him. So he'd pushed her away, made her leave him alone. She couldn't see . . . shouldn't see . . . But she had.

Jace pulled his hair tighter and crossed the room, pausing before the door. He lifted his hand and placed it flat against the wood, the surface cool and hard under his palm. He was so cold. Too cold.

Jace could feel Clary out there, through the physical barrier between them, through all the layers and walls he'd built up inside of himself. And she was so warm. So, so warm. He wanted to steal that warmth. He wanted to take it inside himself, wrap it around and around him until it squeezed the never ending freeze from his bones, from his heart. He needed her air and her life and . . . her. Just her.

Lowering a shaking hand to the even colder knob, Jace twisted and pushed the door open. It swung slowly on its hinges, emitting a slow creak. The light inside the room was dim, the sun already fading into the winter sky, even though it was only early evening. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the bathroom, but when they did, he saw her.

Clary sat on the edge of Jace's bed, her hands clasped and lying still on her lap, and her face turned up to him. Her eyes were bright, slightly red, and dried tear tracks stained her cheeks. Jace's heart jumped, and he reached over to flick off the harsh bathroom lights, plunging them both into the muted darkness of his room. He heard Clary's shaky breath leave her lips, and he started across the room, his sneaker-covered feet shuffling across the carpet. It seemed like miles instead of feet between them. And he knew he was the one who'd placed them there when he'd made her leave, when he'd shut himself off from her so she wouldn't see him self destruct. She'd seen him weak. She'd seen him cry. But she'd never seen him lose control of his anger. Not like that. And he didn't want her to. He didn't want to frighten her away. He didn't want to be that person with her.

When he reached her, he saw her head lift, heard her hair brush across her shoulders, felt her stare bore into his face. He looked down, seeing only the outline of her in the dark, he wanted to see more: her expression, her eyes, the way she held her mouth, because if he could see that, he would know how much damage he'd done. How much he'd hurt and scared her with his actions. But he couldn't see any of that. There were only lines, shapes. Shapes he knew so well: how they looked and felt and moved around, above, and beneath him.

And then she lifted her hand, her fingertips just brushing the outside of his wrist: an offering, an invitation, a welcome, a please. And Jace couldn't take the distance anymore. He let himself drop to his knees at her feet, his hands reaching for her hips, pulling her forward, folding her into him, and buried his face in her stomach.

"I'm sorry," he said, his throat thick. He breathed her in, reveling in the familiarity and home of her. Of the safety and calm and everything she was to him. "I'm sorry."

"Shh," she said, her fingers pushing through his hair. She was trying to be calming, to be the strong one, but her hands were shaking against him.

Jace lifted his head and grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing the tips and tasting the salty wetness of tears on her skin. He didn't know if they were hers or his. "I'm so sorry, baby. Forgive me," he whispered. "Please."

Clary slipped her hand from his and placed both of hers on his face, her thumbs brushing across his cheeks, her eyes finally visible in the waning light. They were so large, so understanding, so heartbreaking. And he didn't deserve them at all. "There's nothing to forgive. It's okay. You know that, right? It's okay." Her voice was so soft, so sincere.

Jace closed his eyes when she leaned in and kissed his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. "I hate him," he breathed, the words feeling like they were being ripped from someplace deep in his chest, leaving a gaping, seeping hole in their place. But even as they did, something else filled the space, building it back up, healing him as the others tore him apart. "I hate him so much."

"I know, sweetheart," Clary whispered, surprising Jace with the name, but in a good way. No one but his mom had ever called him that before, and when Clary said it, it made him feel . . . invincible. Incredible. Wanted.

He opened his eyes.

"Call me that again," he said, his own hands coming up to cup her face, mimicking the way she held him.

Clary's brows drew together, but she did what he asked anyway. "Sweetheart," she said, barely a whisper, barely audible. But Jace felt the breath of it on his face.

His lids slipped shut once more and a wave of hurt rolled over him, crushing his chest, closing his throat, stinging his eyes. It wasn't 'hurt' in the traditional sense, but more loneliness, abandonment, resentfulness—all the things he felt toward the people in his life, or who should have been in his life, who should have been the ones to call him that. "Again," he said, through the pain, through the need, because in spite of all that, there was also warmth and hope in that word, in that simple endearment that other people took for granted. "Please. Again."

Clary's fingers tightened on his face and then he felt the warmth of her mouth just before his. "Sweetheart," she said again, her lips brushing his as she spoke, allowing him to feel it as well as hear it. And the way she said it, the way she felt it, the way she meant it, made that other hurt dim. Clary repeated it over and over again, each time touching more of his skin with her words, with her adoration. And that's what it felt like to him: adoration. Complete, untainted, undeserved.

When Jace opened his eyes, his vision was blurred. He blinked and they cleared, as warm wetness fell over his cheeks. And, finally, finally, there it was in her eyes. That thing he'd been searching for, what he'd been wishing for his whole life. He drew in a shuddering breath, his chest clearing with the realization. "You look at me that way," he said, his voice laced with awe, and his eyes moving from one of hers to the other.

She frowned. "How?"

"Like he should. Like they should have." Jace brushed her hair away from her face. "Like I'm special. Like I'm everything. Like you adore me."

"You are," she said, her lips brushing his again, so lightly, barely even there. "You are. And I do." She kissed him again, fuller this time, lingering just a little, her lips warm and soft and dry and perfect. "I do. So much. You know that, don't you? I love you. You are my everything." And then she spoke the words Jace really needed to hear, the ones that validated every ache, weakness, and break inside of him, every desperation, every darkness, and made it all okay. "I need you. And it's okay for you to need me too." Her hands trailed over his face as her lips continued warming his. "Let me be there, Jace. Let me help you. Don't shut me out." Clary moved one palm from his cheek and placed it on his chest, then she lowered her head and kissed him through his shirt, his heart pounding against her lips. "Please. Let me make it better. Let me take it away."

Jace's hands slipped back into her hair and he lowered his face to her head, kissing her: her ear, her cheek, anything he could reach. "You do," he said, lifting her face to his. "You always do." And then he kissed her the way he needed to, deep and hard and with everything he had inside of him. "You always do," he whispered again through kisses, through the swipes of lips and slips of tongue. He could taste the saltiness of his tears on her mouth, but it just made her sweet taste even sweeter. "I love you," he said, his hand slipping to the space where her neck met her shoulder, and he could feel her pulse thrumming against his palm. It was fast and strong and all for him. It was like music, like breath. And he needed it, needed her so damn much he could feel it in every tense inch of his body. "I need you so much."

"I'm right here," she whispered, lowering her hand from his face, trailing it down his arm and wrapping it around his wrist, tugging against him lightly. "I'm right here."

"I need you," he repeated, pressing his fingertips to her sternum and pushing her gently onto her back.

With her hand clutching his neck and her lips attached to his, Jace followed Clary down, his body hovering over hers as he still kept his feet on the ground. Carefully, he grabbed her by the hips and pushed her up the bed until her entire body was on the mattress. He followed her up, lying next to her in the dark. He could see the shape of her belly protruding in the low light, and he placed his hand on the side of it, turning her body so she was facing him, their mouths still kissing, her fingers raking up and down his side, slipping up under the edge of his shirt. And it felt so good, so good and so right and so what he needed right then. It wasn't about the physical. It wasn't about sex, because other than kissing, none of the ways they were touching each other were sexual at all. It was just about this, this feeling of being wanted, of being needed, of being revered.

Jace moved his hand to the dip of Clary's waist, then back to her back, letting his fingers find the bare flesh at the bottom of her spine, just as she had for him. She shivered in his arms, and goosebumps rose under his fingertips.

Clary moved her hand to his face, holding him against her, opening her mouth wider, kissing him deeper, but the feelings between them were the same. There was no rush or expectation to take it further. Everything in that moment was perfect just as it was. Their legs tangled together, twisting them closer and closer. Jace's hand moved back around to Clary's stomach, and he let it linger there against her smooth, firm flesh. It felt so different than the rest of her. Gone was the layer of softness that covered the rest of her body, there it was stretched tight, thin, and hard. He rubbed his thumb over her skin, just lightly, and she giggled against his lips. He smiled at the sound, loving the shape her mouth took when she smiled against his. He opened up a little wider to kiss her deeper, and then he felt it. The smallest nudge against his thumb.

Jace froze, mid-kiss, mid-leg rub, mid-everything. He could feel Clary's breath on his face, her hands tangled in his hair, the beat of her pulse against his arm, but nothing else. He waited for several seconds, barely even moving, but there was nothing.

"Jace?" Clary asked. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, I—" And then it happened again, the smallest nudge, the tiniest little thump against his thumb. "Shit," he said, pressing his whole hand over the spot on her stomach. Then again: thump, thump. Jace let out a surprised half-laugh, half-gasp. He lifted his gaze to Clary's, and her eyes were on his, wide and unblinking. "Clary . . . was that . . . is that . . .?" His breath shook when he exhaled.

"You felt that?" she asked, her hand lowering from his face to rest on top of his, where he had it lying on her stomach.

Jace nodded. "Am I crazy? Did I feel him?"

Clary's mouth spread wide in the biggest smile. "What did it feel like to you?"

"I don't . . ." Jace frowned, then he took her hand in his, turned it palm up, and lightly flicked the fleshy part of her thumb. "Like that," he whispered. "It felt just like that."

Clary let out a little laugh and nodded her head. "Then, yes. Yes."

She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her stomach again, and immediately Jace felt the little thuds and nudges once more. "Oh, God," he said, the strangest feeling rising up in him, unlike he'd ever felt before. It was almost like what he felt for Clary, but so different at the same time. Jace let his fingers lightly caress the moving skin, never letting his hand leave, but feeling his son back, letting him know that yes, yes, he felt him. Yes, he was there too.

Clary kissed Jace's cheek, his neck, his shoulder, and she whispered her love in his ear. He heard her, but he was transfixed, mesmerized by what he was experiencing. He'd never imagined it would be like this, that he would feel like this. There were no words to describe it. No words to describe what he felt for Clary, what he felt for this little person inside of her.

Turning toward Clary, he kissed her again, softly, lovingly, and then he slid down her body, lifting her shirt to reveal the entire swell in her abdomen. Her fingers threaded through his hair, and he turned his head a little to kiss the inside of her wrist. And then he was eye-level to his son, his child. He kept his hand over the place their son still moved, and slowly, nervously, lowered his head and pressed his lips to the same spot. It felt strange because he was kissing Clary's belly, but not kissing Clary at all. But not strange enough to overshadow how it felt to feel that movement against his skin.

"Thank you," he said to her belly, his fingers still running over Clary's flesh, still feeling the little thuds going on beneath. "I think I really needed you too." He pressed another kiss to Clary's stomach, then laid his cheek against it, staring up into her eyes.

She watched him, her touch still moving through his hair, the sound of her heart echoing in his ear, and their son's kicks flicking against his face. It was nothing he'd ever thought he'd want, but now he knew was everything he ever could.

"He's going to look at you like that someday too, you know," Clary said. "Like he adores you. Like you're everything. Because he will, and because to him you will be."

Jace just looked at her, hoping she could see it all in his eyes, because there were still no words, none in existence that conveyed the enormity of what he felt for her. For either of them. And so he gave the only ones he had, the very unworthy, very weak words to try to tell her the immensity of what lived inside. "I adore you."

Clary smiled, her fingers slipping from his hair to his cheek, tracing his jaw and then his lips. "I know," she said.

And in that moment, that tiny slice of infinity, everything was okay. It wouldn't be forever, and there would probably be more bad days than good, but for right then, this was all Jace wanted, all he needed. And he was going to hold onto these seconds, these feelings, and keep them locked away safe and sound, until the day came when they were all ripped away.

Firstly: Omg, the angst. It killed me. But, what can I say? I love it, and DSJ is all about the angst. And yes, he is planning for the worst, hence the last line. He's a pessimist. :P

Secondly: to the people who think Jace is "too vulnerable" or "too emotional", well, this is how this Jace is. Either you like it or you don't, but it's not going to change. He is tough, but he feels A LOT, and when he's with Clary, he shows it. I happen to adore him and his differences from Cassie's Jace (and my other Jace's). It makes him his own.

Thirdly: I'm doing NanoWriMo this month, so there will be no update until December sometime. It shouldn't be much longer of a wait than you had for this chapter, but I figured I'd warn you anyway—just so you'd know.

Fourthly: Awww. Daddy Jace gets to feel little baby kicks! I love it. (And before anyone tries to contradict, Clary is between 18-19 weeks pregnant. She is at the very cusp of the time frame where others can feel the baby's kicks. I decided that because she is so tiny and thin to begin with, that Jace probably would be able to feel them at the beginning of that time too. My husband could feel ours around this time.)

Until next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf