Wow, it's been a long time since my last update. This came out pretty longwinded and I wrote it over the past few days so I didn't spend much time on making it cohesive... I feel like Blake's not that interesting unless put with interesting people or interesting situations so hopefully you don't mind hahaha. Obviously, this couldn't cover everything, but I just wanted to establish what his dynamic would have been at the Institute/with Rose.
This is such an overload of so much Blake sorryyyy ahahaha I wanted to add some non-Blake things at the end but I'm about to pass out from tiredness and I just want to get this posted.
They take his weapons at the door. A Shadowhunter holds out a hand and demands the dagger at his hip, taking it and setting it aside. When Blake glances through the little window of the room he's being led to, he sees seraph blades on the two Shadowhunters in there. If anything, he thinks he should maintain the ability to defend himself, knowing there are greater rates of faeries getting killed by Shadowhunters than the reverse. But after his history and quarrel with their kind, he doesn't expect that they'll see him as anything besides some rabid dog in need of shelter.
The waiting is the worst part. He stares into the windowed room until he memorizes the features of the two Shadowhunters there. The man is writing things down on a clipboard and debating diplomatically with the other Shadowhunter beside him. She has gold fingernails and a stern brow, her hands pressed against the table. Maybe they're arguing about whether or not it's safe to let a former Unseelie into the Institute, especially when he's already had problems with Shadowhunters in the recent past. Maybe it has less to do with his former allegiance and everything to do with his faerie blood. He's never told what they're arguing about because when they notice him watching, the woman just shakes her head in disapproval and walks to the door.
"We'll discuss the details in here," she says and lets Blake inside.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
He's killed girls like her before. It was nothing personal, of course, but there were a number of little girls that he'd been ordered to go after. Those orders came with the caution that the children might grow up bloodthirsty and vengeful as a result of the Unseelie killing their treasonous parents, but he can't imagine someone like Rose growing up to become anything but exactly what she is now. When he first runs into her in the greenhouse with the expectation that he might be able to escape the stuffiness of his room for a while, he finds her quick to make conversation and exceedingly overwhelming.
Still, he doesn't know if he can stand being in his room all day, nor does he want to go out into the city every time he feels stir-crazy. He used to not mind waiting in Lily's room when she'd be out on Shadowhunter business, going through her books and her things with interest. Then she'd accompany him through the city and he hadn't minded confronting the mundane world if it meant being with her. He has no one in New York, though, and even the Downworlder neighborhoods are still foreign to him. So he makes the decision to disregard Rose's presence in favour of tending to his claustrophobia.
When he does go into the greenhouse, he sees the girl tending to a few potted plants by a stone bench. He thinks that he can slink around to a more private part of the greenhouse to escape her company, but she notices him anyway as if she's intrinsically tied to everything that happens there.
"Oh, you can't come out here yet." Rose jumps to her feet, brushing her gloves against the embroidered apron that hangs around her neck. "I mean, you'll ruin the surprise if you do."
As if that's what she should be worried about.
"What surprise?" There's nothing too impressive about the greenhouse, although he does recognize a few plants there from the Faerie. It has changed in minuscule ways since he's last been there, but mostly he doesn't know what she's referring to.
"The Caladiums, silly." She crosses her arms at him. "They're not flowers, but they're pretty and take time to grow. You're a faerie, anyway. You know how important all the flora is to making a...a nice environment to live in."
"Ah, being a...gardener; is that what people think the noblest Unseelie pastime is?" he deadpans, unconcerned with her feelings on the matter. "I don't care about whatever you're planting. I'm just out here for a break from...the rooms."
"So mean. And we've only barely met." Still, it seems like she gives up easily on trying to force him out, walking over to where she has a little cart of seeds, soil, and tools. "If you're not going to wait for everything to be done out here, then you better not tell anyone else. I've been working hard on this and I don't want you spreading word that I'm making the greenhouse, like, so much prettier. Not yet, at least."
She barely lets him get much of a word in after that as if he's the only one who has sat in there long enough to ever listen. Although he isn't particularly interested in what she has to say, he finds that she isn't too different from the nymphs he's met in the villages. The ones that don't realize he might kill them if they even blink when the Seelie is mentioned. He can deal with her chatter in silence if it means being able to look through the glass and over the vastness of the city. She talks about leaves and soil, water and herbs, and while she isn't anything like him, she's familiar to look at. It's better than looking into the face of a full-blooded Shadowhunter and seeing Lily Lily Lily when he just wants to move on and find a new place to live.
"These roots need a good place to grow," Rose says, as if she's been listening in on his thoughts. "Sometimes even all the care in the world won't force them to settle."
-.-.-
He bleeds onto her sidewalk. Despite his familiarity with it, time is a concept that he tries to reject. Still, it doesn't do him any good that he doesn't keep track of the full moon, accidentally angering werewolves and encroaching on their territory - he's not entirely used to them either. The Institute he previously stayed at didn't house werewolves and even the city surrounding it was devoid of many Downworlders. Now that he looks back, he think he should have been suspicious of that fact.
"Oh." In the time he's taken to do a quick healing spell and start wiping away some blood where the tooth of a werewolf caught his arm, Rose has come out to the backyard and noticed. Her hands clench in her dress, more distressed than he is about the predicament. Suddenly he feels self-conscious at her quiet attention, unused to someone finding the occasional scratch, bite, or cut an occasion to stand on ceremony about.
"What do you want?" The words leave his mouth with more defensiveness than he means, used to the easy privacy of the Unseelie. It isn't that he hadn't been spending the majority of his time recently in Institute rooms and within the protection of walls, but he's reluctant to fall into their confines so easily and quickly again. Though not many people congregate in the backyard and greenhouse, her presence is always reliable and sometimes invasive. Rose just scrunches up her face a little, stealing glances in his direction with endless curiosity and none of the nerve to back it up.
"Are you okay? Do you need a band-aid? I could get you one, if you wanted," she says nervously, playing with the ends of her hair instead. "I have some for when I accidentally cut myself on a thorn or something. Not that I do that often. Usually I wear gloves..."
"I'm fine." His arm smarts, but it's nothing that will leave a scar nor is it anything to worry about. He doesn't understand why she can't just leave him in peace. "I've dealt with it."
That time, she catches onto the sharpness in his words, looking guilty and worried simultaneously. "Sorry...I just worry too much when people get hurt. I'm not so good with...blood and whatnot but I just like to make sure people are okay..."
Though he pauses when she talks, he doesn't give her a response. He cleans the blood with a wet cloth, vaguely aware that she's still there waiting for when he might need her assistance. Even though that moment never comes, she just flitters anxiously around the backyard to mindlessly tend to some of the plants.
"You don't have to stay," he says after some time, hoping she'll leave. "My arm isn't going to fall off."
"I know." She twists her gloves in her hands. "I just thought you might like the company."
-.-.-
He goes to the Towns to see someone about an apartment. It's not a plan he can do in the immediate future, but it's one he knows how to work his way up to. There are marketable skills that he has and he figures that maybe he'll have to bend to the mundane ways and use those abilities for financial gain. He'd rather work to translate faerie texts than live in the Institute; it's a lesser of two evils. When he thinks about the work it took to be placed in the New York Institute in the first place, though, it feels like a waste of time.
Though he's used to using glamours, he's not familiar with being so disconnected from the ley lines when performing magic. It's the simplest spell that all magic users can perform, and yet he finds himself fatigued after walking through the Towns and into the city with it, though he's certain that it won't waver.
"Blake!" An energetic call makes him glance behind him, sighing inwardly as Rose quicksteps over in his direction, a picnic basket over her arm. "Fancy seeing you here. Hopefully not getting into all sorts of trouble, but I don't think you'd do that kind of thing."
"I'm just heading back to the Institute," he says with a flick of his hand, though he lets her catch up. Sometimes he worries that he'll accidentally witness her trip and scrape her knee, burn herself on too-hot coffee, or be the unlucky pedestrian in the lane of a reckless driver and the Clave will find some sort of absurd way to pin it on him. It isn't like he has any affection for her heritage, being both Seelie and Shadowhunter, so he imagines that the Clave would find the accusation an easy one.
"We can walk together," she decides, and he's realized by then that it's better to just go along with the things she says since it takes more energy to argue against her. "I was out with my friends at the park. I told them I'd make turkey sandwiches for everyone but Mel brought quiche and mini salads and I guess everyone wanted that instead."
Not sure what to say, he just tucks a hand in his jacket pocket and continues down the street. "Sounds like a wasted effort, then."
"Well, I know that, but I wish they'd at least have more of what I made," she complains, swinging her basket a little. "Do you want a sandwich? I'm not going to eat them. I'll probably just stick them in the fridge or something and hope that someone takes them."
"I'm not hungry," he says as an excuse. He can eat mundane food easily enough, and not everything's bad, but he prefers his usual diet to anything that other people might offer.
"You don't have to be weird about it. I'll be sad if you don't take one as well. Think of it as a compliment for me if you eat even half."
"No, I just-...I don't eat meat," he replies, glancing to the side in the direction of the street. "Besides, you're more Shadowhunter than faerie so your taste is different than mine."
"I'm not a Shadowhunter." Pouting at his words, Rose just adjusts the picnic basket and starts to pull ahead. "I'll open the door for you still, but you better be nice to me later, Blake."
-.-.-
Even though Blake has stressed multiple times that he needs to read through papers from the Clave, Rose can't stop herself from chatting on about her day. She details the thought-process behind why she picked out her dress, the types of seeds she bought from the local flower shop, and what she hopes the weather will be like later. Finally, she seems to settle from her long-winded ramble, adjusting her hair and continuing to care for her plants.
"It's just nice to have someone out here." Crouching by a plant, she pokes in it to check the area near the roots. "People don't really spend time in the backyard or greenhouse, but I've worked hard enough to think that maybe people just aren't so good at knowing how to thank me. It was a mess before I came and fixed it."
Her voice is light-hearted, but insistent and in search of praise. Once again she reminds him of the little nymphs he used to put down in the unclaimed lands. They'd busy themselves with gardens and livestock, naive to the world beyond their own village. A few times, she's spoken about how she wishes she was part of the Seelie Court, but there's a difference between liking the pretty parts of the Faerie and needing to reconcile with all the dirty things that lie beneath what's visible. Someone as weak as she is would never fit in. Even the delicate nymphs of the lower Seelie Court have a tenacity and a plethora of survival instincts that she doesn't. It's not her fault; the mundane world is too forgiving in some aspects to teach those ways.
"Even if you're really the only person out here, it's still not too bad. You could contribute a little more to conversations, though," she says with a glance over at him and a wrinkle of her nose. "Most of my other friends like to talk a lot, but a variety is good too. One type of flower always makes a garden too boring, even if it's a really, really nice flower. That's why it's a good thing to cultivate lots of different types. Like you, I guess."
He gives her a sidelong look, an eyebrow slightly raised. "...Are you calling me a flower?"
"It's an analogy, silly," she protests, although she gives a giggle at the thought. "Maybe you should be a rose, since you can be so thorny, but I think that name suits me more than it does you."
"I wouldn't want that kind of name, anyway," he remarks, looking at his surroundings. It's not the Unseelie, but nothing is. It's just nice to not be cramped in his room. "I've had enough names, or whatever."
"My mother has a pretty name," she says and then quietly goes about her work.
He's grown used to her rambles, sometimes telling him about her day, the garden, or new dresses she'd bought and gotten tailored. When she doesn't have any other grand thing to say to him, steeped in her immaturity and simplicity, it's a silence he isn't quite used to. While he's not someone who requires - or even likes - an excess of conversation, it's strange for her to hold her tongue for more than a minute. She's the type of person that he would have hated going on patrols with.
After a while, she does a quick round of the new flower garden she's put in with the watering can, making sure to not get any water on her dress. She sends a few looks his way but he doesn't really notice them, staring at the papers in his hands.
"Well, that's it for me today," she announces suddenly, setting the empty watering can by a few other gardening tools. "Thanks for keeping me company. Even if it's your own kind of brooding and...and serious company."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks dryly, although his scorn is mostly half-hearted. He knows he's not trying to be riveting, especially when he's focusing on papers and doesn't know exactly what he's supposed to be understanding from them in the context of residency in the Institute. "I think we both know you can talk enough for the both of us."
"I can, can't I?" If his words were meant to be an insult, she doesn't take them as such, giving him a smile as she bounces back to the backyard door. "Don't get into anymore trouble, Blake. You'll give me a scare or something."
"I'm not planning on anything the Clave might assassinate me for. Not right now, at least," he responds, only to humour her, but she puts her hands on her hips and makes a face at him.
"I'll be mad if you make the Clave upset." Though she gives him the most stern look she can manage, it still reminds him of a small child imitating the way their parent scolds them. "So be good. Or else."
She wags a finger at him briefly before turning back to the door, going inside and leaving him alone.
-.-.-
He almost nods off sitting at a table in the training room. His dagger is rested in his lap, a whetstone on the table, and his elbow props him up with his hand under his chin. A Shadowhunter earlier tried to talk him out of being there, but he was stubborn enough to fend them off. In the old Institute, his presence in the training room was almost always accompanied with Lily. She justified him being there even when other Shadowhunters weren't necessarily in favour of him intruding on their 'sacred spaces'. Now there is no reason for him to be in there except for familiarity's sake.
"I was looking all over for you." Rose's voice draws him from his sleepiness and he lifts his head quickly, making sure it doesn't seem like he's almost fallen asleep. Looking over, he sees her at the door, not passing the doorframe as if even being in the room might make her closer to her Shadowhunter heritage.
"I'm busy, obviously," he comments in defensive annoyance, setting his dagger on the table. But she doesn't seem to catch the bite in his words, just giving a few quick blinks and a smile.
Sometimes he thinks she might romanticize his company into something intentional and nostalgic. He's never given her any part of himself. She's like those little nymphs that he ponders so much about, with their flighty and shallow ways that just flock to whoever gives them the time of day. Those are the kinds of people he doesn't know how to deal with, but he knows that bad behaviour will only land him into trouble. She might be the only person that can give anything resembling a positive character witness on him should he slip up in the future, though he doesn't doubt that associating with him only worsens the Clave's view of her.
"There's a little shop in the Towns that sells enchanted charms," she says, tapping her pointer fingers together expectantly. "But going alone seems a little scary...I don't know who else to ask. I mean, Percy's too busy with his own stuff. Steff would probably be followed by her boyfriend...Piper goes to the sketchier parts of the Towns...You're a good fighter, right? I mean, you're from the Unseelie..."
Her eyes are big as they watch him, knowing he has little to fill his schedule.
"...Whatever. I've got to go to the Towns soon, anyway," he says with an irritated sigh, only earning an excited noise out of her.
"Thanks. Oh, you're not that mean after all." She grins and flounces back down the hall, making him regret being so lenient.
He picks up his dagger to sheath it. It's been a long time since it's seen blood. While he's no stranger to skirmishes and disagreements with Downworlders that don't take kindly to his presence, it feels odd that he's not spending his days going after traitors tp the Unseelie Court or training with Lily in duels. If he spills too much blood, he knows the Clave will be on his back. They'd rescind their allowance of his Institute stay while shaking their heads: we knew all along that you would be trouble. Sometimes he feels domestic and soft under the weight of their rules. It's more than enough to make him regret betraying the Unseelie.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
"We don't usually offer asylum for former Unseelies," the Shadowhunter man continues after a long lecture, scratching off a few notes with his noisy pen. "Especially ones that can't be vouched for. We know the context of your quarrel at the last Institute you were housed at, but that means you'll be more closely monitored for dangerous behaviour. You're considered a liability for the safety of the Institute."
"Do you understand what that means?" The woman with the gold fingernails watches him expectantly but he keeps his silence. "You'll answer to the Head of the New York Institute and he'll report back to us if you show signs of conspiracy."
His attention wanders to the door, bored with the things that have to tell him. He knows everything they have to say.
Pausing, the woman turns to the side to whisper, her voice hurried and annoyed. "Do we you think we need to get a translator? I don't know if he's-"
"What do I sign?" Blake asks, looking back at them and reaching for a pen. The woman opens her mouth before sliding a paper towards him and tapping the line.
"Right here. If you agree to the terms."
He uncaps the pen, setting it against the line.
"...Which name do I put?" he asks, unsure if it matters. They won't even remember any of his names by the time he leaves the room, but he's stuck between giving a name that's not theirs to know and one that doesn't even feel like his. It's a name that started off as a product of jest until it just stuck, but now it's spoiled with too much baggage to count.
"Whatever name suits you best," the man answers, as if knowing the complex relationship between faeries and their names.
Blake just glances between them before he sets the pen to paper and signs, handwriting still guided by his familiarity with faerie script. Though he hesitates, they pull the paper from under his pen before he can fully draw back, leaving a faint black line streaking down at the end of his name. It feels like a deal where he's walked into unfair parameters, but he has nowhere else to go.
"You should be grateful," is what he's certain they'll say. "This is our only charity."