A/N: Hello, EC here… Anyways, there's a few things that I have to get out of the way before you read.

This fic was originally NOT a TMI fic. It was a dream that I had about myself and my future. I spent the next few hours afterward brainstorming just where the hell my brain went in my subconscious. It wasn't Clary and Jace. It was me and someone I've never met before. Since this is largely based off of my dream, there will be parts of it that are OOC for the characters. Pieces of her character, of her skill sets, of her interests, are mine. I've always been super self conscious of myself so putting such a large part of me into this story is a monumental leap.

I have this story planned out in my head- more so than most of my other stories.

I know of one instance of the mob AU being done before (not to say there isn't more). I think this may have been what triggered my dream. It's a TMI fic called 'the Bosses Daughter' and its accompanying piece 'the Mobsters Wife'. Both of these are by Mina lisly who is just a fantastic writer.

Another author who deserves some love is serene calamity. She had been getting hate for writing about non hetero normative topics. Personally I love her work so go check her out.

I AM NOT A TRAINED MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL! I don't know how many times I have to say that. I want to be a trauma surgeon one day, that does not mean I am one now. I used my very limited knowledge of medicine gleaned, in part, from TV shows (which are totally inaccurate- Thanks Doctor Mike! Bewoop!), from CPR/BLS certification every year for the last 4 years running, lifeguard training in October of 2019, and a 10 day summer seminar about emergency medicine where I learned a lot of fun shit. But: I AM NOT A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL! IF YOU OR SOMEONE ELSE NEEDS ASSISTANCE CALL 911 (USA). Side note: If you are a medical professional and would like to be asked about aspects of surgery and the medical field to improve the accuracy of this fic please PM me!

"Thank fuck you're here Mia. I've been managing a migraine all day and, between the gangsters and mobsters who are clogging the E.R. and the recent overtime we've all been pulling, I'm done. I need a shower and a long -ass- nap." For some reason, the mobs that had been at one another's throats for months decided to make their move today of all days. It royally fucked up her birthday weekend plans to finally get a good night's sleep.

She loved this city, she really did. It was just... a nightmare at times. Unfortunately, New York was a prime port of shipment for various illicit things. Between the numerous warehouses that lined the ocean, the Hudson and East Rivers, and the various bays around Staten Island and Long Island, illicit activity was a given. For whatever reasons, it had been getting worse. There were more and more victims in her E.R. without cause or reason.

It was late summer and, usually, she would operate on people who were in car accidents or who were in various water sport accidents. Instead- and she wasn't complaining yet -she was in the Operating Room stitching up gunshot wounds and various slashes and stab wounds while they were digesting their body weight in Narcan.

She loved this city. She really did. It had a level one trauma center, which was pivotal to her job, while also being a lifetime away from her past in New Orleans. The increased activity did have her worried though. It had been over 10 years but even a lifetime wouldn't be enough.

Clary continued walking past the various rooms, all holding adult patients while police officers stood watch at the ends of the corridors. Over the last few months, this had become commonplace. Heavily armed men in black became the newest decoration in the sterile grey building. Management said that they were here to keep the doctors and nurses safe.

Clary watched as 'visitors' ducked in and out of the rooms that lined the halls. Green eyes on a swivel, watching and waiting for someone- anyone -to make a scene. There had been a few times where rival gang or mob members would go searching through rooms for their unfinished business. It was ridiculous really. There was a time, a month or so back, when a 'visitor' had accidentally triggered a Code Blue because they didn't disconnect the heart monitor before trying to suffocate the patient with a pillow.

It wasn't that she worked in a 'backwater hospital'. On the contrary, Clarissa Fray had graduated top of her class in both Undergraduate studies and Medical School before being matched to a premiere surgical internship and residency in New York. She had worked her ass off for her dream and it had come true. She loved this city and she loved her job.

"... and then I told Kaelie that if she didn't have both the pre-op and the post-op notes in my locker by 2000 tonight I would- hey," Mia said as my eyes focused and thoughts cleared, "where'd you go?"

Clary cleared her throat and shifted her arms, the edges of the folders digging into the soft crease of her elbow. "Sorry, you know how it is after a 48 hour shift." She transferred the weight of the folders to her hip and chuckled. "You know I thought it was supposed to get better after residency. Same shit different year, yah know?"

Mia laughed outright, a deep and vibrant sound that resulted in her closing her soft honey eyes. "I swear the interns and residents get worse every year. We were not this bad. Anyways, Kaelie has 30 minutes to finally get this shit together. She wasn't in your OR right?"

Clary shook her head, wisps of red curls falling into her eyes. "For the record we were amazing," Mias lips lifted into a smile at that, "and she was. I had her doing various things but overall she was fine. If she could get the paperwork side of things done… Anyway, she shows real promise. But the bags under her eyes aren't as big as they should be."

"Oh god I know right?" Mia sighed fondly, obviously reminiscing about the shit they pulled together as interns and then residents. "I remember when we fell asleep in the observation room. I woke up only able to turn my head to the left and drool all over the case file. You, luckily, only had a couple inch deep sleep mark from the arm of the chair."

Clary struggled to hide her smile. "Yah but my resident thought I had been attacked. I swear he wanted to file charges on my behalf. It also took hours for it to go away. I think I still have a permanent crease in my cheekbone." Her anger would have been more believable if she wasn't fighting the full face smile. She rolled her eyes at their antics. Being an intern was a nightmare.

"Anyways," Clary continued, "I need to get to the store and then home. I have the next three days off and I plan on never leaving my spud suit."

The said their goodbyes and Clary walked off, glancing behind her as Mia entered a patient room. They had met at the hospital as interns both wanting to go into surgery. Mia ended up as a pediatric surgeon despite currently doing her fellowship in trauma. They had met and immediately hated one another. For whatever reason, for the first couple months, they went out of their way to fuck with the other girl. Only after the other interns started dropping like flies did they finally grow together and pull themselves through the hardest of times.

Not having enough time or, more correctly, energy to change, Clary grabbed her purse, backpack, phone, and keys. Having already deposited her lab coat in the community laundry bin, she walked out of the hospital and into the sunny August day.

Despite her mother being a famous artist, despite her debts being paid off with her mother's help and through her hard work as a trauma surgeon, she lived in a shit apartment void of nearly everything personal. It wasn't her fault really, just how she was raised. Jocelyn Fairchild wasn't always a household name. While they were waiting for her art to take off, she lived in apartments like these with her mother and brother. Their father having died shortly before her birth.

It was small but it was home. It also needed groceries if she wanted to survive on anything relatively healthy.

She loved this city, she really did. One of the best things about it was the ability to walk or cab almost anywhere. She had always lived in cities where she could get anywhere without needing her own car, whether it was the above ground max and buses in Portland, Oregon, the trolley car, bus lines, or general compactness of New Orleans, or the subway systems of New York. Some of the cities may have not been big but they all supplied her with the ability to move without needing to drive or a license. In New York, from her apartment, it was two stops to the grocery center and two in the opposite direction to the hospital. It was relatively easy to get what she needed when the subway didn't break down which, based on the garbled New Yorker speech filtering into the sparsely occupied subway car, was exactly what was going on.

()()()()()()

Backpack and hands full of both frozen and fresh food, Clary was walking the final couple blocks to her apartment building. Night had fallen by now, and the heavy evening air was cooling off with the soft late summer wind. Dull streetlights lined the one way she lived on. In the distance she could hear sirens. Clary picked up her pace. She may have been an easy target but, compared to the things she experienced down in New Orleans, street muggers were nothing and- for whatever reason, maybe because their asses had been saved by people in scrubs -the mobs and gangs wouldn't touch anyone dressed in the average hospital attire.

Clary could also hear gunshots in the distance. Those were regular. She didn't have a lot to get used to when she moved from city to city, but the increasingly frequent gunshots were, to put it kindly, a rather unwelcome surprise.

It wasn't that the gunshots themselves scared her. It also wasn't that she was scared. Living in a shitty apartment led her mother to have a gun and, when it eventually had to be used by her brother, she wasn't scared. Watching that white man break into her home, watching his blood spill across her gnarled wooden floor, bleached by the sun, taught her what injury was. It taught her what her father's blood looked like when he was hit by a drunk driver. The papered walls and the old oak dinner table. Her home.

She was never one to be scared. She was curious, almost faultably so. It was no wonder then that, when she saw the man lying in the gutter of the street, Clart didn't keep walking. His huddled form could have easily been mistaken for a homeless person except for his garb. He must have been wearing a dark, either navy or grey, business suit- it was hard to make it out exactly. Hurriedly crossing the street she confirmed that it was a suit, and that he wasn't lying there of his own volition. Curled in on himself she could see was the blood all over his face and matting his hair, breathing rough and labored.

She took her bags and put them into her left hand, lightly rolling him over with her right. He moved with a groan and hiss. Even under the bright moon and pale street lights she still couldn't see the extent of his injuries. "Hey," She said hesitantly, "hey! I'm calling the police. You need to go to the hospital." Clary didn't know how responsive he was until he groaned out a 'no'.

"No? But you need medical attention right now."

"No hospital." His eyes finally opened and looked at her. She was sure that, if they weren't flat and corpse-like, his gold eyes would have been vibrant and expressive. Now though, they were hard to look at, sharing more with the bodies in the morgue than the . "You're a nurse right? Can't you do something?"

Rolling her eyes at that- why did everyone assume that females in scrubs had to be nurses? Clary knew plenty of male nurses who were proud and accomplished. Besides, nurses were the backbone of a hospital. The equivalent of the blood of the body. Why did he have to say 'nurse' with such a tone? -she grabbed his arm and tried to turn him back over. "It's less than a block to my apartment and you'll have to walk. First though, I need to check your spine." Clary hesitantly took her fingers and 'walked' his spine. She felt for any step offs or abnormalities. Clary looked for anything that indicated for a need to be backboarded.

Feeling nothing of worry, she moved to hoist him onto his feet. With much struggle, the man was now standing and limping. She began with the basics, asking him about what happened and how it happened to what he believed the extent of the damage to be. She was lucky if a grunt of an answer passed through his lips. With his arm thrown over her shoulders, they walked to the empty entry and passed the hallway leading to the first floor apartments and the small office and to the stairwell.

Step by step, relief flooded her veins when she saw her door, toothpick still stuck between the door and the wall. The man leaned on the wall as she pulled her keys from her purse and unlocked the door. His gaze unnerved her. For some reason, instead of just calling the cops, she decided to take him with her. She, for the life of her, could not understand why of all things. He could die. He could die and then how the hell would she be able to explain the fact that there was a dead body in her apartment. He had a head and- easily -50 pounds on her. This could hit the fan in the worst of ways. What the everloving fuck would she do then?

Home sweet home was an open floor plan room. Her door opened inward to a basic kitchen on the right, a wooden table in the middle. The floor was the old wooden floorboards, bed pushed into the far left corner with a dresser at its foot. Her bathroom in the closer left corner, small window across from the door. Home sweet home was a shitty apartment with only the most basic of amenities, but a wooden table and independently bought medical supplies would have to do.

She laid him on his back on the table. He groaned again. Clary ran to the foot of her bed where there were a few loose floor boards. She had accumulated various surgical tools and other necessary instruments that she could get her hands on from suppliers and stores. She pulled the black duffle bags with the light blue surgical symbol from under the dusty compartment. She quickly queued up her music, hoping to relax both her and him.

Setting them on the table next to him she ran to the kitchen and quickly washed her hands, doing her best to scrub in. Moving quickly she had on a mask and gloves before grabbing some kitchen scissors from one of the medical bags.

She began to cut the suit off of him. She needed to see the extent of the damage; the suit would have to go. Cutting lengthwise along his arm sleeve, up past his collar, and down past his torso, Clary was able to carefully take off the front of his jacket and begin peeling off the front of his button down dress shirt.

The harsh light from her kitchen casted shadows across his bruised and bloodied torso. The shirt clung to places where the blood had dried into flaky ruby pieces, staining the pale and washed out skin. Clary ran to her bathroom and grabbed the old- but clean -towels she no longer used and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Tucking them under her arm and emptying her laundry basket onto her bed, she ran back and set her supplies beside her medical bags. Under the kitchen sink was a couple gallons of unopened distilled water which found themselves next to the towels and bags.

Grabbing one of the towels, Clary wet it and laid it on the pieces of clothing that were stuck. Slowly, as the blood became less congealed to the shirt, she was able to see the extent of the damage. With his shirt fully removed she could see the through-and-through gunshot wound to his lower right abdomen, resting an inch up and inward of his hip bone. A small cut decorated his torso a couple inches lower.

Settling for packing both the front of the GSW and the back of the GSW with the clean towels, Clary moved onto his pants. Taking off his leather belt, she set it aside for when she would need to do stitches. From there, Clary took her scissors and cut lengthwise down his legs. She pulled what she could off of him, the cloth sticking to his inner right thigh until she wet another towel, and removed his shoes and socks. He was lucky. A little deeper and he would have been dead from femoral arterial blood loss. That had the potential to kill someone in under a minute.

Without seeing his back, she knew that it would be a nightmare. The poor man, who was probably not really a poor man, would have to survive a cleaning and stitches without even a localized anesthetic.

Clary moved back up to his head. Taking one of her penlights she checked his pupils and mouth. His breathing began to calm in repetition despite it still being somewhat labored. Running her gloved hands through his matted hair, wet towel in hand, she couldn't feel any open cuts or sores or bumps that weren't supposed to be there.

Going back to the gunshot wound on his chest, Clary took the emptier one of the distilled water jugs and cut it with the hydrogen peroxide. Using this new mixture, she wet another towel and began cleaning his torso. The muscles under her hands jumped in pain whenever she began to scrub a little too hard or around the GSW.

Pulling out the suture thread, textured tweezers, and the toothed forceps, Clary began to prep for stitching the hole shut. She moved up to his head and lightly tapped his cheek. "Still with me?" She asked him. In all honesty, she didn't expect a response.

His eyes opened, duller than before. A gasping chuckle escaped and, despite the exhaustion and blood loss, she swore his eyes sparked. "As here as can be."

Clary laughed a little at that. She had never conversed with a patient like this. It was a totally new experience. "I'm going to begin cleaning your GSW directly. I don't have any medication for you. Are you sure you're ok with this?"

She didn't know what answer she wished for but part of her was disappointed that he said to continue. Folding his belt and placing it between his teeth, Clary moved back to his torso. She grabbed her pen light and the towel wet with the water/hydrogen peroxide mix and began dipping into the GSW. As she cleaned, groans, hisses, and gasps escaped from his lips. As bad as she felt, it was more important to clean as much from the wound as possible.

Grabbing some actual packing material from the med bag, she began to use the tweezers and her fingers to soak up the blood from in the hole. While she worked, the world faded away. The gunshots that would sound and the wind that would drift by lazily disappeared from her surroundings. She was no longer aware of the harsh but dull light from her kitchen bulb. It was no longer Clary in New York. It was Clary and her patient. The same patient that was getting blood on her shitty table. She really should have lain a plastic sheet down beforehand. The blood from the other side of the wound was slowly soaking through the packed towel and onto her table.

Once the bleeding had slowed, she took the prepped suture material and began stitching the wound closed widthwise along his torso. His abdominal muscles kept shivering with every new poke and tie off. It was not the best job she had ever done, but it was the best under her present circumstances. There would be a scar, but it was another story to tell. Taking some gauze and medical tape, Clary set it over the sutured area and taped the edges of the sterile white bandage to his skin.

Moving on to the wound on his inner right thigh, she cleaned around it. The injury looked to be the result of a knife, only one side was cleanly sheared while the other looked to have been ripped. Repeating the motions of the GSW, the stab wound was soon stitched and bandaged.

Clary grimaced at the color of his skin. Some time between the stitching of the two wounds the man had begun to pale even worse than before. The sallow and sickly color of his skin worried her. "Hey. Hey you!" Clary moved back to his face. "Open your eyes." She lightly tapped his cheek. "Open. Your. Eyes."

With a groan, and possibly a few curse words, he stared back at her.

"I need to flip you over. Don't worry, I'll do most of the work." She pulled his far arm and hip toward her, using the main points of contact to gently put him on his stomach.

Clary took off the remainder of his clothing and began on that side of the GSW. Making quick work of the gunshot wound, she moved to the slash across his back. That was something she hadn't anticipated. Stretching from his lower right hip to his upper left shoulder, the wound was relatively shallow. Unfortunately, it needed stretch bandages due to the frequent use. It wasn't deep enough to warrant sutures, but it did need something so the skin could heal faster and easier. Moving his back would put tension on anything she used as a bridge to pull the skin together. Settling on lots of thin butterfly bandages, Clary covered the slash in the same way as the gunshot and stab wounds.

Even though he was stitched and covered, his body needed nutrients. Usually, if he were in a hospital, bags of fluids and blood would be attached to him, restoring the lost nutrients. Instead, Clary grabbed her heat trapping army blanket and wrapped it around him, flipping the man over in the process. Pulling him up, she maneuvered him to sit in one of the chairs. Despite it being last summer and relatively warm, she could see the raised hairs on his arms.

She took off her mask and gloves, throwing them into her trash. No matter how many years she had been using masks, taking them off was still the best feeling in the world. Picking up the wet towels, she put them in her laundry bin. A long laundry day was in her future.

As she put her almost thawed frozens away first, she could feel his eyes on her. Clary grabbed a pot from her lower cabinets and set it on her stove, glancing at the clock. 0023. It was officially August 18th and, therefore, her 32nd birthday. What a way to spend the day.

Turning around and leaning on her stove Clary looked back at him. It was lucky that she had bought soup earlier that day. She opened the chicken noodle one over the pot and turned the stove top on medium to warm it up.

Clary turned back to him. "I don't have a nutrient bag, blood bag, or saline bag. Instead you are going to drink the broth from the soup I'm heating up. If you need it, my bathroom is behind you." She grabbed a plastic cup from the upper cabinet and filled it with tap water. People didn't need the purity of distilled water to drink. He could have tap.

She placed the water in front of him on the table. He was hunched over, camo patterned blacked wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It wasn't clothes, but it would have to do. At least he stopped shaking. "Drink up slowly. Your body just went through a trauma and it's going to take time for it to take anything other than fluids. Drink that and I need to get changed.

Knowing that he couldn't turn around without injuring himself further, Clary felt comfortable taking off her scrubs and throwing on a loose t-shirt and running shorts. Clary moved back across the tiny room and back to the stove to stir the noodles. Every couple minutes she glanced back at the man. Slowly, he was drinking the water, his hand shaking less and less every time.

Once the soup was hot enough, she turned off the stove and grabbed two bowls and spoons, straining most of the broth and some of the noodles into one of the bowls and put the remainder in the other bowl. She placed the broth bowl in front of him, the filled bowl across from him, and refilled his water cup. She filled the empty pot with water and placed it in the sink.

They ate in silence, the sounds of the city and soft music from her phone setting the post operation mood. She didn't know what to say to him. What did you say to someone who was found injured in a gutter? You're welcome? She inwardly sighed, mentally exasperated. There was no handbook for this type of scenario.

"Thank you." He told her. Clary looked up at him. His bowl was almost empty and the cup needed a refill. "My name's Jace and I think you just saved my life." He cocked his head to the side, seemingly curious. Clary just looked back at him. "Usually, in polite conversation at least, you would reciprocate the introduction."

He was cocky. She had to give him that. "Judging by the injuries you sustained, coupled with the past scars that allude to the same kind of treatment, you have not been hanging out in kind of crowds to use polite conversation." She lifted another bite to her mouth.

He chuckled and lightly shook his head, matted blond curls moving in tandem. "You're deflecting. But I'll let that go. Bathrooms behind that door right?" He asked, pointing to the cracked door behind him.

She nodded and he rose shakily. Clary watched as the man, or Jace as he called himself- if that was even his real name -moved past her bare 70s beach house wood panelled wall and into her dimly lit bathroom. It was only when that door closed that her only other door was broken open and through it marched an older man with curly black hair and dark blue eyes, people in tactical gear following his steps, their rifles raised.

A/N 2.0:

~I don't have a schedule and probably won't have one ever (because I'm an indecisive little shit).

~Who do you think the black haired man is?

~Would you like a ch.2?

~Have questions? PM me or leave a comment!

~I plan to have Jace's POV for (at least) the beginning of the second chapter.

~Just for reference: It took me about 6-7 hours to write and edit this chapter.

~Do you want music references? I could always open the chapter with a song list.