Nope. Not Mine. Cassandra Clare's. Big surprise there. =]

Being undead, for lack of a better word, sucks. This was a subject that Simon Lewis frequently perused when he walked the familiar streets of New York City during the light hours. Not that he was afraid to go out at night, he just really didn't like taking the risk of running into a certain coven that were insanely jealous of his striking good looks and wit. Well, maybe more the mark on his forehead, but whatever.

He didn't especially like being out at night, when the really "scary" things came out to play. Simon snorted, drawing the attention of an elderly woman, holding a Pomeranian in a red doggie sweater. He was sitting on a bench in a particularly sunny patch in the park. He perpetually picked out the sunny parts wherever he went, soaking up the warmth on his frigid skin like it would be the last time he would get to do it. The sun was starting to set now, he noticed regretfully.

Things that preferred to dwell in the dark. Prostitutes. Murderers. Rapists. He would listen in on conversations about how the community was going downhill. How it was no longer safe for your kids to play on the streets. Like they ever were, mundanes.

Simon chuckled slightly, the same women who were afraid to be out after dark, would smile and wave politely if he initiated. They had no idea the most dangerous thing to them was the polite 16 year old who was watching them drink their coffee, lusting after their blood. Actually, the crime rate was declining, but at such a slow rate that no one really noticed.

This was partly due to the once-Jewish, sort of dead, eternally damned Simon.

Cast out by the human race, and branded a freak by his own kind, Simon found himself a walking cliché. Being perpetually 16 wasn't as great as it sounded. Sure, his skin was perfect, and he was able to lift the couch and vacuum under it at the same time--but what good was that when you had no one to share it with? When you couldn't say hello to your mother in person because you hadn't aged in 10 years. So he slept during the day sometimes --he found he needed less sleep then he did as a human-- and hunted small game at night. He wore a lot of black, and had one moment of crazed weakness a few years back when he toyed with buying eyeliner.

That was a particularly dark month, he recalled with a shudder.

He was, completely and utterly on his own. A thing he hadn't really experienced before It had happened to him.

Loneliness was his closest friend--ok not that was cliché, he thought bitterly. It hadn't worked out with Maia--the fact that she was aging and he wasn't was putting a damper on their relationship to say the least. They tried to make it work, but there were too many differences between them, plus the fact that he kept finding stray wolf hairs attached to his sweater when he left her house really freaked him out.

And Isabelle….well. He had given up on that a long time ago. She was too smart, too beautiful, to brave, too perfect for him anyways. Who wanted someone like that? Nope, not him, that was for sure. Apparently unrequited love was his thing, so that sucked.

And then there was Clary. Oh, Clary. She was married, and pregnant. He found himself slowly pulling away from her, the closer she got to Jace. It was only natural, she was moving on with her life, getting married, having children, moving on. He could even stand Jace for small amounts at a time. So he lost his best friend too. Simon saw her on occasion, it was always awkward, at least to him it was. Is there anything this selfish disease wouldn't take from him?

He frowned, slouching further down on the bench, shoving his hands into his pockets angrily.

But, he couldn't be completely Emo about everything. Some good things had come from this too. About seven years ago, in a stroke of extreme universal irony, he had made an unconscious decision to become a vigilante. One night he was strolling--ok more like skulking, it's a vampire thing--through Central Park when he came across two gang members mugging an Arab man wearing an expensive Italian suit.

One of the gang members--who happened to be wearing pants so low that he didn't need to worry about pulling them down to pee--was repeatedly punching the poor victim in the stomach. The man was doubled over in pain gasping for air, trying to say something, one hand waving in the air like a flag of surrender. Simon dodged behind a tree, so they wouldn't see him. And then he realized that he had faced a full army of royally pissed off demons, so two gang members were probably no match for him. Probably. He exhaled, nervously. Why was he panicking? He was the superior species here. What with the whole inhuman speed and strength thing. Right? Right? Right.

He planned on saying something terribly clever, but was surprised to see that while he was busy stroking his ego, the muggers had proceeded to pull a gun on the victim. At the moment one of the assailants was expertly flailing the weapon around, looking much like he had massive fire ants in the arm of his extra large Yankees jacket. He dropped the gun. Twice.

Simon and the victim were definitely on the winning side of the gene pool here.

Also, the other attacker was saying the word "bitch" a lot.

"Bitch, gimmie your wallet!" The one who was being even less useless then his friend growled, looking around shiftily. He kicked the well dressed man on the ground for emphasis. A long trail of blood and spit dripped out of the mans mouth.

And before Simon knew what was happening, his teeth had unsheathed, he had quite literally jumped the gang members from behind. They waddled away, looking like penguins running from a tuxedo factory. His bottom lip was stinging from his fangs, drawing blood. His stomach lurched, eager for more. He ignored the fire in this throat, and turned to the man that they had been trying to rob. "Hey, are you alright?" Simon asked, offering him a cold hand to help him up. The man's eyes went wide with terror.

Apparently he found his voice, because he screamed. Really loudly.

Simon raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Well that was completely unnecessary" Simon said feeling slightly put off. "A simple 'thank you' or 'marry my eldest daughter, Most High' would have sufficed."

But no, nothing, not even a grunt of approval. Surprisingly, that didn't bother Simon as much as he thought it would. Seeing those moron wannabe thugs run away like they were wearing gasoline soaked pajamas, and he was holding a match wasn't even what made him feel good.

It was that he had saved someone.

Simon. One of the Night Children. Go figure.

He was pretty badass after all. A small, proud grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He carefully extended his hand, trying not to frighten the poor man. His throat burned with thirst, making it difficult to concentrate. His hand shook slightly.

The man did not accept his hand. Instead, he scrambled away from him, crawling backwards. If Simon hadn't been so confused by his actions, he would have laughed. "What are you..?" he started, but felt the sharp pain of his needle like fangs on his lip. Oh. Whoops. The man's eyes were wide with terror. Simon sighed, and turned to leave. So he had to work on hiding his fangs, or keeping them sheathed when he was angry. That he could do.

And he did, his control was far better now then it once was. He felt less wild, and unpredictable, well sometimes. It was late at night again, he had lost track of how long he was sitting at the park. Simon was walking, with no destination in mind. Not even paying attention to where he was going, he found himself on the familiar path to Hotel Dumort. He often ended up wandering the streets in this area, he couldn't help it, something about this place drew him to it. It was instinct, like a homing pigeon returning to its owner. Not that anyone owned him, and even if they did it would certainly not be Raphael. He felt a small growl build in his chest, then quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard, thinking he could blame it on a crazy stray cat if they did.

He doubled back, walking as quickly as he could, without drawing attention to himself. But, he was too late.

"Hello Dayligher." Said a young, accented voice.

Damn. Simon thought, fighting the urge to growl again. He turned around slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements.

"Hello, Raphael." He said politely. And because he was a little bit of a jackass, he couldn't help but add "Miss me?"

Raphael smiled coldly."You have no idea." He said his tone matching his smile. Simon felt the instinctual unsheathing of his fangs, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. He felt movement behind him, and without seeing anything, he knew he was surrounded by Raphael's minions. Simon suppressed a scoff. Minions. The boy had minions. Raphael didn't even have pubic hair yet, and he had freaking minions. Where was the justice? He wasn't smiling the unnervingly cold smile anymore.

"Well, you have me." Simon said holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I guess I'm in trouble now." His voice was surprisingly steady, surprising even himself.

"Yes, amigo." The smile was back. "Yes you are."

Simon sighed. Being a vampire really sucked.

***

"So what do you think of Maurice?" Clary said, peering up at Jace over her book. "I think Maurice is nice." She watched his expression carefully as he pretended to like it. He nodded slowly looking like he had just eaten a lemon, but in a cute way. She knew he would hate it, which was precisely why she said it aloud. It tickled her to torture him like that. They were sitting on their old red couch, Clary's feet in his lap, on opposite ends of the couch, like bookends. Only one was very manly, and one very pregnant. Both of them were absorbed in gigantic Baby Names books.

He was still nodding absently, apparently at a loss for something to say. But his horrified expression had frozen in place. "Maurice?" He asked, pursing his lips slightly.

"Yep." Clary responded, popping the 'p' biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"You're screwing with me aren't you?" He asked, half smiling, half hopeful.

"Yep." She popped the 'p' again, and laughed gently. He laughed too, his laugh was musical, and perfect. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. It was quite a sight to see such an Alpha Man reading "The Big book of Baby Names," like it was a weapons manual. He was so involved with every detail of the birthing process. He spoke to her swollen belly at night, telling the baby stories, singing to it. He had gleefully gone out on the midnight runs for pistachio ice cream and pickles. He'd baby proofed the apartment covering ever corner in some sort of padding--it looked like an amusement park for the handicapped. There were covers crammed in all the electrical sockets. All the cleaning fluids had been perched up so high, Clary couldn't reach them. She had her suspicions that he had been done more by design then accident, he of course adamantly denied it, mumbling something about 'damn childproof caps.' He was the perfect overprotective father. Well, soon-to-be father. Of a little boy, nonetheless.

The nightmare was almost forgotten by now. It had been a busy two months since, and Clary had too much to think about and too much to prepare to dwell on a stupid nightmare. She'd even gone to ask Jocelyn about it.

"Well, I'm not really much help in the baby department, seeing as I was being poisoned both times I was pregnant by your sadistic father, but if you want my advice, I think its just a combination of hormones and nerves." She said, pouring Clary a cup of tea. "But again, helpless victim, crazy father." She said, with a small smile. Clary thought that it was good that she was able to joke about it, but could tell that it bothered her more then she led on.

"So I have nothing to worry about?" Clary asked, wanting her to say the words.

"Honey," She said with a sigh, and covered Clary's hand with her own, it was warm and slightly rough from the turpentine and paint. "I think that considering our….past history with fathers and men in general, that it's completely normal for you to be a little paranoid about protecting your own child from Jace." Her grip tightened. "But Jace loves you, and he would never hurt you or your child."

Clary nodded. She knew that. She knew that Jace wouldn't….."I know." Clary said. "But the dream was so vivid…." It was vivid, but it was also just a dream, well nightmare.

And after that conversation, Clary put it behind her. It was just a dream, Jace would never hurt either of them, her mother was right. Absently, Clary put one hand protectively on her stomach.

"What about Maverick?" Jace asked, his face eager, putting down the book, and turning to face her.

"Maverick?" Clary repeated dubiously.

"It's…cool, right?" He said, looking at her happily. "Ma-ver-ick. It's…bold."

"No, it's terrible. He'll grow up to have an addiction to internet porn, and Tom Cruise movies. My baby will not grow up to be a complete loser, or liking Tom Cruise movies."

"And an addiction to Tom Cruise movies constitutes being a loser?" He asked, looking slightly hurt. "I like Tom Cruise movies." In their years together, Clary had introduced him to the ways of the Mundanes.

She snorted. "Maurice is looking pretty good right about now," Clary said, shaking her head slowly.

"Oh yeah, because Maurice doesn't say kick-my-ass?" Jace mumbled, rolling his eyes. "I still like Maverick," he said, sounding a little petulant.

"Yeah, you also like Tom Cruise movies. I rest my case." Clary said, picking up her book again.

"And internet porn." Jace said, chuckling slightly.

Clary's eyes narrowed, and she threw 10,000 names at his head, but she was laughing too. Jace put both of their books on the side table, and leaned over her, putting one hand on her stomach. The other hand he used to keep his weight off her as he hovered over her body. The laughter was gone out of his eyes, Clary noticed, feeling the atmosphere change. She raised a hand to cup his face gently. There was a crease in between his eyebrows, something was wrong.

"What is it?" She asked, her fingertips tracing the lines in his brow. "Tell me."

"I was thinking…and if you don't agree, that's perfectly alright…" He trailed off, looking concerned.

Clary was growing irritated. "For God sake, Jace spit it out already, you're freaking me out." She said, not unkindly. But her heart speed increased, and thudded against her ribcage painfully.

"What about…Maxwell….Max? F-for the baby's name, I mean," He said, almost whispering, looking extremely nervous.

Maxwell. Max.

"Its perfect." Clary said softly matching his tone. And it was, she loved it. "Max." She said, loving the sweet way it rolled off her tongue. "Max." she said again, sadly, thinking of the little boy that was murdered so brutally in Idris. She felt a small pang in her heart. The little boy that no one paid attention to, that everyone thought they would have time for later. The one she taught to read Manga. Jace's little brother. "They'll like that." She said looking directly into his sad eyes. "Especially Izzy." Isabelle had taken his death the hardest, because she blamed herself, it still haunted her all these years later.

Jace sighed in relief. "I think so too." He buried his face into her neck, inhaling her scent. "I'm glad you like it. Our little boy, our little Max." His voice sounded strained, and she understood why he had hidden his face in her hair, because he didn't want her to see him looking so distressed. She buried her fingers in his blonde curls, saying nothing.

"Can his middle name be Maverick?" He asked, pulling away, looking into her eyes. He was fine, apperently.

Clary sighed. "Not a freaking chance."

***

"Alec, would you stop fidgeting? You're going to make me whack off an ear, or something." Magnus snapped, carefully snipping the too-long hairs around the back of his neck. They were in Magnus's shabby apartment, when Magnus waved a glittery hand in the air and declared that Alec's hair was much to long for his liking.

"I can't help it, you keep pulling my hair." Alec retorted, flinching at the sound of the metal scissors grinding together around his ears.

"Hmm. I was under the distinct impression that you liked me pulling your hair." Magnus said, smirking slightly.

"Yes, but not when you're holding something pointy near my carotid artery." He said, his voice terse.

"Well you can stop whining now, I'm finished." Magnus said, pressing his blue tinted lips on Alec's pale neck. "Honestly, Alec, I'm five hundred years old, and I'm gay. I know how to cut hair."

"You're over eight hundred," Alec corrected. "No need to lie about it. The cat is out of the bag, you know."

"Spoil Sport." Magnus mumbled.

"Cradle Robber." Alec replied, smirking, and wrapping his arms around Magnus's neck. Magnus chuckled, and Alec could feel the vibrations of it rumble in his own chest, making him smile. "But it is kind of sexy." He added, pressing his lips on Magnus's.

"What is? Oh you mean the fact that I'm--seven hundred years older then you, --and therefore very experienced, and --wise." He asked, punctuating his statement with kisses.

"Yes." Alec said, rolling his eyes. "That was exactly what I meant."

"Bah." Magnus said, waving his sparking hand in dismissal. "Why don't you go in the living room, and when I join you, I'll show you exactly how wise I am." He said, waggling his eyebrows, comically. Alec snickered.

"Sure, alright." He said, kissing Magnus one last time before leaving the room.

Not paying attention, Magnus waved his hand--yet again--to send the little bits of hair to some obscure salon in Brooklyn. He bent over to pick up the scissors he'd left on the table, but stopped mid-bend.

The hair hadn't moved.

Magnus frowned. Hadn't he sent it away? Yes he had. He was certain of it. It should be being swept up by some poor hairstylist right now. He frowned in confusion, had his magic failed him? That was impossible. Not in his five hund--ok eight hundred years had that happened. Never.

"Magnus, are you going to come in here and woo me with your wisdom?" Alec said sarcastically from the other room.

"Yes, darling." He said absently, still looking at the hair on the floor, feeling concerned.

He pointed to the hair on the floor, and concentrated on it. He hadn't consciously thought about doing magic this simple in years.

The hair vanished.

Magnus stood there for another moment looking at the clean spot on the carpet, before turning around and heading toward Alec. He looked over his shoulder, the floor still meticulously clean, and turned out the light.

"Well that was weird." He muttered, making his way to the living room.

The floor was still perfectly clean when he was gone.

A/N: Oh my Goodness. You have no idea how much time went into that. I got a request to make the chapters a little longer, so I did. Also, notice the new name? Yeah I want to thank Evil Black Poppies for --awesome name btw--for giving me the idea. Also a GINORMUS THANK YOU TO EVERY ONE WHO REVIEWED. Your support means everything. You guys are made of awesome.

I'll update soon, 'kay?

Oh, reviews please?