A/N—Man, this one took absolutely forever to get out, and it's sort of more like an intro to the 'verse than something substantial. I actually admit to having made an rp account for this version of Magnus, but never got a warlock!Alexander rp-er to join me, so it died out quickly, haha. As a result, I have a lot of headcanon for him.

Anyway, this is written for Titania Eli. If you're interested in a particular role reversal or AU-version of Alec and/or Magnus, just let me know through review, PM, or on my tumblr account (the link can be found on my profile) and I'll try my best.

An Infinite Spectrum

::: two—Shadowhunter!Magnus and Warlock!Alec :::

According to Clary, his name is Alexander Lux, and he's some sort of creepy, brain-signing, memory-stealing criminal with the eyes of a snake. According to Isabelle, 'He's that one awkward apprentice of the High Warlock of Manhattan. Honestly Magnus, don't you ever pay attention when my parents are talking to you?' According to Jace, he's screwed if he even tries to weasel his way out of reversing whatever the heck he did to Clary's head. According to Seymour… Well, Magnus doesn't actually know. He doesn't really listen to the things Clary's little mundane friend says.

What matters, though, is that Magnus has just seen him pass by, and he's absolutely gorgeous. Clearly, Magnus needs to have made the warlock's acquaintance yesterday.

"Isabelle, darling, you know thatI would do anything for you, right?"

"What do you want, Magnus?"

"I just want to mingle a teensy, tiny little bit," he says, pinching his thumb and index finger together to indicate just how teensy tiny he means. Visuals can be very compelling. "I'm pretty sure if I have to stay in this corner of the room watching over one of the most mind-numbingly boring mundanes that I've ever met –no offense, Sheldon—I'll die. As my parabatai, it's your sworn duty to prevent that from happening."

The level stare Isabelle sends Magnus's way could move mountains, but Magnus is nothing if not determined. His knees only buckle a fraction under the weight of her gaze. It's at times like this that he can find a silver-lining in the state of far-sightedness all of his permanent vision runes have left his eyes. If he could actually see her glare right now, he'd probably be dead. "What are you really after?"

"Oh Izzy, why do you doubt me so?" he asks, leaning his head on her shoulder forlornly. Peering through the thick tresses of her hair he's buried his face in, he pouts up at her, widening his iridescent green eyes.

"I know you, that's why. I'm sure you've caught sight of some hot guy or girl, and want to put on the charm. Now put the puppy eyes and quivering lip away." To most people, she would look completely unaffected, but Magnus catches the brief flicker of her lips twitch into the start of a smile. "I highly doubt that's the best first move you could make."

"May the Angels learn mercy from the exemplary glow of your pristine and gracious heart." Magnus plants a quick kiss to the crown of her head and darts away, heading in the direction he last caught sight of ink black hair and equally dark, serpentine eyes.

Amidst the milling crowd of Downworlder socialites, he knows he must look glaringly out of place. The leather of his gear and the sturdiness of his footwear are a stark contrast to the delicate silk and cotton affairs of the men and women outside his periphery, and as he weaves between them the light catches on his rune scars, flickering silver over the dusky golden-brown of his bared skin. Even Clary's little mundane friend fits in more. He may be a human, but he is not, a least, a potential enemy.

Much like his guests, the venue of The High Warlock of Manhattan's gala is almost devastatingly extravagant. Beneath the thick soles of Magnus's boots, the marble floor is polished to a high shine, as white as a pearl and as unforgiving as Inquisitor Herondale. It reflects the light of the room –millions of glowing pinpoints hovering near the ceiling, which is painted to resemble infinite galaxies sprawled out across the ballroom—and leaves no shadows or dark spaces for hunters to slip into, out of sight.

Luckily for Magnus, this also means that Alexander has nowhere to hide. It doesn't take long to find him, sitting by himself at a circular table set off to the side, wedged into the furthest corner of the room. Magnus notes first that it is well away from the dance floor and the multitude of guests it bears, and next, that the warlock looks caught between uncomfortable and bored out of his mind.

"Alexander Lux, I presume?"

The warlock's liquid-dark eyes flicker into focus, and as they turn to meet his own Magnus sees that they are not the solid pool of black he had once thought, nor are the pupils, as Clary had led him to believe, vertically slit like a snake's. Rather, the majority of them are a deep, slate grey that blend neatly into the black of his perfectly round pupils. Defining each pupil from the iris is a thin line of the loveliest shade of blue Magnus has ever seen, clearer than a cloudless summer sky. It is hard to tell –he really is terribly far-sighted, and it's so bright, too—but Magnus does not think he can make out even a hint of white within them, either.

"Who's asking?" the warlock asks, narrowing his –lovely, lovely— eyes suspiciously. He runs a thin finger around the rim of his wine glass, and thin patches of pale scales glimmer on the back of his hand, fading into equally pale, smooth skin at his wrist.

"Magnus Bane," he introduces himself, flashing the man a winsome smile. Pulling out the chair opposite Alexander, he spins it around and straddles it, propping his chin on top of his crossed arms. "You may have heard of me. As the Institute adores telling me, I've made quite the splash in the Shadow World recently."

"Oh, so you're the crazy, renegade Shadowhunter Alistair has been complaining about. I should have guessed, considering all of your facial runes." He sits up in interest, but doesn't sound particularly impressed. It just goes to show how sheltered some people are.

"Renegade isn't quite the word I'd use to describe me, as romantic as it might make me sound. I may take on Downworlder clients, but I do still answer to the Clave, you know. I just…like to keep an open mind."

Alexander raises a skeptical brow. "And equally open pocketbook?" At this, Magnus only smiles, and Alexander huffs out a quiet laugh. "My boss kind of hates you, you know. He says you're stealing away his business, and sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Magnus laughs out loud at this, and inwardly thanks the Angel for gifting Nephilim with runes for perfect balance. Otherwise, he probably would have fallen out of his chair. "Is that what he's telling you?"

"Yes," Alexander says. His expression is a little perplexed and a little amused. "Why? Is he lying?"

"Mmm, a little bit, I think," Magnus says with a shrug. "To be fair, I am probably getting at least some of his potential clients. My skill set is pretty specific though, so I'm thinking the hate might have more to do with me turning him down last year. He's not my type." Suggestively, Magnus adds, "I like warlocks who don't hide behind glamours."

Starting thickly at his forehead and slowly thinning out into skin around the middle of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, Alec has facial scales in a descending gradient of gunmetal gray to pearly-white. It makes it hard to tell whether he is actually blushing, or if Magnus is just imagining it hopefully. When he licks his lips, his tongue is black as pitch. A pleasant quiver ripples through Magnus at the sight.

Alexander rolls the glass of wine between his palms, back and forth from base to fingertips. "Are you always this obvious, or am I a special case?"

"I've never seen the point in hiding anything about myself, and it's worked out pretty well for me so far."

As though his words flipped a switch, Alexander's eyes narrow. "Not everyone is so lucky," Alexander points out, gesturing to himself with a bitter smile. "The world isn't exactly kind to someone who looks like me, even when he's an orphan with nowhere to go. I was too young and untrained to change even my eye color, let alone my whole appearance, and society was perfectly content to either fear me or despise me for it."

Though he is clearly distanced from the pain, Magnus can still make out a hint of it in Alexander's voice. The raw tone sends Magnus's heart into his throat. Empathy was one thing Magnus had never come over here expecting to feel, and it leaves him fidgeting with the cuffs of his fingerless gloves as Alec presses on, seemingly caught up in the current of his past. "

"After that sort of hell, after all the scorn and ridicule, the terror of falling asleep knowing I might have woken up to some prejudiced Nephilim or religious zealot slitting my throat, the disgust of a few elitist Shadowhunters is nothing. Don't be fooled into glamorizing my decision not to hide my devil's marks with magic—it's not because I'm brave, or proud of my appearance. I don't bother with glamours because the worst has passed, and I don't have to anymore."

The gaze Alexander levels at him is hard, and Magnus can feel himself, in that moment, placed precariously on a ledge in the warlock's mind. One false move, and he will fall off and out of Alexander's good graces forever. Magnus doesn't know why he is suddenly struck with such fear over the possibility of failing this test. Alexander is attractive, definitely, but he's just one guy, right?

Maybe it's because he knows the feeling of laying himself bare and hoping for the best, only to have his trust thrown back in his face.

Slowly, Magnus lays his hand over Alexander's, stopping the restless circuit of his wine glass with a gentle press from his fingers. "I wasn't mocking you, darling. The circumstances of your birth weren't your fault, nor were any of the events that you faced because of them. You obviously handled things well, though," Magnus tells him, so quietly he wonders if the warlock can hear him at all. "You're still around now, aren't you? That has to count for something, Alexander." He doesn't bother to tell him that he's sorry he went through that, or that sometimes the world is just cruel and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Those sorts of sentiments don't help. That, Magnus knows from experience.

The warlock shrugs in a way that is distinctly uncomfortable, but charmingly open-book. "I guess you could look at it that way." Running a hand through his hair and leaving it even messier than it already had been, he adds, "And call me Alec. Alexander is for clients and Alistair." Everything in his posture is screaming for something to lighten the atmosphere, so Magnus cheerfully obliges the silent request.

"Oooh, nickname status already." Magnus leans in closer, even though all it does is make Alec look more blurry and indistinct. "Are you always this friendly, or am I a special case?"

Magnus can't be sure, but he thinks Alec might be smiling. He definitely laughs, and the sound sends his heart fluttering against his rib cage, pressed hard against the wooden back of the chair. He can feel himself start to grin wider, almost stupidly, pathetically giddy. In the back of his mind he knows he should probably let Jace and Clary know he's found Alec, or at least ask him a little about what he did to the girl's memories, but he can't bring himself to care much right now. For a few more minutes at least, he wants to be selfish. By the Angel, he loves the first flickers of falling into infatuation.