A/N- I'm sure some of you have been waiting for this for about eleven chapters. Cheers for sticking it out!

A white towel was hanging on the hook beside the shower. She took it and pressed her wet face into the fabric, breathing the smell in deeply. It didn't smell like Jace. Nothing about this house really seemed like him at all. When she wrapped the towel around her, she turned to the medicine cabinet over the sink. It was invasive, but she wanted to find some sign that this house wasn't just a figment of her imagination. Opening the cabinet, she saw the usual things; shaving cream, Asprin, cotton swabs, all orderly lined up on the shelves.

There was only one thing that didn't belong- a tube of lipstick. She took it without thinking and uncapped it. It was a luscious red, a color that Clary would never have the nerve to put on in public. She knew it could have been Izzy's, but some part of her believed that this was a relic of an old girlfriend. That ridiculous jealousy started to twist in her stomach like a vine.

She painted her lips with it until they were a bold red, very alarming against her white skin. Her freckles seemed to pop out more with the color. Then she used the towel to dry her hair as much as she could. Flipping it up again, there was another person looking at her in the mirror, with wild red hair that was going in every direction and bright red lips. Her skin even had a pinkness to it that she hadn't seen since before chemo. She put the lipstick back in the medicine cabinet, tucked the towel carefully, tightening it around her breasts.

She had no idea what she was doing, why she was wearing someone else's lipstick, why she wasn't wearing clothes in Jace's house. She thought of that kiss he put on her collarbone, and her whole body gave a nervous jump. If she didn't leave the bathroom now, she never would. Breathe, she thought, and just don't think about anything. She opened the door, wishing the girl in the mirror good luck.

A cloud of steam followed her out of the room. It was still dark in there, and the bathroom light cast a long illumination of the bed. Jace was sitting on it, his arms comfortable behind him, waiting for her. On his lap, there was a stack of neatly folded clothes. He looked up as she shut the light off and stepped further into the dark room.

"You can wear Isabelle's clothes until yours dry," he said. He whispered it, but it was almost like his voice was in her head. It was the only sound in the whole house, in the whole world.

Clary turned to the left where the dresser was. Surely it was where he kept all his clothes, his shirts and old jeans, and boxers and socks. Something was giving her a lot of nerve. She watched out of the corner of her eye for his reaction as she opened the drawer. When he didn't stop her, she reached in and took a familiar shirt, threadbare and sleeveless, some old band from the 80's posing on the front of it.

"Can I wear this?" she asked.

Jace half smiled and shrugged,

"If you want."

She did. She looked from him to the shirt and back again. It would be long enough to cover her, but she had no underwear. She was already wearing only a towel, and she'd forgotten this fact until she noticed that his eyes kept drifting to where the towel was tied, pushing her boobs together. She hadn't even meant for that to happen. Suddenly, the energy in the room went crimson. She was almost tempted to just drop the damn towel, but there was still a sliver of self-control inside her that protested. She hid her smile behind her hands.

"Turn around," she told him.

Jace bit his lip, goddamn him, and stood up. He went to the window on the other side of the room with his back turned. For a moment, she was worried that she might cast a naked reflection in that window he was looking out of, but then she decided that she didn't care. When her towel fell, she felt her heart slow down for once, until it was like time was at a standstill. She was completely naked, and feet from him. Her eyes bore into the back of his head as she considered what she could do at the present moment. If she waited, he might turn around and look at her. Did she want that? He'd seen her in a bra and underwear, but that was the same thing as a bathing suit, in her opinion. Even Simon had seen her in her bra.

With herself so exposed, she remembered that this was the body of a sick girl. She was weak, had more baby fat than muscle. Her face may be red, but the rest of her was marble-white. She had an expanse of freckles on her shoulders, on her thighs. He was going to see everything if he turned around.

She decided to slip his shirt on. It was so thin, almost like nothing against her skin. The sleeves were wide, showing off the sides of her breasts if she lifted her arms up. It fell just below her ass. She would not bend over.

"Okay," she whispered.

He came back over to her, and when he got closer, she saw that he had a confused expression. He stood a foot away from her, brought his thumb up to her mouth and brushed the pad of it over her lips. She wanted to kiss every one of his fingers.

"Your lips?"

"I found your lipstick," she said. He was much taller than her and she sometimes forgot this. Looking up, she puckered her lips and batter her eyelashes. He laughed, very low in his throat.

"Aline's lipstick," he said. He touched her lips again with his thumb.

She felt the vines in her stomach coil in revulsion at the name, but she wanted to seem cool. She knew he wasn't a saint, that she wasn't the first to be nearly naked in front of him. She knew this, and yet She wondered what made Aline special, special enough that he would keep her lipstick in his room to remember her.

"Ex-girlfriend?"

Jace gave a small shake to his head.

"Family friend."

Then he bent down and retrieved the towel she left on the floor. When he was down there momentarily, she felt him breathe against her thigh and something ached inside her.

"Did you sleep with her?" she asked. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wanted them back. She didn't know if Jace was open about his old girlfriends, or if she even wanted to know the answer.

"Once," he said. "I wasn't really her type."

She wanted to wrap her hands around her stomach to hold everything in. He was so nonchalant. She didn't think she possessed the willpower to be so careless. Everything mattered, every moment, every tense second that passed, every thought that popped in her head about wanting him and wanting everything about him. He was so casual as he brought a corner of the towel toward her lips. Disregarding the stain it made, he wiped away the red.

"You don't like it?" she asked, words slurring as he dragged her lip down with the towel.

"I love it," he said, then dropped the towel. "But I don't want lipstick all over my face."

With that, his arms went to her lower back and pushed her forward. She slammed against him, almost painfully. He sighed into her mouth as she nestled into his arms further. Her tongue was fearless, eager to dance, eager to taste him. His breathing went ragged, and she knew that this kiss was different than any other one. Neither of them were tired, and she was in his room with him, where she was starting to suspect that few people had been. There was a bed nearby. She was practically naked. All these things were a part of an equation that equalled one thing, one thing that made her entire self shake with fear and excitement.

Her shirt rode up, leaving her bare below the waist, but he didn't look down. She wondered if he felt the heat coming off her. He was cool, she was warming him with her body.

When he pulled away for air, he took his hands away from her back and the shirt fell down to cover her again. His cheeks were flushed, a telltale sign that he'd seen the place between her legs, as shadowed as it might have been. Her heart flared up along with a vicious spell of self awareness. She was about to panic, maybe back out and run home, but then he kissed her again, while his arms crisscrossed and tugged his own shirt over his head. It fell next to the towel.

She'd seen his chest once, a few days ago, when he was swapping shirts after a show. It was much better close up. He was skinny, but there were bumps on his stomach that signified strong muscles. She could see him doing sit ups in the morning,

There was a tattoo on his chest, a heart. It was red and outlined in black. She traced it with her fingers and made a mental note to ask him about all the tattoos on his skin. There were words on his arm, things in Latin, and a bird on his hip. It was black and flying up through the lines his ribs made when he breathed in. She touched the bird, too. Then up on his collarbone, she placed a kiss, like had on hers. She hoped it would burn there like a scar. Every time he kissed her, he cut a permanent rune of himself in her skin.

He ran his hands up and down the shirt she wore, smoothing it against her skin. The shirt was so thin, it felt just like there was no barrier. It stunned her how much she liked the feeling. His thumbs began to dip into the edge of the sleeves, and it revealed hints of her breasts as the fabric pulled down. He looked like he could rip it away, and she thought he might, but he took his hands off her.

His eyes were full of the question, whether or not it was okay for him unbutton the top of his jeans. She watched his fingers sitting still on the button. She thought his breath sounded shaky, but her heart was so loud. Her heart always raced when he was with her. The first time she felt his hand touch her chest, in one of the corners of The Steele, she remembered liking it because lips weren't enough anymore, but her heart still raced all the same.

She kissed his collarbone again, and again, as her hands stayed near the hem of his jeans. She could feel his hands moving, slowly undoing the button, the zipper. She leaned her forehead against his chest, and looking down, she could see him slide his jeans down, until there was only the dark fabric of his boxers. Suddenly, they were moving backward, him pulling her by her hip, and Clary knew where they were going.

He first sat, and she was taller than him for once. He pressed his face into her stomach and kissed her through the fabric. It tickled dangerously, and that ache in the pit of her groaned. She might have groaned, too, but soft. It was so quiet in the room, everyone else was dead to the world, and it was just the bed, and fabric rustling, intimate sounds of suctioning lips.

She didn't know what to do with herself, so she just let him tug on her hip until she widened her legs and sat across his lap. His hands held her there firmly, and then she followed him down, attached at the lips, until she was lying on top of him. The position felt awkward to her, she was going to slide off him, pull him down to her, but Jace had already flipped her over before she could pull away. He hovered on top like he had under her bed.

This was not under a bed; it was on top of one, and they out in the open. Clary's paranoid mind briefly pictured someone walking in on them.

The shirt had ridden up enough that her belly button showed, and Jace was looking down. She wished that she had kept her underwear on, but it was too late. She was naked against his boxers. He made a deep, almost whining sound at the back of his throat, saying,

"Clary…"

Something deep and instinctual caused her to lift up her hips so that they were touching, She felt him against her, creating a pressure between them both. She shook with nervousness. His hands were steadier, moving the shirt up, his head bowed and she felt him kissing her breasts, though all she saw was his blonde hair splayed on her chest. She made a quiet sound when he slid the shirt up her arms.

Then he just got up. She was so shocked by the sudden loss of him, the sudden cold. She quickly pulled her knees up to cover waist, and her arms went across her chest, sitting up. Her eyes followed him moving to the bedside table, taking something out, and shutting it. He moved neutrally, but then she noticed that his boxers had grown considerably in one place, and she remembered just how naked she was again.

When he came back to the bed, he kneeled in front of her. He let his finger trail up down her leg until his hand rested on he ankle. She peeked in his hand and saw a white plastic package.

"We don't have to," he said. "If you don't want to,"

Oh God, she thought, is it actually happening? She had imagined her first time enough that she'd picked out several viable scenarios. In these scenarios, she'd imagine that she'd lose her virginity to Simon or some other sick boy in the ward, on a mutual agreement that it was just too pathetic to die a virgin. She might have said yes because she really didn't want to die a virgin, and this was as good an opportunity as any. But really, it was Jace, and she still wanted him, wanted every little bit of him.

"Come here," she said. Her cheeks were probably as red as Aline's lipstick. She let him push her back onto the bed, and his hands went to her inner thigh. No one had ever touched her there. No one had ever gone as far as his fingers were going. She wanted to hide her face as he put pressure against her, but all she could do was tilt her head up and try not to have a heart attack. It was electric, shocking her hips up.

When she looked back down at him, she saw that he had lost the boxers. She saw him, and thoughts popped into her head like, you still hardly know him, and you're dying.

She ignored them. His hands were still moving on her. She breathed heavily, pulling herself onto her elbows to kiss him again because it had been too long. While they kissed, she heard the sound of the plastic ripping.

This is happening. This is really happening.

She gasped, too loud, so she buried her face into his shoulder. She felt him slowly moving into her, slow but consistent. His pelvis touched hers, and Clary felt her virginity leave in the instant. It hurt, probably worse than she thought it would. He breathed in her ear, and she loosened her grip on his arm. She told him to wait, she had to get a grip of herself. She was so overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside her. She was overwhelmed that this was her, here with him, doing this. Two thoughts went through her head, my mom would kill me, and I love him.

He kissed her neck, gently moving his hips away from hers. She winced, despite herself, and he noticed. Pulling away from her neck, he leaned against her forehead and asked,

"Have you ever done this?"

She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He sighed, hoarse and full of an emotion that Clary couldn't put her finger on. She was almost getting used to the way they fit together. She unclenched the muscles in her thighs, relaxing against him.

"You should have said," he whispered. He was looking in her eyes, all full of concern, stripping her even more bare, if that was possible.

She didn't know what to say. Maybe she should have told him. Maybe he didn't want this with her if it was so special. But it was special. Clary thought of the things he'd told her, the way he'd let her in, the fact that he let her in his room, let her wear his shirt. She saw the street art they did in the dead of night, and saw how it was so perfect. She thought of the surprise on Alec and Magnus's faces whenever Jace kissed her in front of them. She counted the three weeks that they'd known each other and the three years she'd been this same Clary, sick and alone, and there was no denying that these three weeks had been living. She wanted everything that living had to offer. Like him, meeting her at the hips so she could feel what it was like to press someone else right into your entire self. She would remember this forever.

"I want it to be you," she said. To prove this, the moved her own hips until he was all the way inside again. He hissed, but said nothing further. It still stung and ached, uncomfortable, but she tried to focus on the warmth, the electricity, what was good about it.

He moved again, lying her back down. With her legs spread, it was easier. Jace lowered himself completely over her, kissing, touching, moving his hips. He kept moving, his own breath heavy with hers. There were so many feelings, so much happening, Clary found herself tensing all her muscles, just to curb everything, to let it all flow to that one spot where they were together. She thought over and over, is this happening?

She knew he was close. He bit her neck like a vampire, his voice a whimper, a hum against her skin. She tried to move her hips up to meet his movements, but it was still too new to get the hang of, and it still hurt. She felt his hands rub over her body, between her legs, where the electricity built, and then he stopped moving, pressing himself so strongly against her that she thought he might disappear inside her completely. His breath hitched as he came.

She would remember that forever, too.

A few moments later, he kissed her deeply. Her body was still tense and waiting to be pushed over. She didn't have any more time to be embarrassed before he touched her, fast with his hands, and it was much like doing it yourself- except it wasn't. He kept kissing her, allowing her to stifle the noises she was making. The world exploded, and he was still inside her, so he must have felt it. They were both sweating.

When it was over, he kissed her temple. She breathed out a puff of air when he slid out and away from her. She stayed, circled by his arms, his chest against her back, until the breathing subsided.

"I'll be right back," he whispered against her neck.

He grabbed something, disappeared into the bathroom, and she was left alone for a few moments. She sat up, feeling the soreness below her waist.

They had done it all, been naked and vulnerable together, without any barriers, totally open. She'd never felt so open, and yet she was still so closed off.

Didn't she promise Simon that she wouldn't lie? Jace had never lied to her, she realized, though he didn't say everything, he never lied. He answered her questions truthfully, and when he asked her why she was so pale, or why she looked sick, or why she was tired, she lied her ass off. The guilt was like a punch to the stomach.

He came out of the washroom, in his boxers, carrying something in his hands. Maybe she should have slid under the covers, but she was still immobilized on the bed, horrified with herself. What are you doing? They'd gone too far for her to still be this pretend person, this "night Clary". Bits of herself, her sick self, were already starting to bleed into the night. She was starting to feel overwhelmingly tired.

He came over to her and gently took one of her arms. He was holding her underwear, smiling lion-like, she watched him and felt him tickle her skin as he slid them back up her legs. She really should have kept them on because nothing was sexier than the look of sureness and concentration on his face as they slid up her hips.

He slipped the shirt back over her head. Then asked her,

"Are you tired?"

She nodded her head. If she opened her mouth, she might say something to ruin it, and damn her, she still couldn't say it. She just couldn't.

They tucked themselves into the bed, under the soft sheets. It smelled like Jace here as she breathed in. Their skin slid against each other's smoothly, creating warmth as he tucked against him. She was so tired now. They breathed slowly for long stretches of time, sleep dangled above their heads. She never thought she would feel what it was like to be in someone's bed, in their arms, in their life. She wanted in his life. She wanted him in hers, but her life was not something that she liked. It wasn't something that she wanted someone else to experience. If only her life could be as simple as this; as simple as the way they fit together and painted together and laughed together.

Against her neck, he breathed,

"I think I love you."

Something in her struck, bitter sweetness, a sick mixture of satisfaction and longing that she couldn't explain.

"I think I do, too," she said. That was another lie; she knew she did.