WARNING: Drama hehe I like my drama! :D oh and…yeah um…this is a 7,300 word chapter…so…yeah…my longest chapter EVER…you might want to read this in two goes…you know…take a break in between…don't strain your eyes…Ah forget it…Read how you like…I'm not your mom Okay so anyways…as you know my A/N's aren't very informative and such…blah-bidy blah blah, but I'd like to reiterate (big word…proud of me?) the fact that I have accidentally been switching Jace's last name back and forth. It's supposed to be HERONDALE! Got it? M'kay? YAY! Okay..so here you go…read in whatever way you wish…enjoy…:D
Cautiously, Clary stepped out of the elevator, her eyes dancing between the three people that stood before her. Her gaze lingered on the tall, dark-haired boy with a dozen roses clamped between his hands. "I promised to return with handfuls of flowers—" he began, but Clary's glare shut him up immediately.
"Why did you bring him here? To lure me into being nice to you? Because it is not working." She stole another glance at her brother to stop herself from spouting more angry comments at her parents. He was dressed in a pair of light-washed jeans and a loose-fitting, white t-shirt, a switch-up from his usual dark attire. His hair was slightly rumpled, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. He even had a zit on his forehead. Clary's heart softened a little. He was under a lot of stress, and her rudeness wasn't helping. She hoped he caught the apologetic look on her face before she wiped it off to return her gaze to the red-haired woman and simple-looking man.
"No, we brought Sebastian with because he's just as in the dark as you are." Surprising to Clary, it was not her mother's voice that answered her hateful questions, but Luke's calming, matter-of-fact tone. Her eyes swept over him. He looked worse than Sebastian did. His balding head lacked the gleaming shine it usually possessed. Frown lines were evident on his forehead, and his eyes were nearly engulfed by circles of purple from sleepless nights. His plaid-flannel shirt was off two buttons and hung in two, uneven tails at the bottom. His flip flops didn't match, and there was a considerable amount of stubble adorning his usually soft face.
"Fine," she growled, stomping past them toward the living room. She was glad that the other residents of the Institute had classes today because she didn't really feel like broadcasting her entire situation to the rest of the world. Though Isabelle was a sweetheart and one of Clary's closest friends, it was a well-known fact that gossiping was nearly her best sport, second only to volleyball. She threw herself down onto a mismatched chair, her legs bouncing up and down in anticipation.
Sebastian sat down in the seat next to her, and again attempted to extend the flowers her way. Clary smiled sullenly and accepted them, dropping them into a glass of water conveniently left behind by one of her friends. He nodded his head slightly and squeezed her knee in a comforting way before clasping his hands in his lap. Jocelyn and Luke shuffled in only a moment later, sitting down beside each other. Clary finally allowed herself to risk a glance at her mother.
Of the three, she was the most disheveled. Her usually volumized, auburn hair hung limply down her back, the ends tangled and knotted as if she hadn't bothered to brush them in days. Full moons of purple surrounded her bloodshot eyes, and her usually pale skin had taken on a sickly pallor. She'd switched her usual fancy dresses for a pair of jeans, flats, and a fitted blouse, which was a long stretch for Jocelyn Fairchild, since she always believed that she could meet one of her next clients on the street. She wasn't even wearing any makeup or jewelry. Clary averted her eyes before the sympathetic flower that had taken root in her stomach could blossom into something bigger. "So talk," she demanded, mouth pressed into a thin, white line. Clary heard her mother suck in a shocked breath but felt no resentment for her curtness. Her mother didn't deserve gentle right now. Not after lying to her about her entire existence.
"Clary, baby, you have to—" Jocelyn's voice faded as Clary shook her head, escaped curls flying wildly around, smacking Sebastian in the face. He swatted them away, but was wise enough to not say anything.
"No, Jocelyn," she said her mother's name like it was a curse word, eliciting a flinch from the woman on the couch. "My name is Clarissa." She'd never told someone that they couldn't call her Clary, but for some reason, her mother saying her nickname was like a knife in the chest. Her nickname wasn't her real name, and right now, she needed real. She need the truth so she could weed out the falsity and lies from her life. Right now to her mother, she was Clarissa.
Clary watched her mother's eyes drop to the carpet, but Clary's unwavering gaze remained on the woman's face, her nostrils flared in impatience. Luke leaned in to murmur something in Jocelyn's ear, and Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in the silence. Finally, her mother's green eyes met her own, a mirror reflection of each other. Clary had always thought she understood why she didn't look anything like Luke. She was a spitting image of her mother. From her fire-red hair to the freckles on her kneecaps, Clary and Jocelyn were the same. Well, except for one personality difference. Clary was a terrible liar. "Clarissa," she amended, wringing her hands together in front of her. The pause was drawn out longer than Clary would have liked, and soon she began to wonder whether her mother intended to speak the truth or weave more lies. "Your father—Valentine—and I, well we married when we were young. No more than a month after graduation day was I walking down the aisle toward the man who I had believed was the man of my dreams." My mother tipped her head back so that her mouth was at Luke's ear. Clary saw her lips moving and heard the soft whisper of her voice, but the words were too quiet for her ears. Luke leaned his head down and replied something that was even quieter, borderline silent. As Clary glanced between the two during their exchange, a curl brushed against her cheek, and she agitatedly shoved it behind her ear, huffing loudly. The pair separated, and Jocelyn settled back against the couch.
"Like I was saying, I believed he was the man of my dreams. He was handsome and came from a wealthy family. He made me feel like a princess, and all those qualities made me brush aside the fact that something was off, that something was missing." She sniffled, and Clary noticed for the first time that her mother's eyes glistened with unshed tears. Clary discreetly shook her head to rid herself of the growing sympathetic feeling that threatened to encompass her anger.
"About four years into the marriage, when you were barely even a year old, I realized that Valentine and I just didn't have the spark that was shared between true lovers. We never went out anymore. For the first year and a half, he had kissed me goodbye every day, but after our second anniversary, he barely told me he was leaving. I was going crazy. I felt trapped and alone, and I just, I didn't know what to do." A shiny tear rolled down her cheek, and her pale hand flew up to hastily wipe it away.
"Finally, I had enough. I told your father that I was leaving and that I was taking you with me. He, um, he exploded. He beat me until I was unconscious. And then he took my babies away." Clary's mouth parted in shock. Her mother was naturally kind, but when it came down to it, she could hold her own. Clary had often witnessed her protective mama-bear side. She wondered if it had come from that experience, when her father had taken away her—wait.
"Babies?" Clary piped up tentatively, seeing her mother's face already wet with tears. Luke's hand was around her shoulders, massaging her upper arm as she nodded. A tearstained but prideful smile broke across her face.
"You had a brother, Clary." Clary no longer had the energy to correct her mother for using her nickname. "A real, honest-to-goodness brother." Clary felt Sebastian stiffen beside her and bumped her arm against him in a way that said You're my honest-to-goodness brother, too. She blinked as Jocelyn rifled through a box that Clary hadn't realized she'd been holding. She gingerly cradled a lock of white-blond hair between her fingertips, eyeing it with the love only a mother could possess. "His name was Jonathon Christopher Morgenstern."
Morgenstern. Clary balanced her elbows on her thighs and leaned forward, scrubbing her hands over her face to try to clear her mind. Did that make her Clarissa Hope Morgenstern? Why did all of her college applications say Clarissa Fairchild? Had her mother changed her name? A shaky breath fell from Jocelyn's lips before she continued. "Luke was my best friend at the time, much like the bond shared between you and Simon, and he found me bloody on the floor. He nursed me back to health while conducting search parties for the two of you. A month later, you were found in the back of an abandoned warehouse. Valentine was gone, and when we found you, you were starved and nearly dead." She stopped, and Clary had scooted closer to her, sitting precariously on the edge of her seat.
"And Jonathon…?" she prompted, her knee bouncing up and down again.
A ragged sob escaped her mother's lips. "He was never found, but with the amount of blood on the site, he was presumed dead. Your father killed him." Clary's leg froze, and her breathing stopped. Her father killed her brother and left her for dead? "You were terribly injured, Clary. You were only a baby, and he hurt you! That scar on your shoulder was given to you by him. The police consider it his Mark."
Clary's jaw clenched. "You told me that scar was from me backing into an old, dented pole that stuck out from the rundown barn at Luke's." That was yet another lie that Clary could toss in the trash. She'd unknowingly lied to all of those kids that asked her about the ugly, star-shaped wound on her left shoulder blade. Maybe she was a better liar than she'd pegged herself for.
"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't want you to know any of the truth. He's still out there Clary. The police have never caught him. There have been scares. He's nearly caught us before, and I thought keeping you in the dark was the best way to protect you."
Clary knotted her fingers into her hair as Sebastian released a low whistle. She ignored him. "Wait, wait, wait. You're telling me that for all these years, my murderous father that is not Luke has been chasing us and trying to kill us?! And you never felt that I needed to know these things?!"
"It was better that you didn't live in fear. We were perfectly fine. Luke has been protecting us from Valentine for seventeen years. He's well trained to protect people."
"LUKE IS A FARMER!" Clary screamed, her face beet red. Spittle flew from her mouth with the shout, and she couldn't find it in herself to be embarrassed by it. Jocelyn opened her mouth to speak, but Luke raised his hand toward her.
"I've got this, honey," he said, then turned toward me. "I am Agent Lucas Garroway. I work for a secret, underground service that protects innocent families from loose criminals. Your mother and I have been friends since high school, and then seventeen years ago, when everything happened, I came clean about my actual occupation and offered her the services of my place of employment." His gaze on me remained even as I looked around in disbelief.
"All, all those summers at your parent's farm?" Luke smiled slightly.
"That really was my parent's farm." At least that was the truth, though all she had known about Luke back then was the fabrication of his backstory.
"Your marriage to my mother?!"
"I really do love your mother Clary. Our marriage is legalized and real."
"You took her last name?" Clary couldn't help the venom in her voice. "Pansy."
"It was safer that way…to hide both of our identities."
"Whatever. What about your bookshop?" Clary asked, wondering why he'd bothered to work there if he had such a good job.
"A cover up," he replied instantly. Clary shook my head, remembering how many hours she had spent curled up in the threadbare chairs of the bookstore with a worn copy of a classic in her hands, pages dog-eared from her many times reading them. All lies.
"Maybe it would be simpler to tell me what in my life isn't a lie." She looked pointedly at the two of them, urging them to tell her that most of her life was the truth. Her heart fell when they didn't.
"The love we both share for you isn't a lie," Jocelyn said, reaching out to grab her daughter's hand. Clary let her. She was too numb on the inside to feel anything anyway.
"Is, is my name even Clarissa Fairchild?" She silently prayed for a yes, feeling her mother's hand leave hers to wipe it across the dark jeans she was wearing.
"Yes," Jocelyn said, but it was in one of those tones where you know that a but was about to follow. Her mother didn't disappoint. "But that's only your legal name. Luke suggested I change it when we went into hiding, so I gave you the name that I had wanted to give you all along. But your birth name is not Clarissa Fairchild. Obviously your last name had been Morgenstern, but your first name wasn't Clarissa either. Your father had forced me to name you after his mother, persuading me with that sickening skill he possessed. Legally, you are my Clary Fairchild, but up until you were about sixteen months old, you were Seraphina Morgenstern." Clary's hand's clenched into fists, or were they Seraphina's hands? God, even her name was a lie. She squeezed her eyes shut, surprised when Sebastian finally piped up.
"How do I fit into this?" She cracked her eyelids to see her brother staring quizzically at the liars positioned across from us. Clary followed his gaze, but immediately regretted it when she saw my mother looking intently at her.
It was Luke who answered her brother's question. "Legally, you are our son, even though you had decided to keep your surname as Verlac. Though our motives were not just wanting another child. You, Sebastian, were also a target of Valentine. Right after Valentine ran away, your parents were murdered, each of their shoulders adorned with the star-shaped scar, and we feared that you were next. We searched high and low for your location, but your records had been lost within the foster system. Finally, when you were eleven, we found you by pure chance and took you in. We believe that Valentine's motive for hurting your family was because they had everything he ever wanted. They were together. They were perfect, and you were the same age as his daughter. We believe that was what triggered his aggression."
"My age?!" Sebastian yelled, his booming voice echoing off the walls. "I went ten years without a family because I happened to be born the same year as Clary?!" He dropped his face into his hands, and Clary could see his shoulders shaking. Clary's teeth clamped down on her lower lip. She was the reason that Sebastian didn't have any real parents. She was the reason for all of his pain.
"Technically, you had family. We recently made connections through family trees that indicate that you are a close cousin of the youngest generation of the Lightwoods. You are the cousins of Isabelle and Alec." Sebastian shook his head in disbelief. All this time he just thought his parents had died in a break-in gone wrong, but now he had been told that they were killed by none other than Clary's father because he reminded Valentine of Clary. Clary felt her own build up of tears.
"I just…I'm just gonna…" he didn't even finish the sentence before walking out of the room, muttering incoherent phrases to himself. Clary watched his retreating figure until she couldn't see him any longer. Her eyes traveled about the room, landing on everything except her parents.
"Clary, listen," her mother's voice was pleading, and Clary made no move to respond to her request. After a few moments of quiet, Jocelyn sighed, picking up where she left off, "I couldn't tell you because it was too dangerous. You have to believe me!" Clary heard her mother break down into sobs after her last sentence, but Clary just stared blankly into the distance.
"I don't know what to believe anymore, Mother," and with that last, truthful sentence, Clary fled the room. She followed the familiar path to her bedroom and flung herself down onto her bed. She didn't have anything left to give. Her tears were dried up, and her head was aching. Her limbs felt like Jell-O, and her heart thumped heavily in her chest. She didn't know what her mother was expecting from her. Was she expecting instant forgiveness? Because Clary's entire life was just proved to be fake. She was faker than those girls she called Barbies. Her name wasn't even Clary! She cringed as she thought of a life being named Seraphina.
She had a deceased brother, a murderous father, an angry adopted brother, and liars for parents. The role models in her life all turned out to be phonies. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and curled up into a ball. Facts of falsity and reality rushed through her mind like cars on the freeway, each one going by so fast that she had no idea what was true and what wasn't. It was a mess, just like her life.
She needed to clear her mind. She needed an out, needed an escape. Her first thought was art. She was itching to pick up a pencil and paper, to watch something flow off the sharpened graphite and bloom into a brilliant sketch, but the thought of art repulsed her, reminding her of the mother that she'd left weeping in the living room. She dragged her arm across her face, removing the tears and snot from her earlier crying and walked numbly to her door.
After checking to make sure her parents weren't there, she walked through the labyrinth of hallways, counting doors and light fixtures until she believed she'd found the right room. She pushed it open and stopped in awe. The room was just as Izzy had described it to her. It was all white, with white granite flooring and painted white walls. A big window opened up the room to a full view of the blue, cloudless sky with green grass swaying in the gentle breeze. Clary pondered for a moment whether the Institute sat on a hill and that allowed for some rooms on one level to be underground and others to be above. She bit her lip and pushed that aside. Thinking was not going to help her right now. She gazed upon the gleaming beauty that sat in the center of the room, the only thing that was in the room to be exact.
The gleaming white grand piano sparkled gold in the sunlight that filtered through the room. Clary had recently changed her favorite color to gold, for obvious reasons, though she would never, ever admit that to Jace. She crossed the threshold and carefully closed the door behind her. She slid onto the padded bench and slid her fingertips across the smooth surface. The ivory and ebony keys were familiar under her fingertips, though she hadn't played since coming to St. Xavier's. She closed her eyes, searching for a tune or a melody that she'd heard recently.
Art was by far her passion, but playing the piano was a pastime that calmed her. It evoked emotions that sometimes her art couldn't even do. She loved the way the music seemed to swirl around the room, loved the way that people who didn't really understand or appreciate music they way they should would light up at the sound of a song. If you weren't an art person, you really didn't pay attention to the underlying beauty of a painting. At least with music, you could always hear the gloriousness through the song.
She pressed down on the keys, and her fingers began to move freely as if having a mind of their own. She felt a small smile grace her lips, but she kept her eyes closed. She knew where ever note was. She didn't need sight. She hit the last note of the intro and drew in a breath to sing, excited that she knew how to play this song.
I can be selfish.
Yeah, so impatient.
Sometimes I feel like Marilyn Monroe.
I'm insecure, yeah, I make mistakes.
Sometimes I feel like I'm at the end of the road.
Clary didn't believe herself to be much of a singer, but others always complimented her voice and asked her to sing more. She didn't really open up in front of people she wasn't close to, and usually kept her singing for when she was alone. But right now, her eyes were closed, and she didn't care if she had an audience. Her lips formed the words, and she understood their meaning more than she ever had before. The end of the road never felt as close as it did now. It seemed to be looming just in front of her, and she felt like she was zooming toward it, faster than she ever believed she would. She gritted her teeth against the wave of sadness that washed over her and kept singing.
I can get low, I can get low.
Don't know which way is up.
Yeah I can get high, I can get high.
Like I could never come down.
Right now, Clary felt like she was just hanging in space. She didn't know which direction was which way. She didn't know if she was floating up or falling down. She didn't know if she was upright or upside down. She didn't know where she was going, didn't remember how she got there. She felt lost, and right now, she felt alone. Sebastian had stormed out with disgust in his eyes. Even Clary was angry with the lies. How would all of her friends react when she told them the truth? Would they call her a liar? Would they turn their backs on her? Would she be even more alone?
Call it a curse,
Or just call me blessed.
If you can't handle my worst,
You ain't getting my best.
Is this how Marilyn Monroe felt, felt, felt, felt?
Must be how Marilyn Monroe felt, felt, felt, felt.
Clary frowned, listening to herself sing the lyrics. Is that what would happen if they didn't accept the fact that she'd unknowingly lied to all of them? Would they tell her that she was being silly, that they didn't believe her? Would she be able to turn away from them if they couldn't deal with this new bout of pain that was sparked by her parent's confessions? Her fingers continued to glide easily across the pristine keys of the piano, and the blackness provided by her eyelids was oddly comforting as the music enveloped her.
It's like all the good things,
They fall apart like…
Like Marilyn Monroe.
This song seemed to be taking lyrics from the recent events in Clary's life. Her perfect life had crumbled into fractured bits of mendacity and certainty. Everything fell apart, and right now, Clary had nothing to go by to put the pieces together. She was a puzzle with no picture. She didn't even know what pieces were missing. It was like trying to collect spilled sand and put it back exactly how it had previously been. It was like breaking a window then attempting to tape the millions of pieces back together, and even if she could somehow superglue her life back together, she knew there would always be visible cracks in the surface. And like the way sun filters oddly through fractured glass, she'd see herself and others differently, like the distorted reflection in a broken mirror. She'd always be broken, that much she knew. She just wondered how unbroken she could become.
Truth is we mess up
Till we get it right.
I don't wanna end up losing my soul.
Who's soul was it, though? Was it Seraphina's? Daughter of Valentine and Jocelyn Morgenstern? Was it Clarissa Fairchild's? Artist and skilled volleyball player? She paused for a moment to push a stray curl behind her ear. Had she already lost her soul? She couldn't have. Otherwise she'd be a zombie. She still knew it was in there, but she no longer knew who she was, who she was meant to be. And that frightened Clary.
I can get low, I can get low,
Don't know which way is up.
Yeah, I can get high, I can get high,
Like I could never come down.
How was she supposed to understand these things? Was she just supposed to be able to comprehend that she was never who she thought she was? That her father killed her actual brother and wanted to kill her adopted brother? That Luke wasn't a bookshop owner, that the scar on her shoulder was given to her by her father?
Call it a curse,
Or just call me blessed.
If you can't handle my worst,
You ain't getting my best.
Is this how Marilyn, Monroe felt, felt, felt, flet?
Must be how Marilyn Monroe felt, felt, felt, felt.
Clary sighed. She wasn't even sure she could handle herself right now. She was so negative. What happened to Cheery Clary, the girl that was positive about everything? Oh yeah, she was replaced with Sullen Seraphina. God, Clary couldn't even think of that as her name, so she was a little bit glad that her mother had legally changed it. She was still mad that her mother never had told her she wasn't born as Clarissa Hope.
Take me or leave me.
I'll never be perfect.
Believe me, I'm worth it.
So take me or leave me.
So take me or leave me
That's what it came down to now. Two options. Take her or leave her. Check the box that corresponds with your desire, and that's it. Period. End of subject. If they couldn't take everything that Clary came with now, they'd just have to leave her. They couldn't want to be her friend and then not accept the secrets of her past, the ones so secret that even she hadn't known. She focused on the red veins on the back of her eyelids before she let the tears fall. She realized that she could lose friends over this, close friends at that. They'd always thought Clary's father was a quiet bookshop owner, not an on-the-run known murderer. What if they thought Clary knew all along? What if they thought that Clary was helping her father? She didn't even know what he looked like! The song sped up slightly with Clary's aggravation.
Call it a curse,
Or just call me blessed.
If you can't handle my worst,
You ain't getting my best.
Is this how Marilyn Monroe felt, felt, felt, felt?
Must be how Marilyn Monroe felt, felt, felt, felt.
Nobody deserved her if they couldn't accept all of her. If they couldn't come to terms with everything that had just happened. She shook her head. Did she really even have to tell them? She felt her heart swell when she realized the answer was yes. She was never good at keeping her pain to herself, and never good at lying that nothing was wrong. Everybody always saw through her feeble attempts and jumped her right away. She wasn't good at withholding information about herself. Though she knew she could keep other's secrets, she was always leaking her own.
Is this how Marilyn Monroe felt, felt, felt, felt?
Must be how Marilyn Monroe felt, felt, felt, felt.
Upon finishing her solo, she gently closed the piano's lid, folding her arms and resting her head against it. She felt the traitor tears return and roll down her cheeks, dampening the perfect wood of the piano. It was silent in the room, so her sniffles echoed loudly with the good acoustics. She probably looked like crap with her loose bun and dirty jeans. Her t-shirt had holes for years of wear-and-tear, and the skin of her face was red and tight with the tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes.
A sudden pressure on her shoulder made her jump, her heart leaping into her throat. She turned around and met irises painted her favorite color. "J-Jace," she stuttered, blinking rapidly against the onslaught of emotion that had just stormed through her, "I didn't see you come in." A small smirk decorated his perfect mouth as he stroked a tear from Clary's cheekbone.
"Didn't Isabelle tell you that this was my favorite spot to hang out?" his voice was soft, not a hint of sarcasm or accusation. Clary shook her head back and forth, more hair falling from her bun and around her face. She watched Jace as he crouched in front of her, now staring eye-to-eye with her as he reached around and untangled the rubber band from her fiery locks. "Much better," he murmured, watching her curls spring to full volume against her shoulders and back. Clary felt a heated blush rising to her cheeks, but didn't bother to duck, knowing that her face was already as red as it could possibly get.
"Clary, what were you singing?" he gestured to the piano with tanned hand, and Clary's eyes were locked on them. She remembered what they felt like as they held her, how comforted she'd been when they slid into her hair as Jace's lips whispered across her own.
"Just some song…" she replied, trying to dismiss the subject with a wave of her hand. Jace shook his head, sitting down on the bench with her so that his fingers were hovering just above the keys. She watched in awe as they mimicked the melody she'd been playing moments earlier. Jace was a piano player?
"It was not just some song, Clary. It was beautiful." He ducked his head and played some more notes, no hesitation in the way his fingers moved across the instrument. His motions were fluid, precise. His hands showed no sign of confusion, no sign of slowing. The music he created was flawless, probably much better than Clary's choppy playing. She watched him sway with the tune, memorized.
"It's…It's called 'Marilyn Monroe' by Nicki Minaj." Her voice was hushed, as if the mere sound of her talking would taint the glorious sound dancing around her. Then, when Jace's voice sang the one verse that had haunted her the most. The sound of his singing was nothing like Clary had ever experienced. It was lower than what the song called for, yet right on key. It was smooth like honey and warm like a security blanket. Clary believed that his voice probably could move someone to tears, just by the way Clary was sniffling at the amount of emotion he threw into one verse.
So take me or leave me.
I'll never be perfect.
Believe me I'm worth it.
So take me or leave me.
The music created by Jace stopped abruptly, and Clary felt his hands framing her face. Jace's eyes were a blazing amber of passion, his mouth parted as he stared at her lips. "Clary," he whispered, pressing his lips against the hollow of her throat so that his words hummed against her skin. He placed openmouthed kisses up her neck, across her jaw line, on her earlobe. "I'll take you."
He ducked back down and brought their mouths together, sliding his tongue across her lower lip, begging for access. Clary pressed her lips together and pushed him away, another round of tears stinging her eyes. He looked startled by her rejection, as evidenced by the furrow of his brow and odd gaze in her direction. "Jace…If you knew everything about me…you wouldn't say that." Jace clasped her hands and drew her against his chest, despite her protests and weak punches. She hated that she was crying again. She never, ever cried. Now she was crying all the time. It was horrifying!
"Clary, if you knew everything about me, you'd probably run screaming in the other direction," she felt him chuckle at himself, but she didn't feel like laughing alone, knowing that if she told him all that she'd recently learned, the situation would be likewise.
"No, Jace, you don't understand—" Clary nearly fell forward as he stood up. She watched him stride across the room and flip the lock on the door. She rubbed her eyes as he stripped off the loose-fitting t-shirt he wore, so that he was standing there, bare-chested in a pair of dark-washed jeans.
"You see these scars, Clary? All of them?" He spun around so that she could get the full effect of the brutality Jace had suffered. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she nodded. "You, Clary, are the only one who has ever seen all of them. Some people get a glimpse of one here and there, and they freak out. But you, Clary…you have seen every single slice of imperfection on my body, and you weren't repulsed. You weren't afraid. You stood there and cleaned this one," he traced his thumb across the puckered scar that slashed across his chest. She noticed the subtle wince as his finger came in contact with it. The scar still hurt him. "You kissed all of them. You kissed the mangled skin of my back. The first scar on my shoulder. You weren't afraid of what had happened in my past, and you sit there and expect me to be afraid of yours?"
Clary paled and slapped away more of the sadness on her cheeks. "Jace, I don't know about your past, but what I just learned about mine…it's horrible Jace." Jace's face softened immediately, and He pulled Clary up off the bench, tucking her head under her chin and rubbing soothing circles on her back.
"I don't doubt that it is, Testarossa. I'm just telling you that you were strong for me, and now it's my turn to be strong for you." She clung to him and finally allowed herself to bawl, fisting her hands into his t-shirt and burying her head into his shoulder. After awhile, she felt Jace lean down and puck her up, bridal-style. She didn't look up as he carried her through the confusing maze of hallways she called home. She didn't even open her eyes until Jace settled her onto a soft, cushiony bed.
Wiping her eyes and sniffing, she looked around in confusion. The room was pristine, like OCD clean. The books were meticulously organized alphabetically. No clothes were littered on the floor, and the bed had been made perfectly until Clary's body weight had rumpled it. She looked up at Jace who was shaking out his t-shirt and making to pull it back over his head. "No," Clary murmured, snatching it away and snuggling up against it. "Leave it off."
"Why?" Jace whined, his hands twitching toward his scars as if he wanted to cover them.
"Because that's what I like most about you." She even surprised herself with those words, but Jace just plastered his signature, cocky smirk onto his face.
"You only like me for my sexy abs?" He flexed a little bit, and Clary giggled, hugging the t-shirt tighter to her chest. It smelled like Jace. Like happiness and sunshine. "Alright, at least let me take the place of the shirt." He pried the material from her grip and threw it comically across the room, laughing when it hung on the doorknob. "Jeez I have good aim," he mumbled, taking Clary into his arms and burrowing his face into her hair. Clary sniffled again, but slapped his arm playfully.
"Jace?" Her voice was so small that Clary barely heard it herself.
"Mmmm?" She snuggled up closer to him, sliding her fingers along the waistband of his jeans.
"Can we just not talk about it tonight?" She felt him plant a kiss atop her curls.
"Let's just forget about the heavy," he agreed, his arms moving so that he could lace there hands together. "Let's just talk." And they did.
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.
"Wait, wait, wait," Clary said between fits of laughter. "You mean to tell me that you bathed in spaghetti noodles for your birthday?" Jace looked at her like she was the one who was crazy.
"Isn't that what every eight-year-old boy wants?" Clary cracked up again.
"Why…didn't you…just ask for…a puppy?"
"Noodles everywhere seemed like more fun at the time. Plus who gets to say they got to eat their bathwater." Clary rolled her eyes.
"You're hopeless."
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.
"What? How could you not like the Harry Potter series?" Clary's shocked words matched the wide-eyed expression on her face.
"Clary, those movies are so unrealistic. The guy has nerd glasses, and he's popular! That just doesn't happen in real life." Clary's mouth fell open, and Jace made a comment about her catching flies.
"Jace! The movie is about magical wizards and flying brooms, and you think the high school social scale is unrealistic?!"
"Yeah, I mean, that kid has no muscle-tone, limp brown hair, and pasty-white skin—"
"Jace, I have pasty-white skin." Jace continued as if she hadn't spoken. He probably hadn't even heard her around that big ego of his.
"—AND he dates a ginger!" Jace blinked. "Not you, ginger…you know the bad ginger…like with no souls and stuff…heh heh." Clary rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore this comment as he continued to laugh awkwardly.
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"You like that twangy, dog, shotgun, and pickup truck crap?" Clary asked around a mouthful of sandwich that Jace had made quickly in the kitchen. Jace grinned.
"Yes, Clary, I find country music to be very relaxing. Country girl shake it for me, girl. Shake it for me," he began singing. Clary clamped her hand over his mouth, squealing.
"Shut up, Jace, just shut up!" Jace waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"If I shut up will you shake it for—" She moved her hand from his face and shook her head.
"Nope, you're still talking." His face fell.
"Damn."
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Clary's head was resting in the crook of Jace's shoulder, and his arm was thrown over her waist. Their noses bumped against each other when they laughed, and Clary laughed more than she had in a long time. "What's your favorite color, Jace?"
Automatically, Jace replied, "Red." Clary inclined her head so she could see his eyes. He was looking down at her with a smile on his face.
"Why?" He bit his lip in the sexy way only guys can, and glanced away momentarily.
"I don't know if I can tell you that." Clary huffed, seeing that Jace was just playing with her to see if he could get a rile out of her.
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeease," she begged, batting her eyelashes. Jace shook his head, rolling his eyes and mouthing Weak. She frowned, looking up at the ceiling to thing.
Smirking, she shoved him so he was flat on his back. She crawled on top of him, her palms flat against his chest. He looked up at her through hooded eyes. "What are you—" Clary silenced him with a finger to his lips. She traced the hard planes of his abdominal muscles, slowly working her index finger lower and lower. She reached the waistband of his pants and traced along it, watching Jace's eyes bulge. She pressed her lips against his chest. "Is it because it's the color of a sports car?" She felt rather than saw him shake his head, so she kissed his abs. "Is it because it's the color of sexy high heels." Another head shake. She dipped her tongue into his belly button and felt him shudder. "Is it the color of your favorite pair of shoes." Wrong again. She sat up, making sure to shift so that he was in a painful position. Yeah, she knew how to work this guy. She leaned over so that their lips were almost touching. "Tell me," she demanded, snapping the elastic of his black boxers. She could feel him cracking beneath her.
"It's…It's the color of your hair." Satisfied, Clary rolled off of him, laughing.
"Pshh, and they call you a football player. That was so easy, Jace Herondale. Putty in my hands." She saw Jace glance down at her nimble, artistic fingers. "My very, very skilled hands…" she added seductively. The effect was lost when she busted out laughing at Jace's awed expression.
Clearing his throat, Jace said, "So, Testarossa, what's your favorite color?" Clary rolled her eyes.
"Easy, it's gold." She smirked, rolling away from him and pillowing her face in her hand. She felt Jace's body heat pressed up against her back only a moment later.
"Do enlighten me on your love of the color gold." Clary laughed, sucking in a sharp breath his his fingers began kneading the skin at her hip, lifting the shirt up to expose more and more.
"Unlike you, I am a tough nut to crack." Mere seconds later, her shirt was off, and Jace was hovering over her, his lips at the crook of her neck.
"You know how to make me stop," he said, a smile playing against his lips. Clary glowered, not really that angry since she was wearing a sports bra and practiced in them all the time. She tried to push Jace off, but only succeeded in guiding his hips in a very suggestive motion. The bedsprings squeaked. His forearms braced his weight on either side of her, and Clary's palms were flattened against his chest. Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths, and truth-be-told, she didn't want him to stop. Ever. His lips trailed across her neck, his teeth catching her ear. They kissed the edge of her sports bra, his finger playing with the elastic band. He pressed his forehead against hers, dropping a kiss on the end of her nose. "Tell me, Testarossa."
"I…I don't…I don't want to," she sputtered, looking up at Jace. His eyes were flooded with worry, and she realized what that sounded like. "I don't want to because…I don't want you to stop." After admitting that, she grabbed his golden curls and brought his lips down onto hers. Jace's long eyelashes tickled her skin as her lips molded against his. She opened up to him right away, feeling his warm tongue caressing the inside of her mouth.
She wriggled herself closer to him and worked at the button of his jeans. Jace's hands stilled hers. "No, Clary, I don't want us to be like this. I don't want anything else to be purely physical." Jace scrubbed his hands down his face, flopping onto his back next to Clary and folding his hands across his stomach. "Look, I'm not denying you or anything. It's just, I don't want to go that far until we know everything about each other, or more particularly until you know everything about my past."
"Jace…will you tell me about your past?" She felt Jace lace their fingers together.
"I think I will…sometime at least..." Clary yawned, realizing just how long her and Jace had been talking and how drained she felt.
"Soon, Jace…and then"—she stifled another yawn—"I'll tell you about mine." She felt sleep pulling her in, but she had one more thing she wanted to ask. She wanted to know so badly what he meant when he had said us. Did he mean there was something between them? That he felt the spark too? She yawned again and felt soft lips against her temple.
"Go to sleep, Testarossa. I have afternoon practice tomorrow. I promise to be here when you wake up." That was all the prompting Clary needed to slide into a dreamless bliss.
Long…possibly confusing…PM me if you have any questions I'd be happy to answer…maybe a few spoilers and treats for you ;) Alrighty…you know what to do…REVIEW hehe I'll update according to the love/hate I receive from this chapter…'kay? Songs: Marilyn Monroe by Nicki Minaj (I LOVE THIS…look it up if you have never heard it before) and Jace sings Country Girl by Luke Bryan…I just saw him in concert…he threw me a guitar pick *swoon* he's only twenty years older than me…it could work…nevermind that's creepy…ANNNYWAYSSSS…I didn't mean to do two song chapters in a row but…I was listening to the Marilyn Monroe song the whole time and idk…I just couldn't help but work it in there…Like? Love? Hate? Tell me what you think…I can't cater to your wants and needs if you don't talk to me…K thanks! Lollipops and Jace abs for those of you that actually read all of my author's notes…It's basically a rambling message about anything and everything that is going on my head at the moment…like right now…I'm staring at a rock…awesome right? K…I need sleep…night world
All My Love, Lovelies.
~BallinBlonde21.