When he wakes up, Alec can tell that something is wrong by all the things that are right. His hurts are only evidenced by their absence. The cold that had gripped him is gone, and aside from a steady, artificial breeze (ac?) against his cheeks, he is warm. Warm enough that his clothes, the sheets, against his skin do not chafe, only provide a weight that is at first comforting, then alarming. He is warm and heavy. His pulse, too, is alarming: stronger, sturdy. Insistent. His body aches, a little, but only in the way it would following a particularly deep sleep, when he'd been too still for too long. If he sat up, stood, took a few steps, the ache would be forgotten. He's about to do just that when it hits him.

The warmth. The energy. His sure heart. Even the ease with which consciousness is returning, the quick clarity of his thoughts…

What has he done?

What has been done to him?

His eyes fly open, blinking once or twice against stark institutional lighting, and he pushes himself upright. As he does, he notes the tug of a cannula in the back of his right hand. There are new runes, lurid against the skin of his arms (which are pinker? bigger? Burning), and probably more if he cared to look himself over (he doesn't). He follows the tubing from the cannula to an IV drip bag dispensing clear fluid. Next to it, a second machine monitors and displays his vitals. A simple medical setup, one he's familiar with, but Alec isn't reassured – not even when he realizes that the infirmary has been brought to him, that he's been granted the relative privacy of being left in his room at the Institute.

None of that helps, because of the drip.

The drip bag is labelled, but he can't read it. It looks to be down to the last quarter or so, but he has no way of knowing if it's the first. He doesn't know what they're giving him, how much of the (drug? Water? Supplement?) stuff he's had.

It's nightmarish. Immediately, toxic, saccharine sludge is oozing beneath his skin, seething sluggishly, bubbling and bloating in his veins, he can feel himself expanding –

No. No. There's nothing he can do about this right now. There will be time to correct this, if he stays calm. He needs to focus on ascertaining what, exactly, has happened, exactly what state he's in, and who he needs to sway to ensure this doesn't escalate. The thought of further obfuscation and cajoling dampens the adrenaline spike, and he sinks back onto the pillow, deflated. Why, why, why, had he overreacted? Why had he contacted Magnus? So much easier, so much better for everyone, if he had just succumbed. If he had let himself be overtaken by the pain and exhaustion. Either he would've come round of his own accord, with no one the wiser, or… or what? Perhaps he'd have died in this room. Not a noble, Shadowhunter death, granted; he would've disappointed expectations, but perhaps that was fitting. It was only logical that a lifetime of never quite living up to standards could not be honorable, even in its close. He had never been a perfect Shadowhunter, and such a death would not atone for that, but at least something – the problem of him – would have been resolved.

He could have died in this room.

He could still die in this room.

Stop. Stop, stop, stop. He'd been conscious for all of a minute, and he was contemplating… what was he contemplating, really?

Death. Being dead. Making it all stop.

When was enough enough?

But Alec couldn't sustain ay true anger. His guilt, his shame, his anxiety, were all too loud, too urgent, for any other emotions to compete. He needed to assess his situation. He gave himself three seconds grace before sitting again, taking a fuller inventory of the room.

It was largely as he remembered. His phone, watch, and stele were on his bedside table. His jacket hung on the back of his door, and the boots he'd kicked off… last night? Two nights ago? More? Still occupied their customary spot beside his closet – though he noticed they'd been straightened, and now sat neatly, parallel and flush against the wall.

The biggest change was the chair. Under the window was a simple, straight-backed chair he recognized as having been commandeered from the library archive's reading rooms. Alec didn't question it too much, but he was perplexed by the blanket and undeniably Mundane paperback that had been left by its most recent occupant. Someone had been in here, not to monitor him, not in a medical capacity, but – reading. Possibly sleeping. Alec couldn't think of anyone who had time for novels, and this evidence of… nesting made him wonder just how long he'd been out.

He didn't have to puzzle long. Just as he resolved to go and study the book more closely, the door opened.

'Alec!'

'Mom?'

'Yes – wow, oh, sweetheart, I don't – I didn't expect – how are you feeling? I hope I didn't disturb you. I'm under strict instructions to let you rest, and –

'Mom, breathe.' Alec told her, too stupefied to summon the reassuring grin he wanted to offer. His mother was here? Reading?

'Yes. Yes, I'm sorry, I don't mean to overwhelm you.' Marys said, visibly calming herself. 'I'm just so glad to see you.' She decides, smiling and striding to perch on the side of his bed. In some ways, she's the polished leader he knows, poised, graceful, together, from her smooth hair, to the natural, elegant cross of her ankles; but she's more than that now. She is here. His mother. Smiling. Reading. Smoothing the hair back from his brow. A faint pallor, an almost unnoticeable tension in the set of her shoulders, are the only signs of an underlying stress.

Your fault, Alec chides himself.

'It's okay, you're not – I'm not overwhelmed.' he manages. It's true: he surpassed overwhelmed a long time ago.

'How are you feeling?' she asks.

'Um. Fine. I'm fine – Mom, what are you doing here?'

He doesn't mean to sound reproachful, or ungrateful, but Maryse smiles sadly.

'Just being. With my son. Being your mother.'

'Okay,' Alec says cautiously. For some reason he can't get over the paperback, the blanket. 'but what about your job? What about Max?'

'You're my son.' His mother replies, as if it's that simple, as if it always has been. 'And Max is here. So is your sister, and Jace, and Magnus. Your father. We're all here.'

Alec didn't know how to feel about that. He knew that these were the people he loved best in the world: that still meant something, even now. He knew this implicitly, even if it had been a long time since he had been able to feel it. It frightened him. It would shatter him if he let it.

'But why –' he begins, but Maryse shakes her head, intuiting his question.

'Where else would we be? Alec, do you know what happened?'

Lancing pain. Vicious cold. Finally, finally, nothingness.

'No.'

'You had – you had a heart attack. Your heart stopped, Alec.'

'Mom. I did not have a heart attack. Old people have heart attacks. Mundanes.' He's floundering, he knows. 'I'm not old.' He repeats stupidly.

'I know. Believe me, I know you're not old, but you did have a heart attack. If you hadn't called Magnus – well. Thank Raziel for portals. You were severely dehydrated and malnourished, and with the imbalance of electrolytes and the internal stress on your body… You went into multiple organ failure. If you hadn't called Magnus, or if you were a Mundane…'

A morbid thrill chases his spine, the icy spread of horror, resentment and, perversely, pride. Had he really been so close?

'I don't understand.' He says.

'Neither do I. I understand what happened, but what I don't know is why. You've been unconscious for two days, and we haven't learnt much, but… We know your heart stopped. We know you're severely malnourished. Starving. We know you're denying yourself deliberately – and perhaps the why isn't so very important right now, because it's killing you regardless, and if things don't change, you won't ever be old, Alec.'

Embarrassment and denial, a churlish, childish shame, make him venomous. Starving.

'Shadowhunter, remember? How many of us get to grow old anyway?'

'Not enough, you're right. But I'd like you to be one of them.'

'You raised us to this life. You taught us the Law, our duty, comes before everything.'

'I know, and I know I made many mistakes, but sweetheart… I didn't raise you to lose you.'

Alec had nothing to say to that. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest. He was not aware that he was clenching his fists, ragged nails tearing at callouses, scars, and scabs, until his mother laced her fingers through his, squeezing in gentle reproach. The silence stretched, but Alec refused to fill it. He couldn't face his mother right now, and the sense of something corrupting churning over and under his skin was taking over. He'd only been awake a matter of minutes, but already the agitation of sitting, existing, nothing to distract him from the fact of himself, was growing excruciating. He was afraid that if he spoke, he would start to scream, or sob, and that he would never stop.

'I'm going to call someone to check you over.' Maryse says eventually, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

'Who?' Alec chokes, imagining the unbearable scrutiny of the Silent Brothers, the countless delegates from every community who would no doubt relish the opportunity to observe him at this new low. He'd tried to ignore her earlier words, tried not to imagine the things 'we know', who 'we' might be, but now he can't stop himself. He pictures parades of Silent brothers, harassed Institute medics, Clave representatives, watching, seeing, judging.

'I was thinking Magnus first, and perhaps Catarina when she returns from the hospital. We can take it from there.'

Magnus.

Again, Alec finds no words, no definable emotion. His mother, reading, trusting Warlock healing. Catarina returning, which meant that she'd been here already. On official orders? For Magnus? For him? For Magnus, surely –

'Yes.' he blurts before he can talk himself out of it. In his head, shimmering cobalt, gilded eyes, the flash of rings on elegant fingers. The scent of smoke and sandalwood, and warmth, warmth, warmth… 'Please.'

'Okay.' His mother murmurs. 'I won't be long.' She adds, but she leaves slowly, fussing with his sheets, reading his vitals from the machinery beside him (though Alec is sure the numbers mean even less to her than they do to him), and Alec realizes it's because she wants to stay. She wants to be with him. We're all here, she'd said; but where is he? Where has he been?

And no sooner has this thought struck him, than Alec begins to spiral. His guilt and anxiety rocket, and he barely registers the sound of the door closing behind his mother. His lungs seem to have shrunk, and he can't pull in enough air. He can't breathe.

Breathe.

There's a window on the same wall as the bed. If he stands and stretches, he should be able to reach it without disturbing the medical paraphernalia trailing him.

Breathe.

Alec stands and reaches towards the window, but he was right about his lungs, because although he manages to force the catch and push the window open, his head swims and he lurches unsteadily. He's just debating how bad it would be for anyone to return and find him sprawled on the floor, when sure hands catch him above the elbows.

'And I thought you Shadowhunters were graceful.' Quips a gentle voice, and Alec's head swims for an entirely different reason. It's his favorite sound in the world, and it's been so long since he's truly heard it.

'Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint. Not all of us can live up to the High Warlock of Brooklyn.' Alec returns, but the light tone he's aiming for falls very flat.

'And thank the angel for that, or I'd have far too much competition.' Magnus says, almost too much himself, the words too carefully moderated.

'Never.' Alec says, as Magnus guides him to sit on the bed. Facing him, Alec can see Magnus looks depleted, too, his eyes unusually dark and a little distant as he takes observations from the machine displaying Alec's vitals and, with light, soft touches, checks Alecs temperature, satisfies himself that the canula is in place, the runes are still fresh.

'Stable.' Magnus mutters, exhaling, and Alec wants to laugh because stable is the last thing he feels. There is no solid foundation beneath him, no central pillar around which to structure himself. Magnus isn't talking to him, though, still studying the screen like he doesn't trust his own findings, so Alec continues as if without interruption.

'You have no competition, you know. There's only one Magnus Bane.' He says – and this gets Magnus's attention.

'There's only one Alec Lightwood.' Magnus counters, and suddenly Alec can't bear the clinical scrutiny, the careful touches, the hesitant words.

'I'm sorry.' He says, tugging Magnus to sit on the bed beside him. 'Please, just, stop for a second - I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologize. Not for this.'

'Then for what?'

'That's not what I meant. You don't need to apologize at all.'

'But… I hurt you.' Alec says, realizing the truth of this for the first time as he really, truly, sees the shadows beneath Magnus's eyes, the sheen of almost-tears.

'Yes.' Magnus concedes, 'but only by hurting yourself.'

'I'm still sorry.'

'This isn't your fault.'

'But I did this. I know I've been – well – and I know I took things too far –'

'Too far?' Magnus lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 'You died, Alexander. No, you killed yourself. It doesn't get any further than that.'

'I would never –'

'You said you would never but you did. Whether you meant to or not – seeing you like this – it's like the night of Max's party all over again.' Magnus takes a shuddering breath. 'I asked you to tell me, Alec. If it was bad.'

'I know.'

'Do you? Do you know how much you mean to us? Do you have any idea what it would do to your friends, your family, to me, to lose you?'

'I was never trying to die.' But even he isn't sure of the truth of that statement. 'And it's not… it's not bad, to me.' This, too, may or may not be true. He didn't feel as though he was in crisis. Most of the time, he didn't see anything wrong with what he was doing. There was always an underlying justification or logic, and although he was now confronted with evidence to the alternative, he'd been convinced he was only affecting himself.

'Maybe. I'm sorry. This isn't the time for this conversation, and I'm not going to ask for promises or answers you can't give. I do want to know… I'll only ask that you give yourself a chance, okay? Take this seriously. Because I'm going to be fighting for you. I'm not going to watch–' Magnus swallows, and his composure returns. 'I'm going to do everything I can to help you be well, and there's a lot of people in my corner. Are you going to be one of them?'

'I don't know what that means.'

'It means… talking. Sleeping. Eating. Trusting us, letting us in. A lot of things that will be uncomfortable and painful at first. I know you're used to punishing yourself, that you think you deserve it, so I'm sure it'll take time, and effort.' Magnus smiles now, a genuine smile. 'But we know I'm all for effort.'

'Yeah. Me, too.' Alec mutters resentfully, and it's true: he is always, always, trying. Trying so hard.

'One of your many charms. I see how hard you work, Alec. I've never had faith in anyone the way I do you, and I'm hoping you can turn that energy towards…' towards what? Who? Tell me what to do. Tell me how to be, or at least where to start, because I'm lost. 'Living.' Magnus decides.

'I think… I think this is how I've been living.' Alec says slowly, and as he speaks he knows that this, at least, is true. His regime, his rules… he's been using them to justify and prop up his existence, to endure the otherwise unendurable.

'I can understand that,' Magnus says, taking Alecs hand 'but there are other ways.'

'I remember.' Or… he remembered remembering.

'Okay. That's all I need for now.' He smiles, and there is such warmth in the expression that Alec has to look away. 'What about you? I haven't even asked how you're feeling. Is there anything you need right now?'

'I need –' Alec swallows, and focuses on their fingers, laced together on the sheets between them.

'Tell me.' Magnus prompts gently.

'I'm not sure. This. You. Stay with me?'

'You have me, Alec.' Magnus promises, pulling Alec into a fierce embrace. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Alec buries his face his face in Magnus's shoulder, breathing in the undeniable traces of burnt sugar and woodsmoke, all things magic and Magnus and home. He tries to ground himself in the strength of Magnus's arms, so often belied by his grace and kindness, his elegant movements – but it doesn't work. He still feels rootless, and it's not the blissful weightlessness he's been chasing.

'I think I am. Going. I think I'm going crazy.' The words choke him, but now that he's started, it's easier to keep going. 'I think I'm losing my mind Magnus, and I'm scared that if I can't stop I really will be gone – and I'm scared that that's what I want. And I'm scared of what's in this drip and that your magic smells so sweet, and it's insane that that's what I'm thinking about even now –'

'It's okay. It's okay, you're okay.' Magnus soothes, pulling away to face Alec. He waits as Alec's breath hitches, waits until Alec meets his gaze. 'I'm scared too. But we'll do this scared, and we'll do it together. I told you, I'm on your team.'

'Go team.' Alec says flatly, and perhaps it's the fear, the tension, but this makes Magnus snort, and Alec laughs. If there's a hysteric edge to the sound, they both pretend not to notice.

'Such a way with words.' Magnus huffs fondly. 'I promised I'd tell Maryse once I'd made sure you were okay, and I don't know if Jace or Isabelle will be the first to break down your door, so I should go and reassure your family, but when I get back, I'd like more of those words, if you're up to it. I'd like you to talk to me, and tell me what's been going on.'

'Are you sure? I get that this might be too much.'

'No such thing. You don't need to protect me. You don't need to shut me out.'

'I don't want you to think less of me.' Alec admits.

'Trust me, that's not going to happen. You lent me your strength before, remember? Let me do the same for you.'

Alec nods. He's in no danger of laughter now. He's quashed his momentary lapse, resisted the lure of ready tears. If he's going to face this honestly, he knows he has to take the world, his thoughts and feelings, one part at a time. Too much too soon and he will only withdraw again.

He knows that that is a bad idea by how appealing it is.

'I trust you.'

Magnus smiles, relieved, and Alec is glad one of them, at least, is convinced. Believes that this is somewhere to start.

'Good – personally I've always thought that to be the smartest choice.' Magnus grins wickedly, an admirable attempt at his usual impish humor. 'Now, would you like to see anyone, or shall I fend off the hordes?' Alec considers briefly.

'Fend. Please.' He says, and pushes down the guilt. 'At least until Cat's been.' Selfish, maybe, but he's not sure of himself yet. He doesn't want to see anyone else until he knows what they know, until he understands better, himself, what has happened. What comes next. It will be much easier to have certain conversations when he has something to say, and can guess how they (and he) will react.

'Done.' Magnus promises, and he stands to leave. Alec sees his has arm twitch by his side, his fingers flex, an uncharacteristic hesitance in one as bold as Magnus. It passes quickly, and Magnus reaches to cup Alec's cheek, stoops to kiss him softly. It's dizzying, and Alec feels his remaining pieces fracture. There is a raw burning in his chest, and the pit inside him, with its jagged edges, yawns. All his missing parts. Everything he has carved away and uprooted, everything he has denied and sacrificed – the remains seethe. He thought he'd lost this. He thought he'd broken himself of any ties, any needs, any want. He'd accepted that some things were not meant for him, and he thought he'd made his peace with the distance around him. He's only beginning to understand how wrong he was, how much he's hurt the ones he loves – and yet, there is this. Despite everything, there is this, this quiet moment and Magnus's lips on his. Magnus hand trails a warm path along Alecs jaw, and as he pulls away, he tilts Alec's chin so that their eyes meet. 'I won't be long,' Magnus says, and Alec takes some pride in the fact that he does not cling to Magnus's sleeve, that he lets him walk away.

Of course, then, he is alone. He is left with his too-prominent heartbeat, and the low susurrations of the hospital machinery as he tries to process their conversation. Nothing is decided. He still doesn't know what will come next. Okay, Magnus wants to talk. Fine. Uncomfortable, maybe, but fine. He's agreed to let Cat look him over. Again, fine. He doesn't relish the thought of exposing the truth of himself, of submitting to the lectures and attention of a skilled healer – but tells himself he's willing to try.

And then?

What had Magnus said?

It means…talking. Sleeping. Eating. Trusting us, letting us in.

Okay, sure. Alec can do all of that. He will do it. He's done it before.

It sounds so simple.

Later, he will remember this moment. Later, delirious, burning with shame and fear and resentment, his thoughts will turn caustic. He will remember, alone amid near-blinding physical pain, and he will wonder how he had ever been so naive.