>> Ⱨł₲Ⱨ ₩₳ⱤⱠØ₵₭ of L.A.

#ɴᴇᴄʀᴄᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ : a low activity, private, & highly selective blog for ❝ Malcolm Fade ❞  from cassandra clare’s shadowhunters universe. heavily hc-based, but rooted in the books. spoilers abound. crossover & au friendly. i love oc’s, throw them at me. familiarity with his canon is not necessary to interact! 

as written &  warily supervised by A. ( she/they, 21+,  GMT+2 ) blog est. in 2017, rebooted in 2022.

righteously evil.

"Aʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ drunk?"

It's not an unreasonable guess. And the fact that he guesses at all must be some sign of respect, of friendship — or perhaps just giving the other excuse for such a crude statement. At this moment, he himself wishes he was. That would make Malcolm more bearable when he was in his — humorous moods. Surely, this must be one of the most unfortunate ways he's ever heard anyone make such a statement.

And perhaps he's immediately proving him right by avoiding what this was aimed at entirely. He doesn't much care for accusations of either sort, even if it was simply in the way of avoiding his very own feelings. (When had he ever acknowledged them, if they were of any deeper kind, if they were to hint at the fact that despite everything, despite what people might think of him or even want to think, he was still a living being with thoughts and feelings, not simply some unphantomable eldritch being.)

"I doubt anyone's ever called me that before, so congratulations. You win originality today."

light, airy laughter follows in the wake of that question, leaving one amused warlock to gaze at the other, feet still dangling as he sat on the edge of the desk. oh. from Jonah? that was. . . .in its own way, sweet. ( a white eyebrow ticks up, half-inquiry, half-highlighting-the-obvious. of course he wasn't. )

the statement, adding to his qualities, is taken as flattery. why thank you! if he could, Malcolm would puff up his feathers with pride. alas, he owed no such embellishments. thus, he falls back upon the typical, the tried and true: he smiles, childlike glee slipping through.

             “ . . .. I could get it printed for you on a t-shirt ; within a crown of laurels. all leaves replaced by eyes. gilded. no one would grasp the jest of it. ”  except for the few that did. imagining …ah, James? Elias? Elvis? honestly, how is a man to follow the numerous changes. . . , prim and proper Him, in such apparel ( extending the mental exercise to include dark jeans! ) is incredibly entertaining, if Malcolm’s gleeful expression is to be believed ( which is, in itself, questionable on most days ).   “ how could you possibly refuse? ”

it's a rhetorical question. any potential for retort is stopped by Malcolm, who raises a finger in objection — only for it to trace lazy circles in the air, spinning round and round on an invisible axis.

Perhaps he should have expected the other man to see both through and past his little charade and root his suspicions within petals that were too vibrant, too alluring for his fingers to foolishly reach out, as though he was looking through clear glass depicting all of his intentions and not a life forged from fresh earth. The moment his fingers loosen their hold around the flower and watch it float with unnatural grace, he cannot help but break into another genuine smile, a symbol of bashfulness that certainly would have caused him to blush if he was capable of doing so. Black eyes lock with the way his magic curls gently around his own, watching it for a brief moment before his mouth parts to release something akin to a sigh, yet no sound penetrates the silent barrier he seems to cloud himself in, reaching out to free the violet from its cage and take it into his hand.

The sight that follows would have been answer enough: the moment the stem blends into the palm, roots begin to grow and envelop every digit they come across, bleeding into his veins as though they are part of him, growing from him, into him, a cycle with no definite beginning; a disturbing but beautiful spectacle ( at least to him ), rendering his arm immobile so that he has no other option but to sign his message and hope Malcolm understands ( somehow, after all the small displays of magic, he is certain he will ). [ It would have rooted you to the ground. Don’t worry, I would have kept you out of the sight of the dead. ]

His gaze parts, watching something beyond the horizon of trees and the promise of ghosts blending into it effortlessly and, just as suddenly as it had spread, the flower crumbles into a heap of petals, soon to rot and turn into dust to feed the ground it had risen from. And then he tilts his head. [ Who are you here to see, Malcolm? ]

the horrors ( the depths of brutality ) the fae can unveil, with large doe-eyes and a cheerful smile, can still take him aback, every now and then, even after decades of consorting with them. taking root here ( literally! ). . .. .  chained to the ground, prevented from moving either forward or stepping back, solidified in place and time. . . .he can think of few things more horrid. ( one single choice, one single wrong turn in the maze —— and then. . . .. no turning back. falling prey to the abyss. as if forever altered at the atomic level by a lone, irreversible chemical reaction. ) 

Malcolm’s gaze lingers upon him, unfazed ( lies, lies, he’s dancing on the edge of horrified, yet the sentiment lurks deep beneath the amethyst glaze of his eyes ) then slowly moves to take in the treeline, his thoughts unspoken yet clear all the same in that single, brief inspection. ( how many? )

don’t worry, I would have kept you out of the sight of the dead.

               “ how…. thoughtful of you. . . ”  the murmur upon his tongue is too low ( and too disturbed in tonality ) to be uttered properly. it hardly matters. the fae hardly —or rather, seldom. . . if ever— seem to grasp sarcasm. he banishes Erik’s words, dancing in the air between them, with a hand.

“ A binding circle? So that I’m stuck in your house forever? — While I am flattered that you apparently cannot get enough of me, I do have a business to run. Sinners rarely torture themselves nowadays. “

Such a liar made of innumerable lies.  Well, that’s a bonus point for the paradox convulsion of tipsy thoughts and suffices to lure a snort from Michael’s nose. Just the prelude to a trail of laughter, whereas comments never follow despite it being characteristic for him to drop at least one in response to such stupidity. No, thanks to the Bloody Mary he’s almost emptied at this point, he keeps giggling even when Malcolm grabs his hand to guide it out of his vicinity. Back to Michael, where it sinks into his lap after he lets his arm slither off that backrest. Head up again, amusement subsiding.

It’s true all the same, that he’d be likely on earth regardless of whether humanity needs a clean slate or not — Satan’s whims are as unpredictable as God’s. Like maker, like creation.

But Michael may not be so keen on resorting to drastic, apocalyptic means if the world wasn’t beyond fucked and visibly on the brink to a total collapse. Things might be different. Exhaling a sigh, he leans toward the table to put his glass there. Ere he slumps back into the lounge’s ridiculously broad couch and spreads both arms over the backrest now, which has one hand back near Malcolm. Although this time resting behind his white haired head sans contact.

❛ That’s no valid excuse and you know that. ❜  Every word is uttered with deliberate slowness, otherwise his heavy tongue would wash away half the syllables in an attempt to follow the mind’s pace.  ❛ All people have plans, even if it’s only so much as seeing the next day. ❜  An idle shrug rolls his shoulders, his lips purse, and he realizes he’s pinned his gaze to the empty glass since he’s sat it atop the table. So he turns his head to glance over at the warlock instead. Brows arched upward, his already half-lidded eyes must look even smaller.

❛ Why should I put my plans on hold for you? What makes your individual future special? ❜  Slowly, a grin creeps to his lips and he crinkles his nose in a grimace of near juvenile glee.  ❛ Come on, Comicbook! You can tell me. I’m not going to judge you. ❜  Not while floating in a blissful haze.

humour was the point of Malcolm’s previous commentary and characterization of Michael as a lying liar ; thank you for noticing! the laughter itself? met with a satisfied, albeit lazy smile of his own, and a significant amount of restraint necessary to keep him from reaching out and patting that blonde head.  instead, the warlock spends the next few moments observing Michael as he pins his attention on the discarded glass (traces of red still licking at its  edges, like some looming premonition), gaze lazily dropping to his mouth as he speaks, watching plush lips form words. with distinct interest. then, after several moments, the prickling feeling of being observed tugs his gaze back up, to meet half-lidded gaze.  

apparently, however, he takes a great deal of mock-offense to the spoken suggestion . .. .albeit with a significant delay.   “ most people don’t plan to see the next day, Michael. they just assume they will, as if it were their right and not a privilege. ”  memory soaks-through the last words, colouring it in bitterness ( most people are fools. and so was he, once upon a time. a fool basking in the warm sunshine of naïveté and inexperience, perceiving the world through a soft, rose-tinted veil, distorting it to his fancy and his wishes. believing everything to be beautiful, as light as his own heart. sunshine itself seemed to be born to smile down upon them him. )  

lips press in a thin line, disapproval made clear within the shake of Malcolm’s head, sending the world spinning violently on its axis, pupils widening to impossibly dark pools, outlined in amethyst. it’s an intoxicating, lightweight feeling. the universe blurring at the edges, no longer definite, no longer resolute. a blur of colour and indefinite shapes. ( he chuckles, both elated and embittered, all at once, and, in an exhale, allows his head to drop once more against the backrest – and if Michael chose not to move his arm? he surrenders the right of complaining at being used as a makeshift pillow. )

                      “ do I look as if I care about your judgement…? did I ever? ”  it’s simple rhetoric, a statement of fact rather than a challenge. he simply… doesn’t care. about Michael’s judgement. about anyone’s. he had stopped caring about judgement when at a crossroads, more than a century ago. ( even before that, he’s had reservations. ) 

I make my individual future special. because it’s a future he has built with his own hands; and that is what makes it ( him, this ) so dangerous. nitroglycerin. 

the way Michael is looking at him now seems much akin to a child pressed against the window of a candy store, full of glee. unfortunately, Malcolm has always been the sort of man whose business and natural inclination ( own nature ) was to keep secrets… secret. 

not a valid excuse? it is to him. the work, devotion, exertion of decades.

          Payback.   That’s the word she originally wanted.   Frustration settles along her brow,  fingers twisting against one another in an attempt to calm herself.   How long will she be stuck struggling to find the words she wants to say?   Will she forever be searching?   

                          come here.

          Alice turns her head to look at Malcolm,  blinking a few times in quick succession out of surprise.   She hesitates.   It isn’t often Malcolm initiates anything and he’s so quick to pull away or stop their contact.   Won’t this make him uncomfortable?   To Alice,  she just does what comes naturally,  what her heart tells her to do with very little thought.   What happens if he changes his mind the moment she rests her head against him?   Will he push her away again?

          In the end,  Alice moves close and settles in against his side,  head on his shoulder and hand draped on his chest ( resting,  only resting there ).   She could easily fall asleep just like this.   Alice does her best to keep her eyes open and watch the stars again,  though she keeps her mouth shut despite his request.   ❝ It’s okay…   I pointed out enough.. ❞   she whispers before taking a deep breath.

❝ I always liked looking at the stars.   There were fields behind my childhood home and I would sneak out to lay with the flowers and stare up at them.   As a child,  I called them friends.   How silly.. ❞

the hesitation need not be voiced  for it to pierce through, grasp his notice with iron fists ( even if he does not bat an eyelash, even if not a single muscle twitches in his composed, softly good-humoured expression ). it was, after all, an invitation, not a command, from the manner in which it was spoken, rather than the words themselves. so Malcolm waits for Alice Turner to make up her mind, watches her with childlike, doe-large eyes, whilst sinking deeper into the pillows. it’s an enjoyable sight, after all: Alice, against a backdrop of glass and of stars, firelight casting intermingled plays of light and shadows upon her hair. her hands. her face.

in the end, she ( decides to )  falls easily against him, and his hand comes to rest upon her head, a lazy weight, even as his attention ( ostensibly )  drifts away to the transparent ceiling, once more. do not speak to me of such sad things, he had said. but oh; how hard it is to speak of anything else, when looking at the night sky. and  what does it say about us, that most of the stories we write in the stars are, at their core, tragedies. . . .?