Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2004
Stiles stuck close to his dad, barely looking up from his feet as they toured the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Hall. He wasnât really sure what his dadâs new job was. Maybe he was in charge of all the other deputies in the kingdom of Beacon now? There had been a letter from the King, but Stiles hadnât really been paying attention to anything since his mom-
âWhatâs down here? Storage?â his dad asked.
âItâs mostly unused cells,â their guide, one of his dadâs new deputies, said. âFor long-term prisoners. But yes, thereâs also some storage down here. Outdated equipment, old files, anything we donât need on a regular basis.â
His dad hmmâed thoughtfully. Not too long ago, Stiles would have laughed at that and maybe tried to warn this deputy what that thoughtful hmm meant, but now he just looked up and finally paid attention to the hallway they were in. They were standing next to a door with a sliding panel set in the middle and a slit of a window so narrow that Stilesâs dad would have had to lift him up and hold him right next to it if he wanted to look through it. He might be a kid, but he recognized a solitary confinement cell door when he saw one. He sidled closer to his dad and leaned against his leg.
âIs there anything else I need to see today?â his dad said. He put his hand on Stilesâs shoulder and squeezed.
The deputy looked between them and visibly changed his answer. âNo, Iâd say weâre all done for now.â
His dad nodded, and they headed for the stairs. Stiles thought he saw a gleam of light in the cell door window, but there was nothing when he looked again.
~
Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2006
His dad had a dungeon.
Not a dark and damp stone one lit with torches - which would have been way cooler - but there were prison cells in the basement of the Sheriffâs Hall and that counted as a dungeon and there was someone in one of them . Probably a murderer.
His dad had the best job.
Stiles approached the door of the occupied cell and slowly slid the panel open. He darted back, out of armâs reach; he wasnât stupid. He tried to look inside, but it was too dark to see anything without getting closer. He squinted; was that movement? He took a step forward.
âStiles,â his dad said from the top of the stairs. âI told you not to go down there.â
That was his dadâs âI mean businessâ voice, so Stiles ran back upstairs.
Next time he was going to talk to the murderer in the dungeon.
~
Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2007
Stiles waited until the nearby deputies were distracted, then slipped downstairs. If his dad was really serious about keeping him away from the basement cells, the door would be locked, right?
He didnât bother to turn on the lights - there was just enough sunlight coming through the tiny window set high on the wall at the end of the hallway for him to see by. He could probably find his way to the Prisonerâs cell blindfolded anyway.
He slid open the panel and peeked through the opening. The room was dim; the Prisoner was to be kept in darkness, no matter how much his dad didnât like it. Â âHi,â he whispered. âGot you something.â He placed an apple on the ledge that jutted out from the opening.
There was a deep sigh from one corner of the room. âWhy?â
âPrison food sucks. Dad says so.â
âWhy do you keep coming back? Talking to me?â
Stiles shrugged. He didnât know why himself. âBecause.â
There was a pause.â...thank you.â
Stiles moved away and after a moment the apple disappeared from the ledge. The Prisoner didnât like for Stiles to get too close or try to see him.
When Stiles had first started bringing outside food for the Prisoner, he had worried about things like apple cores and orange peels. Apparently the orange peels could be flushed if they were broken up into tiny pieces, but the Prisoner ate the apple core, seeds and all. Ew. Stiles didnât like to think about it, so he started doing what he did best: chatter.
âSo my buddy Scott has a crush on the Little Princess and Lydia is all âDonât be stupid, you donât have a chanceâ and itâs not like Scott actually thinks he does, but he can still like her, right? Itâs like having a crush on a movie star. I mean, I have a better shot with Lydia than Scott does with a freakinâ princess, and Lydia is like, unattainable. Plus sheâs going steady with Jackson, just because his dad is Lord Mayor. She has a genius brain, but I guess even smart people do stupid things.
âAnyway, Scottâs got her picture in his wallet and he looks at it and sighs a lot, which is kinda lame. I donât do that with Lydia, and Iâm an expert at having a crush. I-â
âSomeoneâs coming,â the Prisoner said suddenly. âClose the panel and hide.â
âWhat?â
âStiles, hurry,â the Prisoner hissed, and Stiles did as he was told.
Just as he finished sliding the panel shut, the overhead lights came on. Stiles whirled and ran for the storage closet, which was always unlocked despite his dadâs efforts. He dashed inside and shut the door as quietly as he could. There was less than half an inch of space at the bottom of the door; Stiles lay down and pressed his face as close to the crack as he could. He wouldnât be able to see anything, but he could probably hear enough to learn something interesting.
A clatter of footsteps marched down the hallway, echoing off the bare cement walls. Stiles had learned early on to be quiet while visiting the Prisoner, who had really sensitive hearing - these people either didnât know or didnât care.
âOpen the door and leave us.â A womanâs voice, very commanding. Nobility for sure.
âMy lady-â A man, probably a personal guard. The nobility always had personal guards.
âHe wouldnât dare try to harm me. He knows what will happen if he does. Open the door and wait by the stairs.â
âYes, my lady.â There was a metallic groan - the cell door opening? - and then a bunch of footsteps clomping away.
âDer-ek,â the woman sing-songed. âCome out, come out wherever you are.â
Stiles didnât like her.
âThen Iâll have to come to you.â
A muted step and then all he could hear was the muffled sound of her voice, no matter how he adjusted his position. He waited an eternity, with only her unintelligible words and the occasional sound of her mocking laughter audible from the Prisonerâs cell.
She finally emerged. âIâm finished,â she called. The guards came back and as the door was groaning shut, she said mockingly, âUntil next year, sweetie.â
Stiles really didnât like her.
Their footsteps marched away and then up the stairs. Then the lights went out and there was a faint sound of a door closing. Stiles waited.
After another eternity, Stiles got up and opened the door. He stepped out into the darkened hallway - the sun had set at some point - and quietly closed it again. He made his way to the Prisonerâs cell - hey, he really could find his way blind - and slid the panel open.
âHello?â he whispered.
No answer.
âDerek?â
âForget you heard that name.â Derekâs voice was low and sad.
âIâm sorry she was mean to you.â
âJust go away.â
âOh. Okay. Um, Iâll talk to you later?â
No answer.
Reluctantly, Stiles slid the panel closed and left him alone, creeping down the hallway toward the stairs, not only because it was dark.
At the top of the stairs, he opened the door a crack and peeked out. It didnât look like anyone was around, so he opened it a little more and squeezed out. Then he closed it again and heaved a sigh of relief.
A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. Stiles yelped.
âHow long were you down there?â his dad whispered, furious.
âUm-â
âWere you down there when Princess Katherine arrived?â
Stilesâs eyes went wide. âPrincess Katherine?â
âDo you know what she would have done if sheâd found you down there? We would both be spending the rest of our lives in one of those cells.â
âDad-â
âDonât, Stiles. You canât talk your way out of this one. Weâre going home. Iâll figure out your punishment for this once Iâve calmed down.â
His dad let go of his shoulder. âWeâre leaving.â He strode away and Stiles hurried after him. Heâd never seen his dad so angry, not at him.
The drive home was silent. Stiles felt bad, but he couldnât think of anything he might have done differently. Not get caught?
When they got home, his dad sent him to his room. Neither of them mentioned supper.
âDad?â Stiles asked hesitantly from the staircase. âWho is he?â
âStiles-â His dad sighed and rubbed his forehead. âHis name is Adrian Harris. He plotted against the royal family and now heâll be in prison for the rest of his life. Stay away from him.â
Why would Princess Katherine call the Prisoner Derek if his name was Adrian Harris? Something wasnât right. Something that might be dangerous for his dad to know. âOkay.â
Stiles trudged up to his room. He had some research to do.
~
Beacon Hills, capital city of the Kingdom of Beacon, 2011
Stiles burst into the kitchen of the Sheriffâs Hall, carrying a small bag of apples. âIâm here! I brought them! Itâs not too late, is it?â
Stiles had been helping out in the kitchen since he was eleven, although at first it had been part of his punishment for going places he wasnât supposed to go. Prison food really did suck. Stiles wasnât sure if the bad food was part of the criminals paying their debt to society, but he did know that prisoners were supposed to be fed nutritious meals. His dad had agreed and at Stilesâs suggestion, they had added fresh fruit to the prisonerâs meals to go with their otherwise nutritionally adequate slop. For years, Stiles had been allowed to place said fresh fruit on the lunch trays before they were served (because he definitely was not allowed to cook anything or handle sharp objects) and today he had been sent to buy more apples because the ones in the kitchen had gone bad.
âIâd swear you were still eleven years old,â Brenda, the kitchen manager, said fondly. âYou arenât too late. Go on, weâre about to load everything on the carts.â
Stiles rinsed the apples and started putting them on the trays, moving as fast as he could without dropping anything or knocking anything over.
âSooo, Brenda,â Stiles said as soon as the kitchen workers started loading the trays on carts. âDo you think I couldâŠâ He gestured vaguely with hands and smiled, his eyes wide and innocent.
âNo,â Brenda scolded with a laugh. âYou canât help deliver the meals. I donât know why you keep asking.â
âBecause one day you might say yes,â Stiles said with a charming smile.
Brenda shooed him away and Stiles went.
As soon as he was out of sight, he hurried down the hallway toward a place he was definitely not supposed to be. He ducked into an unused office and hurried over to the vent, mentally thanking the fates that the Sheriffâs Hall was new enough to have central heating and old enough to have a ventilation system that required repair people to actually enter the vents to fix shit when it broke.
He pulled the grate away and crawled inside. He carefully replaced the grate behind him and began to make his way along the route heâd mapped out from building schematics. Hopefully they had been accurate. He moved as quickly as he could, cursing every thump and scrape he caused. If his luck held, the noise would be dismissed as the random sounds of an old HVAC system.
There were a few heart-stopping moments when he had to climb down to the basement level vents - the maintenance ladder needed maintenance - but soon he was letting himself down into the supply closet where he had hidden from Princess Katherine all those years ago. The door was still being kept unlocked - another uncontrollable variable working out in his favor - and he crept out into the hallway.
The sliding panel on Derekâs cell door barely made a scraping sound as he pulled it aside. âDerek?â he whispered. âItâs me, Stiles.â
âStiles?â Suddenly a face loomed in front of him in the darkness. Derek was pale, and his dark, unkempt hair and beard were shot through with silver, but he still looked like the pictures Stiles had found on the internet. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI snuck in. Listen, thereâs no time. I need you to promise to eat your apple today, okay?â
âWhat? What are you talking about?â
âItâs going to taste funny. Maybe smell funny. Just eat it, all of it, okay?â
Derekâs eyes narrowed. âWhy?â
Stiles pulled a chain out from under his shirt. The attached pendant was etched with a swirling symbol. âThe sun, the moon, the truth. Your mother sent me, Prince Derek. Please, just trust me.â
Derek stared at him, then nodded. Stiles placed his hand in the opening, palm up, and waited to see if Derek would take it. After a moment, Derek did.
When Stiles started to pull away, Derek tightened his grip. âStiles,â he whispered. âThank you.â
Stiles nodded. âGood luck.â Then he closed the panel and hurried away. Getting back out would be just as tricky as getting in had been.
He was almost back to the unused office when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. Shit, he was behind schedule. He sped up, muttering âDonât notice me, donât notice meâ under his breath as his progress made more noise than could be explained by it being old. He almost crashed through the vent grate, still muttering, and quickly got out and replaced it. He stopped at the door, closed his eyes and placed one hand on the knob and the other on the wall. âDonât notice me,â he said one more time, and opened the door.
There was a deputy in the hall when he stepped out of the office, but she only looked at Stiles with uninterested eyes and continued on her way.
âHoly shit, it worked,â he whispered, then he started running. No one tried to stop him. When he reached his dadâs office, he stopped, let out a slow, deliberate breath, and said, âAll done.â
He was panting with exertion when he burst into his dadâs office.
âStiles, whatâs wrong?â his dad asked, halfway out of his seat.
âDad,â he gasped. âCan I⊠stay⊠with Scott⊠tonight?â
His dad sat back down. âAnd you rushed in here to ask becauseâŠ?â
âScottâs waiting,â Stiles answered, still catching his breath.
âAnd you couldnât have called? Texted?â His dad raised a âmy son is an idiotâ brow at him.
âI⊠could have done that, yes. But then I wouldnât have seen you at all today, dad-dad-daddy-o.â Stiles shuffled his feet. âSooo, can I?â
âHow does Melissa feel about this?â
âSheâs working the night shift all weekend. She told us not to set anything on fire and not to eat all of the Oreos.â
His dad gave him a piercing look, then nodded. âFine, you can stay at Scottâs. But if I find out you didnât clear this with MelissaâŠâ
âYeah, yeah, grounded for life, no driving until Iâm thirty-five, bread and water diet, all that good stuff.â
The phone rang and his dad waved him out. âDonât cause any mayhem,â he said and answered the phone.
Stiles hurried outside, where Scott was waiting for him in Stilesâs jeep. âDid you do it?â Scott asked while Stiles was buckling his seatbelt.
âAll done. Now we live normal teenage boy lives for a while.â
âAwesome. Call of Duty tonight?â
âScotty, you are going down,â Stiles said as he started the jeep.
The next morning, his dad told him the Prisoner had died in his sleep. The day after that, the news stations reported that the Prisonerâs body had disappeared from the morgue. His name was not given. Princess Katherine was seen storming in and out of the Sheriffâs Hall every day for a week. Stiles stayed far away.
~
Beacon Preserve, neutral territory between the kingdoms of Beacon and Triskele, 2016
Princess Allison Argent, formerly known as the Little Princess, now heir-apparent to the throne of Beacon, waited at the edge of Wolfâs Glade with her honor guard, which counted her secret fiance Scott McCall among its number. On the other side, Princess Laura Hale, heir-apparent to the throne of Triskele, waited with several of her brothers and sisters, including Prince Derek, formerly a prisoner of Princess Allisonâs aunt, Princess Katherine. His escape had led to a brutal war, and now, five years later, both sides agreed that the cost of the war was too high. Stiles privately thought Princess Katherineâs death in battle, followed by King Gerardâs fatal heart attack upon hearing the news, had helped the end of the war along.
Stiles, as someone with ties to both sides, stood in the middle of the Glade with Emissary Deaton. Nobody was leaving until they hammered out a treaty, not if he had anything to say about it. He wanted to date his new boyfriend in peace. He looked over at Derek and winked.
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Magnus wakes up to the curtains framing clouds dappled orange. The sky is just beginning to turn blue from its night darkness, the sun slowly emerging to warm the skyscrapers that stretch up into the sight of the loftâs window. The tail end of winter is gradually releasing the sunâs rays earlier by the day, but the chill of the early morning has not yet begun to fade. As Magnus blearily reaches to pull the covers up further, he realises that his right arm is out of commission.
For all he had fantasised about Alexander before their relationship began, he could have never predicted the tiny details he had come to know about the man over the last year. The way he rubbed his fingers together when he was thinking; his hatred of broccoli and devotion to sweet potato; his penchant for stealing Magnusâ clothes when he had a day off. And yet, for all his nuances, this was by far the biggest shock when he first discovered it.
Alexander Lightwood is a fiend for cuddles.
Now, nephilim are not exactly known for their softness. Everything about them exudes sharpness, frigidity, cruelty. A lack of mercy paraded as justice. Itâs a performance intended to intimidate, to keep downworlders on their knees, sublimating in the way they were born to, or so the Clave would have you believe. Even in their own families, affection is a scarce commodity. There is no place for tenderness in the moulding of a child soldier.
But then there is Alexander.
It took a while to surface, admittedly. They each started out hesitant; unsure of each other in self and in society. Stilted conversations eventually bloomed into easy dialogue, their bodies shifting to face each other, one end of the couch growing cold as they drifted together, each at once a moth and its beloved flame. Soft touches. Hands brushing. A head nudging a shoulder. Fingers tangling. There were times when Magnus wondered if it was an indulgence of him on Alexanderâs part, given the uncertainty with which the nephilim approached contact.
It took their first time together for Magnus to realise just how wrong he was.
In the aftermath of their love, catching their breaths and exchanging inescapable smiles, Alexander had hesitated. Eyes darted to Magnusâ chest, his arms. A shift quickly halted by doubt. And in that moment, Magnus understood. He reached over and guided Alexander into his arms. Â He had never felt a body relax against his so thoroughly.
From then on, it had become a thing. An awareness unspoken yet acknowledged every time they were within a foot of each other. The sun must rise, waves must crash, blossoms must unfurl, and Alexander Lightwood loves cuddles.
Now, Magnus is not a small man. Heâs relatively tall and quite muscular; broad in the shoulders in a way that perhaps reflects the power dormant in his fingertips at all times. Alexander is even taller, and although he isnât quite as wide, he is still strong and solid in an absolutely delicious way. An outside observer may suspect that the two of them would fit together awkwardly; that two such sturdy bodies would clash in a discomfort of limbs and muscle and harsh edges. The reality was - is - nothing like that. As it turns out, the shadowhunterâs head fits perfect against the chest of a tender warlock. Their legs tangle in a messy but comfortable length, and the size of their bodies only provides more surface area for each to cover the other. One of Magnusâ hands always finds its way to rest on the slight pudge of his husbandâs stomach.
Which brings Magnus back to the here and now. Specifically, the loss in ownership of his right arm. It still has all the classical elements one would expect - it is still attached, he can wiggle his fingers, he can feel its nerves - and yet during the night, it has been completely and thoroughly claimed by his husband. The elbow rests somewhere near Alexanderâs collarbone; the forearm runs parallel with the manâs body, held in place by two strong, warriorâs arms. The slightest bit of drool marks his shoulder. Magnus shifts, testing the waters, and in his sleep Alexander frowns and softly, with a distinct lack of dignity, grunts. The hold on Magnusâ arm tightens.
Now, this. This is something Magnus has known since the day he met Alexander.
The man is fucking cute.
Magnus leans down as gently as he can to brush a kiss against his husbandâs cheek. Just as quickly as the frown creased his beautiful face, it disappears into contentment. Magnus settles back against the pillow and turns on his side, throwing his other arm across Alexanderâs waist. With a twitch of his index finger, the covers move up over them, a nest of warmth.
The sun creeps ever higher above Brooklyn, and Magnus Bane sleeps.
I hope you enjoy this, please feel free to message me if you have any questions or would like me to write you something else.Â
*****
The 10 Year Plan Goes Slightly Awry- but Stiles Isnât Complaining.
Stiles Stilinski wasnât sure what to do.Â
His 10 year plan to make Lydia Martin fall in love with him wasnât working and he had no idea what to do, so he went to Scott and Isaac for help after the next pack meeting at Derekâs loft.Â
âI just donât know what to do.. Iâm just not her type!â He whinedÂ
âRight listen, this is something we thought might happen.â Scott said softly.Â
Isaac sighed and looked between them âIâm gonna give you some advice, I think you need to make Lydia jealous.âÂ
âJealous?â He asked
âStart âdatingâ someoneâ
âBut who?âÂ
âI willâ said Derek from behind himÂ
Stiles jumped âYou? Why?â
âYes me, because I think itâll make her the most jealous.âÂ
âConfident in your self muchâÂ
Stiles snorted as Scott and Isaac grinned âNo I can see that workingâÂ
Stiles blushed softly and backed slowly out of the loft âRight umm... thanks Derek Iâll text youâ he said quietly knowing Derek could hear him and he fled back to his home.Â
What had he just agreed to? Stiles had always felt something in the pit of his stomach when he looked at the Hale wolf. But he liked Lydia didnât he?Â
He shook himself out of his thoughts when he got a text, he checked his phone ~From Sourwolf: So coffee tomorrow?~Â
~Sure Lydia will be there around 12, wanna meet for lunch?~
~From Sourwolf: sounds great babe x~Â
Stiles blushed and then he remembered that this was just fake, he had a 10 year plan for Lydia.Â
He smiled softly as he clicked on Derekâs contact adding a heart to the end of Sourwolf (just incase anyone looked at his phone.
The next day Stiles got ready for his âdateâ with Derek and made his way to the local coffee shop to meet him.
When he arrived he spotted Derek sat in the booth next to Lydia, as he neared them he heard a sigh âCome on Stiles Iâve already said noâÂ
âActually Lydia, Iâm not here for you, Iâm here on a dateâ he said motioning to the booth behind her where Derek was sat.
âA date?â She asked At this he heard a gruff sort of chuckle âYes Lydia, a date... you know what those are donât you?â
âI mean yeah but... Derek?âÂ
âYeah Lydia itâs meâ he looked up at Stiles and smiled âhey love why donât you come and sit down.âÂ
Stiles grinned softly as he slid into the booth, planting a soft kiss on the elders cheek âhey Sourwolf, howâs your day been?âÂ
âIâve had a great day my love, you?âÂ
âOh itâs been fantastic.âÂ
âGreat.âÂ
They had fun that afternoon, even after Lydia  had gone, they finished up their lunch and their coffee and they went to the park and walked around.
Stiles could feel his heart beating, he felt as if it was about to leave his chest.
âHey Stiles are you okay?â Derek asked with an air of concernÂ
âOh yeah, yeah Iâm fine... thank you for todayâ
âOh itâs not a problem I enjoyed it.â
About a month later, the ârelationshipâ between Stiles and Derek was still going on. Stiles however now saw this as a real relationship, he now saw Lydia as just a friend.Â
He was going to Derekâs loft to talk to him.
âHiâ he said nervouslyÂ
âOh hey Stiles, Whatâs up?âÂ
âI need to talk to youâÂ
âGo aheadâÂ
âListen Derek, this whole thing started so that I could make Lydia jealous... but it hadnât quite worked that wayâ
âWhat?â Â
Stiles sighed âListen Derek thank you for the help but I donât need it anymore, the 10 year plan worked, just not quite how I would have expected it too... itâs you Derek I love youâ
âI love you tooâ Derek smiled and came towards him capturing his lips in his own.Â
âIs that okay?âÂ
He askedStiles blushed with a smile âIâm not complainingâ
Magnus is leisurely leaning against the cold wall, right knee propped up, the sole of his boot pressed against the stone bricks. The collar of his jacket is upturned, more with the purpose to protect him from the biting cold of the December night than to serve a fashion choice.
Despite the nonchalance of his posture, Magnus is on high alert. He is ready to step in and help should the need arise, but heâs otherwise content to just observe as his Alexander slashes and stabs his way through the small hoard of demons heâs fighting.
Itâs just an easy mission to ease some new recruits from Idris into patrols and field work and the demons they are fighting are lesser demons, ones Alec is more than capable to deal with on his own.Â
So Magnus just stays back and enjoys the sight. He grins, a surge of pride and affection swelling in his chest as he watches one of the demons fall after an especially ruthless slash of Alecâs blade, spurring Alec into the next fight. Â
When he fights, Alec is all strength and grace, balance and poise. Years of unrelenting training have taught him to use every part of his body as a weapon, honing his skills to the point heâs both secure in his movements and graceful like one of the dancers from the many ballets Magnus has had the pleasure to attend during his time in Europe.
Magnus canât keep his eyes away from the fluid movements of Alecâs limbs, the ripple of hard muscles under black leather, the gleam of moonlight over the Adamas of his seraph blade.
The demons grunt and howl as they fall, a dark tune to Alecâs dance and Magnus is so enthralled that almost misses the demons closing in from the left.
A shouted âWatch out!â from one of the Shadowhunters fighting more of the demons a few feet away pulls Magnus out of his reverie.
Magnus stands and calls upon his magic, the surge of relief as he feels it humming under his skin still present even after months from his ordeal. He debates blasting all of the demons away with a wave of his hand but in the end, he decides he can use the exercise of a good old-fashioned fight and uses his powers to summon a blade for himself. It may not be Adamas but it will serve its purpose just as well.
âIt was about time,â Alec says when Magnus joins the fight, settling at his back.
âHush, darling, you were handling yourself well.â Magnus sidesteps to avoid a claw directed toward his chest and with one swift movement of his blade, slices it off. âAnd besides, I wouldnât want to show off.â
âYeah?â Alec says and even if Magnus canât see him, he can feel the smile in his voice. âSince when?â
Magnus laughs and delivers the killing blow between the demonâs ribs. âWell, Alexander, I wouldnât dream about outperforming you in front of your Shadowhunters,â he says, knowing Alec will take it for the joke itâs meant to be. âYou have a title to uphold, after all.â
Alec snorts and Magnus feels him stepping closer behind his back. âAs if that was gonna happen.â
âIs that a challenge, Alexander?â Magnus asks, enjoying the easy, familiar banter.
âOh, shut up, Magnus.â Alec grunts and Magnus feels the thud of another demon hitting the ground.
âYou are on, my dear.â Magnus laughs and kills a demon of his own, his body taut with adrenaline-fueled excitement. âDo keep count.â
After that, everything goes by in a blur of slashes and thuds and teasing remarks, until theyâve killed the last of the demons and theyâre standing back to back, catching their breath.
Magnus is the first to straighten up. He turns around and pretends to flick a speck of dust off the sleeve of his jacket. âWell, that was fun.â
Alec snorts and wipes the ichor off his sword on the hide of one of the fallen demons before sheathing it in his thigh holster. When he turns around, he points toward the demons on his side of the field, a smug grin playing on his lips. âI win.â
âConsidering you had the advantage of a head-start, I would say we are even, darling.â
Alec laughs that easy, spontaneous laugh Magnus loves so much. âFine. Have it your way.â
Magnus is about to retort when theyâre joined by the other Shadowhunters. They approach and stand a little to the side, clearly waiting for Alecâs orders.
Alec smiles apologetically at Magnus and heads toward them to give them their instructions.
Before departing, he squeezes the young Shadowhunterâs shoulder. âThis was your first time in the field, wasnât it?â
âYes, sir,â Magnus hears him reply.
âCongratulations for a mission well done,â Alec says and the way he smiles as he says it makes Magnus wonder how many times heâs been on the other side, how many times heâs been the one craving some validation after a mission. âWe need to work on our time of response but I think we can call this one a success.â
Alec walks back, and he has just joined Magnus when they hear it.
âAt least I didnât just stand and watch like that warlock.â
It is a little more than a murmur but the boy is unlucky enough to have the wind carry it to their ears.
Alec freezes besides him. Magnus was about to clean up the mess of ichor and dead demons with his magic but he stops in his tracks when Alec puts a hand on his arm.
âLeave it,â Alec says, stone-faced, his voice dead serious. âThatâs not your job.â
âAlexander-â
âI mean it, Magnus,â Alec interrupts, already turning on his heels. âIâll be right back.â
Magnus considers finishing the job and cleaning the mess anyway but in the end, Alecâs wishes and a sane amount of sheer pettiness win. He stays back and watches Alec stride toward the recruits, every inch the Head of the Institute, a sharp contrast to the friendly leader heâs been up to a few minutes ago.
Magnus listens, touched beyond belief, as Alec gives a lecture about respect and gratitude and heâs oddly grateful Alec knows him so well to not demand an apology out of the boy. Â
Alec doesnât let the boy get away with it either.
Magnus almost winces in sympathy when hears Alec tasking him with cleaning the scene and assigns him to ichor duty until new orders. Almost.
âI will not tolerate this kind of behavior nor I will have anyone disrespect my family. Is that clear?â Alec says at last, before turning around and stalking off toward Magnus, his face still set in harsh lines.
Family. The word slices through Magnusâ awareness and settles against his ribcage, warm and comforting, leaving behind a faint ache.
Theyâre still navigating the early stages of their marriage and Magnus knows theyâre family now, that maybe theyâve been one for quite some time, in a way. Still, hearing Alec voice it is different.
It tugs at something deep inside of Magnus. It tugs at the part of him thatâs always yearned to find a person to call his own. It tugs just hard enough to make him feel unmoored, untethered like a floating balloon slipped from someoneâs hand.
Magnus doesnât have the time to dwell too much on the feeling that Alec is already back to him, and the affection and concern etched in the handsome lines of his face bring Magnus back down and anchor him.
âMagnus, are you okay?â
Magnus has had centuries of experience in dealing with prejudice and they both know he is more than capable to deal with an insolent Shadowhunter without the need of Alecâs intervention. But he must admit that heâs quite touched by Alecâs concern, by his fierce protectiveness.
âI am,â he murmurs, smiling at Alec to let him know that he, indeed, is okay.
âGood,â Alec says, reaching out to take Magnusâ hand and squeezing it. Iâve got you, the touch says. âLetâs go home.â
Magnus squeezes Alecâs hand back and opens a portal. I know, itâs his silent reply. âHome sounds good.â
âI can't believe you just did that to me, and in front of everyone!â Stiles exclaimed while being manhandled into his house by an equally frustrated Derek.
Shutting the front door, Derek turned to face Stiles. The sound of his leather jacket crinkled as he crossed his arms. His nostrils flared in anger, and his thick black eyebrows furrowed as he yelled back, âYou were being an idiot! I saved your drunk ass! â
âYou treated me like a child. In front of all my friends!â Stiles yelled back, his hands thrown up in exasperation.
He walked further into the front living room. He kicked the back of the sofa, frustrated.
âIf you donât want me to treat you like a child, then donât act like one! You got in a stupid fight and risked both our familyâs reputations!â Stiles glared as Derek got right in his face He felt the warmth of Derekâs chest against his own.
âYouâre such a hypocrite, Hale! You jumped in and knocked the jerk out cold! You then had no right to shove me against the wall and tell me off in front of everyone! You caused an even bigger scene and humiliated me!â He yelled at  Derek with his fists clenched at his sides. âI'm twenty-one! An adult! I am not weak. I can handle myself.â
Backing away from Derek, Stiles rubbed a hand down his face, barely containing his irritation.
âI am not fragile, Derek. Just because you are two years older than me, built stronger and look like a damn serial killer doesn't mean you can get away with punching that jerk and looking like the good guy while you make me the bad guy!â Stiles was more agitated than he's ever been. Â
It made his anxiety go through the roof to the point that he started fidgeting.
âYou don't understand. I'm trying to protect our family and their reputation!â Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to three in an attempt to calm himself. âDid you forget that we are royalty? Everything we do could damage our parentâs reputation. You have no idea what you're doing. Youâre throwing a tantrum because you donât agree with our parents. Do you think going out and getting shitfaced in public in the answer? Picking fights with strangers, ditching your bodyguards?â
âI didnât pick a fight?! That jerk grabbed my ass, and then had the audacity to talk shit about my mom in front of me! â Stiles huffed out an angry breath.
With his eyes closed, he takes a deep breath and slowly exhaled before speaking again. âWhatever. You wouldnât understand, and I don't need protecting! Especially not from you. Since when do you care about me?â
âI donât!â Derek huffed and looks at him expressionlessly, a lie hidden in those words. âWeâre betrothed and getting married in three weeks. Iâm responsible for keeping you in check and making sure you donât ruin it for both our familyâs. Just like today. If it werenât for me, youâd be the front page of tomorrowâs newspaper. I can see it now: Â âPrince Stilininki found drunk at a bar, fighting a civilian. King Stilinski canât even control his own son how will he run this country,â Derek mocked, moving forward closer to Stiles, cornering him to the wall.
âFuck you.â Stiles rolled his eyes and looked away, he hated the way he felt with Derek being so near. âGet out.â
His head was starting to pound, and Derek was only making it worse.
âI live here!â Derek growled.
âYeah, well, this is my house! Youâre living under my roof! I donât care who you are! Ge-â Stiles gasped, feeling warm lips against his own.
He instantly melted against Derekâs lips, kissing him back hard. A few seconds later, he pulled away panting, his heart beating fast. Stiles flushed red, shoving Derek away; he quickly stormed off to his room.
Derek stood there a few minutes, shocked at his actions. He slowly headed up to his room.
The next morning, Stiles avoided Derek like the plague, walking the opposite direction if he spotted Derek coming near. He played it safe by hanging out in his room with his best friend, Jackson.
âWhy donât you just snap out of it and jump his bones. Thereâs so much sexual tension between you two and youâve been so uptight lately. You need to get laid, man,â Jackson suggested.
Stiles glared at up at him, stopping mid-game as he threw down his controller. âShut up, donât even start with me, Whittemore.â
âIâm just looking out for you, youâre going to have to share a bed eventually, you might as well make it less awkward. Plus, youâre going to be with Derek for the rest of your life. I know you like him. Donât bother denying it, and Iâve seen the way he stares at you. He looks like a sad puppy when you ignore him,â Jackson said with a shrug.
âJackson! Whose side are you?!â Stiles covered his face, letting out a whine, the words muffled under his hands. âIâm fucked.â
âWell, you would be if you admitted your feelings,â Jackson teased.
Stiles smacked the back of his head and got up, heading down to grab a snack. He stopped by the kitchen doorway, watching Derek make himself some lunch. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, debating whether he should go in after trying so hard to avoid Derek or just starve.
The thought of food made Stilesâs stomach grumble. That caught Derekâs attention as he stared up at him.
Derek sighed and slowly pushed his plate that had a sandwich to Stiles and started making himself another one.
Stiles walked over and sat down, taking a bite of the sandwich. He ate quietly. Derek kept his focus more on the sandwich than him.
âWhy?â He stared at Derek.
âYou said you were hungry?â Derek furrowed his brows at him.
âWhy did you kiss me? I thought you hated me.â Stiles stared down at his food.
Derek took a deep breath, sighing. âStiles, I donât hate you. I never have. I like you, I like you a lot. I have ever since I first met you. You werenât like the other royals Iâve met. Youâre smart, witty, and you donât give a shit what others think. But more than that, youâre kind-hearted, you care deeply about your family, and youâd do anything for them. Youâre beautiful.â
âDerek IâŠ,â Stiles was at a loss for words processing everything he said. âI like you, too,â he admitted. âI never thought you would like me back and that you just agreed with this for our grandparentâs dying wishes.â
Derek strode over grinning. He pulled Stiles up into his arms, embracing him tightly.
Stiles smiled and leaned into him, resting his head on Derekâs shoulder. Derek pulled back to face him and gently pressed his lips against Stiles.
After a minute, Stiles pulled back and leaned his forehead against Dereks, panting softly. âI know itâs a little too fast, but will you marry me?â
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âGoddammit,â Stiles said, and kicked back on his wheelie chair, banging into the wall of his shared office.
âWhat,â Isaac said, not even bothering to lift his head up from where he had it cradled on his arms, as he clicked through the latest issue of PNAS.
âR is not cooperating and I just need to get this analysis done before I can go home for the weekend,â Stiles whined, turning his chair around and poking Isaacâs head. âI need your R skills, man, help me out.â
âItâs 4:45 on a Friday,â Isaac said, shaking his head and dislodging Stilesâ hand. âMy brainâs already offline. Why donât you go get a drink and start the weekend early?â
âUgh, but I just want to get this done,â Stiles said, and stared at his computer, willing R to just automatically glean what he wanted to do and put pretty graphs on his screen. âFinstockâs gonna kill me if I tell him that Iâm still analyzing my data for the third week in a row.â
âFinstockâs out next week, remember? Heâs going to that conference in England.â
StilesâŠhad completely forgotten.
âI love you, Isaac,â he said, patting Isaacâs curls even as Isaac snapped at his fingers like an overgrown puppy, and speedwalked out of the office, heading over to the shared cold room on the other side of the floor.
Technically, the cold room was only supposed to hold actual biological samples. Practically, however, it also held a stash of various beers and ciders and other drinks that was routinely restocked by the grad students and side-eyed by the undergrads. There was also a protocol in place for whenever Environmental Health and Safety decided to pop in for a surprise visit â the beer bottles would go in the drawers next to Isaacâs desk, the ciders in Stilesâ drawers, and the beer cans in Harleyâs desk in the office she shared with Erica down the hall. So far, it had never failed them. The only time theyâd gotten a warning from EHS was when someone (read: Isaac) had left a half-full can of beer on the very back of one of the shelves, which had started collecting some unknown mold, and no one had wanted to touch it so it had stayed there, growing more and more sentient with each passing day until EHS made them take it out. A pity, because Harley had been ready to take it away and figure out what species it actually was.
The point was, there were drinks in the cold room, and they were good. Perfect way to start off a Friday evening, or alternatively, drown your sorrows when your paper got rejected for the nth time. Not that Stiles was speaking from personal experience or anything!
Anyway, Stiles was really looking forward to trying some of the green apple cider Harley had brought earlier this week, and the thought propelled him forward to the cold room. He hummed tonelessly under his breath, ready to think about everything else other than his research for the night, but then he opened the door to the cold room, flipped on the lights, and froze in sheer horror.
The shelves which usually held the drinks were completely empty, except for two measly cans of PBR. There was absolutely no sign of any of the other drinks, not even the half-empty thing of boxed wine that had been sitting there for half a month and was probably undrinkable by now.
âWhat,â Stiles said, âthe fuck.â
He took in the scene with narrowed eyes, and then turned on his heel and stomped out. It was time to investigate.
It being Friday evening, the hallways were fairly deserted, and Stiles was pretty sure the weedy undergrads he saw comparing notes on some exam or the other werenât the culprits. For one, their backpacks were definitely not big enough to hide a whole bunch of cider in, let alone the beer.
He stalked past them, ignoring their wide eyes and furrowed brows, and slammed open the door to his office (then closed it gently because probably the undergrads should not be privy to this conversation).
âIsaac!â he snapped. âWhat the hell happened to the drinks?â
âThe drinks in the cold room?â Isaac said, spinning around on his chair, making the perfect impression of the surprised Pikachu face. âI havenât done anything to them. Are they not there?â
âNo!â Stiles resolutely did not wail. âEverythingâs gone, even that gross old boxed wine!â
Isaac switched from surprised Pikachu face to his favorite grimace. Stiles sighed, and reminded himself to finally print out that âNo Emotional Journeys!â sign and pin it up on his desk.
âOkay, well, thereâs two PBRs left but we all know PBR is the drink of the devil,â Stiles amended, and Isaac waggled his eyebrows at him.
âA drinkâs a drink, dude,â he said. âWe can figure out where the rest of the drinks went later, just go get yourself one before those disappear too.â
Stiles groaned and gave in, heading back to the cold room. The undergrads had migrated to right across the office door, but Stiles didnât care if theyâd been eavesdropping. This was a serious problem! Pesky undergrads could shove it until he had an awful, awful beer in his handâŠawful beers that had also disappeared from the cold room in the few minutes heâd been gone.
He resisted the urge to rattle the shelves. He was an adult, he was a graduate student, he was not going to whine about a missing PBR of all things. He slunk out of the room, debating whether to go see if the mice labs two floors down had any drinks hidden away, or if it was wiser just to give up and go home.
Going down to the mice labs had mostly won out when Stiles spotted two figures that had just turned the corner and were walking down the hallway, away from him. He recognized Scottâs end-of-the-day rumpled hair immediately, and was ready to go complain to him when he also registered the can he was holding, hidden in a violently red koozie, but definitely the same size as the missing PBRs. Stiles didnât recognize the other person with him, but they also had a koozie in their hand â two cans. He couldnât believe it, but it must be true â Scott had taken the PBRs from the cold room. The outrage!
âScott!â Stiles yelled. Scott turned around, classic goofy grin on his face, but it faded as he saw Stiles barreling down the hallway towards him.
âWhatâ,â he managed to get out before Stiles ran into him and started tugging on his drink.
âScott, how could you do this to me! I thought we were bros!â Stiles said, knowing he was coming off as very strange but at this point, he was too far gone to care. âYou pillaged the last drink!â
Scott tugged his drink back but Stiles refused to let go, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scottâs mysterious companion take a slow step back.
âAnd!â he said, letting the drink go abruptly in favor of using his hands to gesture at the Mysterious Companion, while still keeping his gaze on Scottâs startled face. âAnd you bring this random person in and give them a drink instead of saving it for me?? Youâre flagrantly violating the rules of our friendship, man!â
Scott stumbled back a couple steps and then raised his hands. âStiles, I think youâve got the wrong idea, dude.â
âIâd like to see you explain your way out of this!â Stiles said, agitatedly bouncing on the balls of his feet.
âThe hell, Stiles, you know I stopped drinking like a year ago! This is just a La Croix!â
âOh,â Stiles said, pausing. âOh, yeah. I did know that.â
âYeah, oh. I think you need to explain to me what exactly is happening and why youâre freaking out.â
âUh, so,â Stiles began, glancing around as he finally let his brain slow down a little. The undergrads from earlier were huddled in a corner, and he was sure he saw one of them rapidly typing away on his phone. Probably live-tweeting his breakdown, titled âsaw my TA having a breakdown, just another day in college.â
âSo?â Scott said.
âOkay, so Isaac made me go to the cold room for drinks but there were no drinks! Like none, Scott, everything was gone except for these two cans of PBR and I went back to check with Isaac if he knew what had happened, and he said he didnât, but by the time I came back to get the PBRs they were gone anyway!â Stiles blurted out, hands moving everywhere to emphasize the dire straits he was in. âThe entire stash is gone without a trace, Scott, itâs so bad!â
He took a breath and then added, âAlso, what the hell, youâre drinking La Croix? At least get a Coke or something man, you know La Croix tastes like someone vaguely described fruit to an alien.â
Scott rolled his eyes. âYeah, I know, but we got them at this vet school mixer thing we were at and free stuff is free stuff. But okay â I see why youâre so stressed, but donât worry, weâre here, weâre going to solve this mystery!â
Stiles grinned as they both fistbumped. Scott always came through.
A polite cough interrupted them and Stiles whirled around, remembering the Mysterious Companion.
âOh!â Scott said. âThis is Derek! Heâs a PhD student in like the history department, and he was at the mixer because he wanted to talk to some vets about canines but anywayââ Scott waved his hand in the air. âLong story. Point is, heâs cool! Derek, this is Stiles! You know how I study gut microbiota? Stilesâ advisor is actually my co-advisor, thatâs how we became friends!â
Some tiny part of Stilesâ brain noted that Scott was grinning and still prattling on about how he and Stiles became best bros for life, but the rest of it was focused mostly on Mysterious Companion Derek, and his green eyes and glasses and dark hair and solid body and the hint of a smile on his face, and the shirt that made a stupid joke about Shakespeare and also made his arms look very nice. Then he had the abrupt realization that he had just massively embarrassed himself in front of this very beautiful man and his stomach turned itself into a pretzel.
âOkay very nice to meet you but I just remembered I have a thing. In lab. That I have to do like immediately. Sorry see you later!â Stiles said, turned on his heel, and zoomed down to his office, even as Scott called his name. He could feel the heat coming off his face. It was time to die in a ditch.
âIt is time to die in a ditch,â he said as soon as he was securely in the office and safe from eavesdropping undergrads and grads. He had his face to the door in the hopes that it would cool him down, but when he got no response from Isaac, he turned around to face an empty office.
âDammit,â he said, and saw the bright yellow post-it on Isaacâs old Dell. Erica says sheâs going to get drinks from somewhere (donât ask), see you in the lounge at 5:30!! it read, and Stiles sighed. At least he could now successfully drown his sorrows in a drink, even if it wasnât the green apple cider he had been looking forward to.
At 5:35, he was in the lounge with a non-PBR beer in his hand, and retelling his extremely embarrassing experience to Isaac.
âIn conclusion, it is time to die in a ditch,â he said, winding up his story. Isaac just laughed at him, stuck another beer in his hand, and then pushed him towards Erica and Harley who had probably overheard most of Stilesâ sorry story.
âTheyâre having another argument about what the best model organism is,â he said. âWhy donât you go join in, itâll make you feel better.â
âYou canât tell me what to do,â Stiles mumbled, but his heart wasnât in it. Damn Isaac for knowing him too well. The argument would make him feel better. He drained his beer and went to preach the awesomeness of Drosophila to the plebes who hadnât seen the light yet.
Two beers later, Stiles was flushed red again, but for a much better reason this time.
âCâmon, Drosophila have such a large suite of genetic tools! Can you even get optogenetic strains in zebrafish? I bet you canât, theyâre just transparent little fish!â he said, waving his pile of peeled off beer labels and scattering the pieces everywhere.
âYou donât even use optogenetic strains!â Erica said, swinging her own bottle of beer around. âThatâs an invalid argument!â
âI donât now, but I might in the future! What if I want to do like, optogenetic strains of gut bacteriaââ Stiles said, blatantly making up stuff, and then stopped as his hand smacked against a solid object and dropped even more bits of paper everywhere.
He looked up and gulped. The solid object was Derekâs chest, clad in that Shakespeare shirt, and attached to the rest of his body. Derek, who heâd been avoiding ever since he saw him enter the lounge with Scott (which by extension meant avoiding Scott too, but sacrifices had to be made). Derek, who had seen Stiles make an absolute fool of himself not even an hour ago, and who now had paper bits on his shoes.
âSorry, uh, hi,â he said, trying his best not to sound like an idiot who had been ranting about zebrafish. He could feel the flush climbing up his cheeks, and not for the first time, cursed his unbelievably pale skin.
âNo, Iâm sorry â am I interrupting?â Derek said, sounding almost shy. He was holding onto the can of La Croix he was still nursing with a white-knuckled grip.
âOh, youâre not at all,â Harleyâs cheerful, conniving voice chimed in before Stiles could say anything. He turned to her with a betrayed look, in time to see her wink at him and grab Ericaâs arm. âYou and Erica are both wrong, by the way. Obviously the best model organism is C. elegans. Bow down to the worm, dude. Also, we have to go now, have fun!â
Stiles gaped as she and Erica walked away giggling, abandoning him in his time of need. He was about to chase after them with a half-assed excuse when Derek reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. It felt like a static shock to Stilesâ entire system, but in a good way, and he swung his gaze to Derekâs equally startled face.
âSo,â Derek said. âWe didnât really get time to introduce ourselves or talk earlierâŠâ
âYeah, haha,â Stiles said automatically, manners kicking in. âIâm Stiles, but you already knew that.â
Derek smiled at him without rancor and Stilesâ heart legitimately skipped a beat. âAnd Iâm Derek, but you knew that too. SoâŠâ he said again, and trailed off.
Stilesâ tongue felt like it was tied into a hundred knots and he desperately wanted to say something so charming that the conversation would start flowing immediately, or alternatively, a perfectly timed excuse to leave. He caught Scottâs eye over Derekâs shoulder and Scott, the traitor, immediately turned around and started talking to Isaac.
He was so caught up in wallowing in the callousness of everyone around him that he almost missed Derek saying, ââŠwhatâs a model organism, really?â
âOh man,â he blurted out and resisted the urge to smack his mouth shut. âDo you really want to get into this right now?â
âHit me,â Derek said, and his smile tilted up into a smirk. Stiles grinned back, feeling warmth kindle in his chest, and launched into his love for fruit flies.
One empty can of La Croix and another beer bottle later, they were still talking, the conversation flowing easier and in a much stranger direction than Stiles could have ever imagined.
âOkay, but vampires could totally be real, just think about it,â Derek was saying. âYouâre a biologist, you know vampire bats are a thing, why not actual vampires?â
ââŠfair,â Stiles said. âPlus I guess the whole thing with people drinking other peopleâs blood to stay young. Humans are a strange species. But I still disagree with you on werewolves. No way could werewolves be a thing â where the hell would all the mass go? Wolves are freaking huge!â
Derek slashed his hand through the air in a dismissive gesture, but Stiles saw the smile twinkling in his eyes. âJust attribute it to the magic! You can buy into the shapeshifting concept but you draw a line at conservation of mass?â
âShapeshifting is fine if youâre still the same mass afterwards, so humans could turn into like, I donât know, a giant were-sun bear. I would be totally fine with that!â
Derek snorted, and then started chuckling outright. âSorry I just â a giant were-sun bear? Thatâs the funniest thing Iâve ever heard.â
The warmth in Stilesâ chest, that had been growing through the entire conversation, sparked up even more at the sound of Derekâs genuine laughter. He stared, grinning like an idiot, and as Derekâs laughter calmed down, they both just looked at each other, smiles in their eyes and on their mouths.
A careful cough finally tore their gazes away from each other. Scott gave them a sheepish look.
âI didnât want to interrupt, but itâs almost 8,â he said, and Stilesâ eyes widened. He surreptitiously checked his phone and yup, Scott was right, it was a quarter to 8. Heâd been talking to Derek for nearly two hours. âMaybe you guys shouldâŠ.go somewhere else?â
He grinned at Stiles, mischief in his eyes, and Stiles tried his best to not roll his eyes back. Scott was a bro but he was also not subtle.
âThereâs this Thai restaurant I really like,â Derek said, reaching out to get Stilesâ attention back. The same jolt of energy ran through both of them at the contact, leaving Stiles mildly breathless again, and he looked up into Derekâs hopeful eyes. âWe could continue this there?â
Stiles smiled, and said, âHell yeah, dude. I still have to convert you to the fruit fly side, after all.â
Derek beamed. âOh, I donât doubt that. I still have to convert you to the werewolf side, too.â
Stiles laughed, and grabbed Derekâs hand impulsively, pulling him to the exit. Scott gave him a huge thumbs-up (that Derek definitely saw) but Stiles just smiled again, his chest warm and light, and let himself soak in the way Derek easily followed him.
Derek wakes with a start as the loft door slides open so forcefully the walls shake. Although, now that heâs looking at the would-be intruder, he thinks theyâre shaking because of another reason.
âStiles!â he yells, causing Stiles to jump. At least the walls stop quivering. âWhatâs going on?â he asks, eyebrows scrunched. Anything that makes Stiles lose control of his powers is bound to be no good.
âDerek!â Stiles frantically scans the room. There are red lines on Stilesâs neck where heâs been scratching, a nervous tic heâs never broken, and heâs sporting a severe case of bedhead. Stiles has a bad habit of running his hands through his hair while heâs thinking. Derek sees the line of tension in his shoulders melt away when he finally spots Derek sitting up on the couch. âI need you to date me.â
âDate you?â Derek echoes.
Clearly, Derekâs brain hasnât woken yet because thereâs no way he heard correctly. Though dating Stiles isnât exactly a new thought, so it could just be wishful thinking.
From the minute Derek met Stiles, he had been fascinated by the way Stilesâs long fingers rubbed along his buzzcut.
Heâs got a thing for hands. Sue him.
But Stiles had been young, too young. The parallels between them were too similar to himself and Kate, and he wouldnât allow himself to go there.
The years passed, and Stiles only grew more attractive and not just physically. Derek also admired his fierce loyalty to the pack, the way he took to his spark, the way he dug under Derekâs skin and carved out a place in the very fiber of Derekâs being.
Needless to say, dating Stiles isnât exactly a new thought. He just didnât expect Stiles to ask him, and especially not like this.
Stiles blows out a heavy breath, and the couch dips where he flops down. âYes. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.â
Oh . Not real dating, fake dating. Lucky for Derek, he seems to have mastered the art of resting bitch face, so he wonât give away his disappointment.
Instead, Derek turns, listening raptly as Stiles talks about a pack approaching him. Theyâd heard of Stiles, of the boy who runs with wolves. The one who helped stop a kanima and a darach, who overcame a nogitsune, and escaped the wild hunt. They heard of his spark and wanted him.
So, of course, Derek says yes.
Stiles hadnât expected Derek to say yes so easily. He figured thereâd be whining. Okay, maybe not whining because Derekâs not a whiner. No, Derek glares with that steely gaze and those caterpillar eyebrows that threaten certain death. Admittedly, asking Derek to host a dinner for the pack that wants to take Stiles is probably not a smart idea; however, they need to see that not only is Stiles a packmate, but heâs involved with a werewolf. No one would try to separate a werewolf from their mate, or fake mate in his case.
All day Derekâs been grouchy, even more growly than usual. âTheyâre not gonna believe weâre together if you look like you wanna kill me, Derek.â
âMaybe itâs foreplay for us.â And Stiles double-takes because did he justâ
That earns him a feral smile, which really shouldnât turn him on as much as it does. But then again, Stiles is pretty sure that everything about Derek turns him on. He once watched the way Derekâs muscles rippled as he folded a shirt and had to excuse himself because of an awkward boner. That was also a couple of years ago and heâs since gotten better at controlling himself. He quickly distracts himself by tossing more of his things around the loft.
âOkay. I think thatâs it,â Stiles tells Derek, falling back on Derekâs bed, curling around the pillow he brought from home. âPull out the super sniffer. Does it smell enough like me in here to believe we live together?â
Itâs only been a few days since Derek agreed to fake dating, and Stiles insisted on staying over every night. â My scent, Derek. Theyâre gonna be able to tell if my scent isnât strong enough! â was the argument heâd used. Somehow that led to his laptop taking up residence on Derekâs coffee table, his jacket slung on the back of his favorite chair at the dining table (yes, he has a favorite!), and a well-worn spot on the couch that heâs declared his own.
Derekâs face is pulled tight, almost like it hurts, and Stiles feels guilty because this is Derekâs home that heâs forcing his way into. Sure, Derek agreed, but stillâŠ
âWhatâs wrong?â Derek asks him, voice laced with concern.
âIâm sorry. I didnât really think aboutâ This is your safe space, and Iâm over here tossing my shit everywhere.â
âItâs fine, Stiles. Really. If it bothered me, I wouldnât have agreed.â
Stiles opens his mouth to point out that Derekâs face says otherwise, but heâs interrupted by a knocking at the loft door. âReady?â
âReady.â
Derek wasnât ready.
Not for how well Stiles fit against him as they stood together to welcome the alpha, or how intuitive it was to place a hand on the small of Stilesâs back or on his knee when it bounced with nerves.
Still, the dinner went exceptionally well. Not once did the alpha ask about Stiles joining his pack. It didnât even appear that he was scrutinizing their relationship. Derek wasnât ready for how easily the alpha believed them, remarking on how in love and in tune with each other they were.
âYouâre lucky to have found each other,â the alpha said as they walked him out of the loft. âItâs one thing to find a compatible mate, but another to find your other half. I wish you both a long and happy life together.â
Yeah , Derek thinks. I wish that, too .
Itâs a knife to the gut because as soon as the pack leaves, thereâs a distinct lack of warmth where Stilesâs body is no longer pressed against his own. He follows Stiles to the kitchen and leans against the sink.
âWhew!â Stiles pulls himself up on the counter and tears off a piece of garlic bread, popping it in his mouth like Derekâs entire world hasnât changed.
The past few days have been entirely too domestic for Derek. Waking up next to Stiles and watching his face light up at the first sip of coffee, having his scent everywhere , even yelling at him for leaving his towel in the middle of the bathroom. Howâs he supposed to live without Stiles singing off-key in the shower or the sound of his socked feet as they pad across the loft?
âYeah,â he says, voice thick with emotion because now that itâs over, Stiles will leave. Derek will go back to making breakfast for one. He wonât have that moment in the morning where Stiles has one leg and arm thrown over him like Derek is his own personal pillow.
âYou alright, big guy?â Derekâs caught off guard by the worry emanating from Stiles.
âIâm good,â he says, needing to play it off. No, heâs not emotionally constipated, like some people think. Stilesâs friendship is too important to him, and heâd hate for things to change because he has feelings . Heâs survived this long. âJust wondering how long itâs gonna take to get your stench outta here.â
That earns him a piece of bread to the face, which he should have been able to catch. He suspects Stiles used his magic.
âSeriously. Youâre making a face now and you made one earlier. It wasnât your regular disgruntled face either. Whatâs going on, Derek? Weâre friends. You can talk to me.â
Stiles jumps off the counter, and Derek feels the warmth of his body as Stiles presses against his back, Stilesâs hands are an anchor on his waist. Sighing, he closes his eyes and leans into the embrace.
âTalk to me, Derek. These past few days might not have been real butââ
âWhat ifââ He swallows the lump in his throat, working up the courage to continue.
Thereâs a puff of air on the back of his neck as Stiles says, âWhat if, what?â Heâs scared of how hopeful Stiles sounds, scared heâs transferring his own feelings onto Stiles.
Opening his eyes, Derek looks around the loft. Thereâs a Mets cap sitting on the counter, along with keys to Roscoe. Stiles hung a Star Wars poster on the wall above a bookshelf that now houses a small army of funko pops that donât look out of place with his books.
Turning in Stilesâs arms, he looks into those wide amber eyes and sees that itâs not transference, Stiles actually looks hopeful. âWhat if I want it to be real? This? Us?â
âYou laughed at my Batman toothbrush.â
âYouâre 20, Stiles. Pretty sure the packaging for that said 5 to 7 years old. I didnât say anything about the Superman boxers, did I?â
The air is heavy as they stare at each other. And Derek thinks, just maybe, Stilesâs world has changed too.
Epilogue - One Week Later
Standing in the middle of the loft, Stiles cocks his head to the side as he glares at all the unopened boxes filling every open space.
âTheyâre not gonna unpack themselves, Stiles.â
He startles at the close proximity of Derekâs voice. Last he saw, Derek was in the bathroom, organizing the medicine cabinet to fit in all of Stilesâs bathroom essentials.
âI swear to God ! I am getting you a bell!â He clutches his chest in over-exaggeration.
âStop being so dramatic.â
A shudder runs through him at the feel of Derekâs lips on the back of his neck, giving him goosebumps across his skin.
He gets to have this now. Tender touches and gentle kisses.
âYou should date me,â he says, looking over his shoulder into the brilliant hazel of Derekâs eyes.
Derek raises a brow, and itâs a small puff of breath on his hairline when Derek chuckles. âI thought I was already?â Stiles follows as Derek surveys the piles of boxes littered throughout the room. Â
Thank you for your great prompts, I tried to combine as many as possible into one fic (and it evidently ran away with me âŠ)
malec | rated: t | extended oneshot | canonverse time travel, first meetings, developing relationship, established relationship, 5+1 things
fic summary:
Magnus Bane meets a man from his future, interwoven throughout moments in his past.
Read on AO3
*****
Your Name for a Capital
âIn my dreams I am kissing your mouth and youâre whispering âwhere have you been?â I say, âIâve been lost but Iâm here now. Youâre the only person who has ever been able to find me.ââ
â Sue Zhao
ONE | MADRID, SPAIN, 1619
Magnus Bane saves people. Somewhere along the line, this became fact. Somewhere along the line, he lost someone he couldnât get back, and he decided no more. Thatâs enough . He suspects it was his mother.
Catarina says that other peopleâs happiness takes priority over his. You need people to need you, Magnus.
Magnus laughed at her the first time she suggested it: youâve only just met me , he had said. How can you know that?
You rescued me from that stake , she replied matter-of-factly. You didnât have to, but you did. Thatâs how I know .
I just wanted to make an impression , Magnus had said. He didnât want to tell her that she was right.
And Catarina being right is the reason why Magnus is still awake and hasnât been home since the morning before, wandering the deserted streets of a slowly stirring city as the last of his adrenaline fades: last night, the High Warlock of Madrid had refused a newly-turned Vampire in need of a potion to quell his hunger, and Magnus has never been one to stand idly by. He knows how the High Warlock looks at him and sneers, an ugly wrinkle to his nose as he calls Magnus young and inexperienced and insolent , but Magnus doesnât like playing by the rules.
He saves the people heâs not meant to save. Thereâs an opiate thrill in it, swooping in at the last minute and saving the day, and he chases the rush, the way adoration and gratitude burn through him leaving him breathless and ignited. The taste of power in his fingertips, willful and impassioned and destined to do good - he needs it. He needs to know that itâs still possible for him after he left everything in the East Indies behind. Â
Madrid is sleepy shortly after sunrise; the sky is a brilliant blue but the streets are steeped in shadow that remains icy cold to the touch. There are alleyways and dark corners aplenty for demons to hide, but Magnus lingers in the intermittent shards of early sunlight that slip through the spaces between the townhouses. The city rarely feels this still, but the cobble beneath his feet and the granite on either side muffle all sound in the narrow, valley-like streets. Magnus feels like heâs walking along the bottom of a steep canyon and his every step might echo.
The clack of wooden shutters against the side of a house echoes too. The opening of balcony doors. The yowl of a stray cat. All the sounds of a home that has been made a home; the city begins its wakening, and Magnus finally feels his sleepless night weighing on his shoulders. His bed calls out to him. He might as well get a few hours of shut-eye before the High Warlock comes looking and chews him out.
And then, Magnus hears the echo of something else. Heâs not sure what catches his attention: a shout, a clatter â but itâs his magic that stirs first. He feels it in his fingertips, a twitch, as it scuttles up the back of his neck forcing him to turn his head, like the restless spasm of a nerve.
He strains his ear to listen, but the silence suffocates all noise, and the world holds its breath, deathly still.
Clang !
A resounding clamour behind him; a body shoved against a wall, a low grunt.
Magnus stops in the middle of the street and turns a full circle, listening for another sound. The wind, the rattle of wagon wheels on the cobblestone, the cityâs murmur - another muffled shout. The twang of a bowstring. The recognisable hiss of a demon evaporating in a shard of sunlight.
He reaches out with his magic, probing for disturbances in the air; in return, he feels the bitter, swirling energy of Shax demons, a lot of them, biting and snapping at his magic as he reels it back in.
Strange , he thinks. But not unheard of . Shax demons rarely attack in the daylight, but theyâre drawn to concentrated power, unusual magic wetting their appetite, and in a city like Madrid, there is plenty of that to go around. The leylines that spread out across the country gather in the Plaza del Arrabel, and itâs not inconceivable to find a spider waiting at the centre of the web.
Or a Shax. Regardless, they both have too many legs for Magnusâ liking.
Cautiously, Magnus extends the shield of his magic again: the demonic energy is familiar in the way it always is, reeking of Edom and the planes below, red and brimstone-coloured in Magnusâ mind like Hellfire. But thereâs another layer, another current clashing with it and forming a riptide: itâs faintly white and silver, cutting through the stench of Hell. It tastes Angelic - pure and metallic like Adamas - and Magnusâ magic recoils at the touch, but it doesnât burn as it usually does.
Itâs not a Shadowhunter. Well, it is, because the Nephilim are loud and brash and unmistakable in everything they do, but itâs not Angelic power as Magnus knows it.
Itâs different, obscured. Distorted somehow.
Another loud crash rings out through the empty streets.
Magnus gathers his magic into his palm, wisps of blue and purple that coil like a serpent in his waiting hand. He slips down a sidestreet, his magic wavering like a compass needle as it guides him towards the epicentre.
Trust the Nephilim to get in over their heads , he thinks. And expect a Warlock to come save the day. Â
He can hear Catarina scolding him: I told you I was right.
The old parts of the city are like a maze: twisting, turning, easy to get lost in for anyone but Magnus - but heâs drawn towards the sound of a fight, his magic crackling in his fingertips, eager and impatient.
The stench of the Shax demons gets stronger as he draws closer and he wrinkles his nose. He can sense five, maybe six, not enough to be a problem, but too many for Magnus to waltz into the middle of a battle and not risk being hurt.
And one Nephilim. Â
The Angelic power crackles in the air, scattering across Magnusâ skin and raising the hairs on his arms. It pulses and spasms, unstable in a way Magnus has never felt before, as if suddenly cut free from age-old ties and left to convulse as feeling and freedom rushes back into its metaphysical body all at once.
Shadowhunters are usually so cold and controlled. Their power is regimented and stern, never wandering and never wavering, and yet this - this is rogue.
And thereâs something more. Magnus doesnât notice it at first, but as he plasters his back against a wall to catch his breath and his bearings, he listens to the hum of his answering magic, and he feels it. A presence, heavy and unfamiliar, intangible in a way Magnusâ magic cannot grasp. It has no smell, no taste, no colour at all, a blend of magic existing in a dimension he cannot fully grasp, but he feels its effects so strongly it overwhelms him.
The air seems to shimmer like a mirage. Magnus can feel the leylines thrumming beneath his feet and it makes him uneasy, but it makes his heart pound too.
Youâre reckless with yourself , Catarina would say. Youâre going to end up hurt.
But Catarina isnât here.
Magnus straightens out his doublet and smooths his hands down his breeches, flexing his fingers as he moulds the magic from blue to red and the intent becomes him.
Then, he steps out from behind the wall - and itâs exactly as he expected.
Six snarling Shax demons circling a lone Shadowhunter, froth dripping from their open jaws and their shrill cries piercing the air like the dying herald of a wounded animal. The Shadowhunter is pinned against the wall; he has a bow in his hand and an arrow poised, but he holds himself still, waiting for one of the demons to pounce before he looses it.
He doesnât look hurt. In fact, he looks remarkably unbothered, and the only thing askew about him is his dark hair, ruffled by the wind, and the scuff of dust on his knees. He breathes deeply, and even at a distance, the deep rise and fall of his shoulders is apparent, but his eyes are focused, moving from demon to demon, anticipating their every move with the expertise of a man who has spent years training to hunt monsters.
The Shadowhunterâs gaze flicks to Magnus, over and above the wall of prowling Shax demons. His eyes briefly widen, his eyebrows jumping in a way that highlights the thin scar that runs through his left brow, but his stare is vibrant, honeyed-brown in the early morning, and alive . Magnusâ magic jolts in response.
And maybe he imagines it, but the corner of the Shadowhunterâs mouth tips up into the crooked inkling of a smile. He nods at Magnus.
And then he leaps into action.
The Shadowhunterdraws back his bowstring and releases, his flying arrow piercing straight through the hide of the closest Shax demon. The demon shrieks, clawing at its own chest, but the arrow glows bright white, and in a sudden burst of ether, the demon dissolves into a cloud of black dust.
But before the Shadowhunter can blink, a second demon lunges for him from the side. The Shadowhunter ducks beneath the outstretched claw, spinning onto his knees and stabbing the sharp end of his bow into the demonâs belly. The demon throws its head back with a scream and strikes at the Shadowhunter again - but Magnus thrusts his palm out and blasts it with a torrent of magic, carving its body in two and turning it to dust.
The Shadowhunter glances over his shoulder and Magnus grin, the blue tendrils of magic twisting in between his fingers, but the Shadowhunter doesnât stop; heâs on his feet again and moving, notching another arrow like heâs done this a hundred times before and trusts Magnus to watch his back. He draws the bowstring back to his lips and the arrow soars, so fast and hard that it pierces through the third demon and out of the other side, as if its flesh has been turned to butter. The bow in the Shadowhunterâs hand quivers.
Magnus has never seen a bow like it, sleek silver and glowing with faint runes embossed on the metal. The Adamas sings and Magnus can feel its residual power meshing with his own magic; it invigorates him like a gasping breath, like a punch of energy heâs never felt before, white-hot and celestial and setting his own magic alight as if drawn, instantly, to the point at which Magnus is most flammable.
An arrow whizzes past Magnusâ ear and the breath of it slice into his cheek as it disappears over his shoulder. His fingers shoot up to his face to feel for the thin line of a cut, but his hand comes away bloodless. Magnusâ mouth falls open on instinct, but the Shadowhunter is grinning at him like heâs God damn pleased with himself, and he fires another arrow over Magnusâ head. Magnus twists around as the Shax demon behind him falters - the shafts of two arrows protruding from its chest - and evaporates, its remnants splattering across the cobblestones.
One demon left. Magnus turns to face it as the Shadowhunter does, reaching back for his quiver.
The Shadowhunter sucks in a breath, grabbing his last arrow and notching it in his bow. The Angelic power shudders, and so does the presence that belies it; it radiates out along the shaft of the arrow, gathering in the point.
His fingers twitch, the arrow flies, but Magnus waves his hand in a sudden arc, launching the last demon into the wall where it explodes in a shower of black dust. The Shadowhunterâs arrow misses, embedding itself in the wall with a silent puff of plaster.
The sound of a clock tower bell striking upon the hour rings out in the immediate silence. Each clanging ring pulsates like a drumbeat, disturbing the dust and demon viscera settled on the road.
Magnus smirks to himself, dusting his palms on his doublet and sweeping his windswept hair back against his head. He can feel his heartbeat racing, his breath panting. Exhilaration makes him grin. His eyes flick towards the Shadowhunter who stoops to collect his spent arrows and slots them back into his quiver.
Magnusâ head is buzzing.
âThat was impressive,â he says, eyes raking over the Shadowhunterâs broad back. His clothes are like nothing Magnus has ever seen before, tight-fitting and embossed with metal; and instead of buckles and clasps, his shiny leather jacket fastens with a line of silver teeth. He wears no armour. No waistcoat, no stockings, no simple cravat.
But heâs tall and handsome and well-built, with the gait of a soldier and a dark, inky Deflect rune snaked around his pale throat. Definitely Nephilim .
So why doesnât he feel like a Nephilim?
Magnus raises his eyebrows, running his teeth over his lower lip as he appraises the long line of the Shadowhunterâs legs as he bends over to yank his last arrow out of the ground. âYou dispensed those Shax demons rather proficiently, I must say.â
The Shadowhunter pauses and glances back over his shoulder, looking Magnus up and down, and laughs. Laughs. Not at Magnus, per say, but he laughs as if heâs genuinely delighted by the fact Magnus just saved his life, and yet is completely bemused by it.
His laughter lights up his face, attractive creases forming at the corners of his dark eyes as he straightens and turns to face Magnus. âYouâre supposed to say well done ,â he says. Â
Magnus raises his eyebrows, unamused. âWell done?â
âYeah,â the Shadowhunter grins. He slings his bow over his shoulder and walks up to Magnus like theyâre old friends who often spend the morning dispatching demons in a back alley - but Magnus refuses to budge. âYou say well done , and then I say: more like medium rare .â
Magnus frowns. âIf thatâs a jest, Iâm afraid I donât follow.â
âItâs our thing,â says the Shadowhunter, but then he glances around, his gaze sweeping up the walls of the overlooking townhouses. He seems to realise where he is for the first time and his cheer wavers for a moment. âOr it will be, I guess. Where, uh - where am I?â
âDid you take a bump to the head back there?â Magnus scoffs, but the Shadowhunterâs earnestness makes him pause; the Shadowhunter grips the limb of his bow where itâs looped over his shoulder, thumbing at the metal. He genuinely doesnât know. âWeâre in La Latina.â
The Shadowhunter scowls. âSpain?â
âWhat do you mean, â Spain â? Of course weâre in Spain,â Magnus laughs sharply, âWeâre in Madrid. Iâve met my fair share of Shadowhunters in my time, but never one quite so directionally challenged. Where did you think you were?â
The Shadowhunter shrugs, his cheeks tinged pink.
âDunno,â he says, and Magnus struggles to make sense of the curious twang of his accent, but he canât place it. His English is good, fluent even, and yet Magnus has travelled the world over and never met anyone who sounds like this. âI figured Europe, but I wasnât sure. I didnât know where Iâd end up, but - shoulda known itâd be here. With you.â
He smiles at Magnus again, as if thatâs enough to answer the myriad of questions Magnus now has. He seems delighted to see Magnus, to see him here despite not knowing where here was, and as his eyes roam over Magnusâ face, pinning every detail to memory, Magnus doesnât have the faintest idea why.
The Shadowhunter must be concussed. Perhaps that explains why the power leaking from his runes is going haywire. Magnus should really do him a favour and take him back to the Institute, leave him out on the front steps. Not only will the Head of the Institute then owe him a favour, but the High Warlock will also hate the fact Magnus has been out helping amnesiac Shadowhunters in his spare time.
Two birds with one stone, really.
Magnus narrows his eyes. âEvidently, you know who I am and expected me to be here,â he says carefully, but the Shadowhunter doesnât show any signs of annoyance at being found out. He even has the nerve to take a step closer. âBut I donât think Iâve had the pleasure of your company before. And I am not one to forget a face.â
The Shadowhunter rolls his eyes. âItâs fine,â he says, but the fond exasperation in his voice throws Magnus. What on Earth is wrong with this man - âYou donât know me.â
âBut clearly, you know me,â Magnus presses. âIf the Institute has some business with me that I donât know about, they can come knocking on my door and pay for my services like everyone else. They donât need to accost me in the street.â
âIâm not here on any business,â says the Shadowhunter, looking down at himself and drawing Magnusâ eye back to his clothes. Heâs too pale to be local, his skin untanned by the Spanish sun, and his gear is shiny and elegant, his leather boots well-polished. His trousers are practically painted onto his long legs, and his collarless shirt clings to the faint outline of muscle on his chest.
It makes Magnus feels uncharacteristically underdressed. Or overdressed. Heâs not quite sure. Self-consciously, he straightens out the sleeves of his doublet and adjusts the frill of his cuffs. If heâd known heâd be meeting mysterious Shadowhunters in the depths of the old city this morning, he wouldâve worn his best hat, the one with the feather, God damnit.
The Shadowhunter is still watching him. Openly, gently; itâs all wrong. A Shadowhunter has never looked at Magnus like this before: like he wouldnât rather see Magnus locked up in some dungeon or put to use warding the Institute, as has always been his only value in the eyes of the Nephilim.
Maybe heâs playing you , Magnus thinks. Heâs acting friendly to get what he wants, whatever that is. Heâs not what he seems.
Or maybe heâs exactly what he seems and youâve just forgotten how to trust people.
Magnus frowns, and looks down at his ringed hand before he extends it to the Shadowhunter, letting the wisps of his magic curl and then fade around his fingers. The Shadowhunter is unfazed.
âAlec,â says the Shadowhunter, his smile turning playful. He reaches out and grasps Magnusâ hand with a sure grip, and it makes Magnusâ magic stutter again.
âAlec. Short for Alexander?â Magnus guesses, âAlexander whom? I thought you Shadowhunters were excessively proud of your lineages. Do you not have a family name?â
Alec bites his lip and shakes his head, holding in a laugh. He withdraws his hand too soon. âYeah, I do. But, well - I guess thatâs spoilers.â
âSpoilers?â Magnus repeats, rolling the unfamiliar word around in his mouth. âHm.â He considers cutting his losses - heâd rather not get involved with a troublesome Shadowhunter who speaks in riddles and wonât even tell Magnus his name - but his curiosity has been piqued. Curiosity killed the cat, Magnus , Catarina would tell him. Sheâs probably right. This might be the weirdest thing thatâs happened to him all decade - and that includes a very unfortunate incident involving Ragnor, a bottle of tequila, and the fact he is now barred from purchasing a copy of Don Quixote de la Mancha anywhere in the city.
âYouâre a long way from home, arenât you, Alec?â Magnus probes, circling Alec slowly. âAnd if you truly arenât here on Institute business, how did you end up in my neighbourhood encroached upon by a swarm of Shax demons, might I ask? They donât rarely attack people in the daylight.â
Magnusâ magic flexes in his fingertips, reacting to the unknown undercurrent that still lingers in the air. Itâs not Angelic. He can discern that now, but itâs not Demonic either. He doesnât know what it is: a shiver of someone elseâs magic, but it doesnât belong to this Shadowhunter. Too powerful for that.
It feels like temporal magic. Vast and unwieldy and unable to be bent and shaped like other forms of energy. Magnus doesnât know it well, but heâs been working on his portal theorem for a while now, and heâs read every musty old text the Silent Brothers have to offer on the subject of how magic threads itself through time and space. He just hasnât been able to grasp it yet.
The unfamiliar magic flutters in a realm he canât comprehend; itâs like reaching for a handful of water, only for it to flood between his fingers. Magnus frowns, but when he glances up at Alec, he finds Alec watching him expectantly, like heâs waiting for Magnus to come to a realisation that must be inevitable.
Oh , Magnus thinks. He knows what it is. He knows exactly what it is and must know that I can feel it.
âWrong place, wrong time,â Alec says cryptically. His voice is low. Magnus feels it ripple down the back of his neck.
âDo you believe in chance?â Magnus asks.
Alecâs mouth quirks again. âNot really.â
The demonic energy has faded and no more Shadowhunters have come running. Whatever or whoever Alec the Shadowhunter is, Magnus doesnât want to let him go now. Heâs too interested.
This is going to come back and bite him. Â
âSo, what now?â He doesnât realise heâs said it until itâs said, and it hangs, suspended, in the space between him and Alec that has contracted without Magnus really noticing. Did I take a step forward, or did he - âWhere are you headed?â
Alec says nothing, meeting Magnusâ eyes and holding his gaze. The temporal magic quietens, but doesnât vanish. Instead, the buzzing in Magnusâ temples simply fades until it becomes a hum of background noise.
Alec looks at him. Alec looks through him, as if all Magnusâ smoke and mirrors are nothing but fantasy and he can see straight into Magnusâ chest, to a part of Magnus that Magnus doesnât even know exists, let alone how to control, but heâs sure heâs exposing all his secrets.
Magnus clenches his jaw and shifts in his boots, refusing to be unwound. His magic pulls taut, straining at his skin, reaching out for the other magic he just canât seem to grasp; it dips and dives through his metaphorical fingers, slippery and unwilling to be caught. The silence stretches on a beat too long.
And then Alec shrugs again, breaking the spell, his eyes flicking away like it was nothing. His smile turns gentle. Illuminated. Almost dazed. The slow rising of the sun over the rooftops glances off his cheeks and forehead, highlighting the threads of deep brown in his hair and drawing Magnusâ attention back to the honey colour of his eyes.
âAnywhere,â he says simply.
Magnus blinks. âAnywhere? What does that mean?â
âIt means Iâll go anywhere,â Alec clarifies, âI have nowhere to be. Not for a while. Where are you going?â Â
Magnusâ mouth falls open. Oh .
What is happening here? Who are you?
Why are you looking at me like that?
His magic reaches out for Alec on its own accord. Alec canât see it and likely canât sense it either, but Magnus feels his power reaching, eager to grab fistfuls of Alecâs jacket and pull him closer.
A thought: you can trust this Shadowhunter. He isnât like the rest. He isnât like anyone youâve ever met .
Magnus clears his throat pointedly. âI was on my way to Plaza del Arrabel,â he lies. His bed can wait. Heâs going to do something stupid first. âPerhaps youâd like to see it. I could show you the way.â
âIâd like that,â Alec smiles.
&&&
Magnus leads the way through the old city: he loves the narrow Gothic streets, their sun-baked cobblestones, the earthy colours and heavy stone, the ornate windows and doors with heavy cast-iron knobs and a thousand stories to tell. He knows the name of nearly everyone who lives here: the merchant on the corner, the painter in the attic room, the greying musketeer who frequents the tavern in the basement, spinning tales about his days in the regiment that get more and more grandiose with each successive glass of wine.
The street smells like people wilting in the heat, and the pot-holed stone shimmers. A church casts a shadow that blends with the dappled shade of a single olive tree bursting out of the earth. Magnus can hear the strum of a sitar seeping from a high-up window and it coaxes his blood to sing.
He walks beside Alec, but doesnât noticed the distance between them disappearing until Alecâs shoulder brushes against his. Magnus glances sideways at Alec, but Alec doesnât notice, enraptured by the sight of a shoe-shiner polishing the boots of a man in armour; of a young woman setting up her stall of apples and cantaloupe melons to sell; of two horses tied to a hitching post and huffing in the slowly rising heat.
Magnus summons two apples from the grocerâs stall and holds one out to Alec: itâs ruby red and glossy in the sunlight, but Alec still squints at him, glancing back at the woman at the stall. Magnus rolls his eyes and snaps two gold coins into her pocket for her trouble, and that makes Alec smile triumphantly as he takes the apple from Magnusâ hand, his fingertips brushing against Magnusâ rings.
The apple crunches as Alec bites into it, the flesh crisp and sweet, and the juice rolls down his chin. Magnus watches, transfixed, until Alec meets his eye and raises his eyebrow as if to say what? Magnus laughs quietly to himself, but it sticks in his throat.
Deliberately, he lets their shoulders brush again. His pinkie strokes against the side of Alecâs and the magic sparks like flint.
Alec doesnât react, taking another bite of his apple as he looks upwards, his attention now caught by a woman leaning out of her window three floors above their heads, reeling in her washing line; everything is a marvel to him, save Magnus. Heâs not surprised by the touch. Not repulsed by it either. Itâs almost as if heâs used to the familiarity, as if heâs expecting it, and that -
That makes Magnus nervous.
Madrid lives and breathes in its people. Itâs a city adored by the sun and swathed in music at all hours of the day and into the night. Dozens of intersecting lives, and yet Alec doesnât fit in at all. Itâs like heâs stepped out of a different time.
And yet why do you feel so endlessly familiar? I would remember if Iâd met you before. Â
âYou know, Iâve never been to Madrid before,â Alec remarks then, taking the tip of his thumb into his mouth as he licks off the apple juice. âWhich is weird when thereâs been an Institute here for so long, but I never really travelled before I met - uh. Yeah. I should make the most of it while Iâm here, huh?â
Magnus snorts. âYou keep saying these cryptic things that make me more and more confused as to how it was that you accidentally ended up in Madrid,â he says. âWhich Institute are you from?â
âNew York,â Alec says automatically, before he pauses, the apple pressed against his lips. He turns to look at Magnus. âI mean, uh - shit. New York probably doesnât exist yet, does it?â
Magnus narrows his eyes, and with his free hand, he lets his magic curl. Quietly, probingly, curiously - a question posed ( who are you ?).
And much to his surprise, he feels a ripple of an answer in return, spoken in a language he doesnât know how to translate. The magic coaxes him back to Alec with a magnetic pull. A shift in the fabric of the universe, unnoticeable and untraceable, but not unlike a faint shimmer in the air above hot cobblestones or the glimpse of a shadow from the corner of the eye. Something thatâs not quite right, but which disappears when looked at for too long.
Temporal magic. Of course. It makes sense now.
Alec didnât know he was in Madrid not because he wasnât expecting to come to Madrid, but because it doesnât look like the Madrid he knows.
Heâs a long way from home, indeed.
âI canât say Iâve ever heard of New York,â Magnus says slowly, âYork in England is a delightful place, of course - Iâve been many times, but - something tells me youâre not from around here.â
Alec shrugs meekly, taking another bite of his apple. âLike, I said -â
âI know what you said,â Magnus insists, âIâm asking how did you get here ? How did you end up in this particular year ?â
âAh,â says Alec.
âIâm still trying to master cross-time magic, but I know it when I sense it, and you are drenched in it,â Magnus continues. âIf someone has beaten me to the creation of the portal -â
âNot a portal,â Alec admits, âSpell. We were trying to bind a demon, I got hit with some residual magic. This is a side effect.â
Magnusâ eyes widen. âSo, you are from the future.â
Alec shrugs again, but heâs biting back another smile. He seems infuriatingly unconcerned by this revelation. âPromise you wonât tell anyone?â
âOh, I am a warlock of my word,â Magnus says, marking an X across his heart with his index finger, but he can feel his magic vibrating, and itâs a miracle his hands arenât shaking too. âWhat are the Nephilim doing with temporal magic?â
âNot us. We called in an expert. A Warlock.â
âOh, a Warlock. And what is their name? I might know them.â
âSpoilers, sorry.â
âBut the spell was strong enough to send you back in time,â Magnus remarks, âWhich suggests the caster was someone particularly powerful, and I can only think of a few who might be able to wield that sort of magic -â He taps his index finger against his mouth in thought. The High Warlock of Rome has long been interested in manipulating time with magic - but only because heâs incredibly vain and fears getting any older. And then thereâs Ragnor, who has been helping Magnus collect old tomes for his portal research, and so help him God, if the old bastardâs gone and stolen Magnusâ work in the future - âIf I guess correctly, would you tell me?â
Exasperated, Alec rolls his eyes. âSpoilers,â he says again.
Magnus clicks his tongue. âVery well. Keep your secrets, but permit me one last q uestion ... when is it in the future that you come from?â
Alec licks his lips but shakes his head. His smile is coy. âIâm not going to tell you that either,â he says, âSorry.â
âGood God,â Magnus laments, throwing his hands up in the air, âRuin my fun, why donât you. Can you not give me a clue? A hundred years? More?â He gestures at Alecâs clothes. âI want to know when it is that I might look forward to this strange fashion.â
âIâm from ... a while in the future,â says Alec, glancing up at the yellow-stone buildings that tower above them. His brow furrows. âI think.â
âYou think?â
Alec nods. He glances around, and while a few people are eyeing Alec strangely, no-one stands within ear shot. Still, Alec drops his voice low. âYeah. Itâs, uh - itâs temporal hopping. Jumping through time. Iâll bounce around a bit until the residual magic wears off, and then - yeah. Itâs not permanent. Iâll probably just disappear without warning.â
âI see.â
âYouâre ⊠youâre not freaked out by that?â
âIf by âfreaked outâ, you mean to ask if Iâm alarmed, then of course I -â Magnus stops himself. Heâs not alarmed, but he should be. Men donât just step out of a rip in time and claim to know him; itâs the stuff of fairytales and the theatre and the tall tales that find people accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake.
And yet he finds no space inside him to feel fear or shock or anything but the small flicker of deja vu and the unparalleled sense that he knows - this . The marvel in Alecâs eye as he takes in the city; the way he holds himself completely still and statuesque when Magnus speaks to him; and the soft laughter that underlies his words
Did I call out to you across time? Is that why youâre here?
âMagnus?â
Magnus looks up. Itâs the first time Alec has called him by his name.
But Magnus never told him what it was.
It all comes together in a rush: he knows Magnus in the future.
Oh, God, what have you gotten yourself into, Bane?
âIâm not alarmed,â Magnus says, âPerhaps I should be, but Iâm not. You live as long as I have, and you see enough that the world stops surprising you. Well -â He looks Alec up and down. âAlmost. Here and there, there are a few bright spots.â
Alec beams at him, and it lights up his entire face. And the rest of the world - it fades away. Magnus wonders if he will miss it at all.
&&&
They come upon a large archway and Magnus guides Alec into the deep shadow and out the other side where the street opens up into an enormous plaza, three hundred feet across in each direction. The leylines gather here, and Magnus can feel the humming of energy beneath his feet like a network of blood vessels, pumping magic into the cityâs heart: Warlock magic and Angelic power and Seelie spellcraft, and as Alec steps out into the sunlight, something else entirely. Magnus feels the change ripple through the leylines, spreading out and away from them and radiating across the square: not an earthquake, but still a seismic shift, a change in the fabric of the planet for those that might be looking.
But no-one is looking. Thatâs the beauty of Madrid, a place where Magnus needs not have a name if he doesnât wish to have one.
In the centre of the plaza, there is a market, a patchwork of coloured tents and twisting pathways, hemmed in by tall red townhouses with slate grey roofs and elegant spires tipped by flags fluttering in the breeze.
The air is lively with chatter and smells of cattle, the merchants driving hard bargains and flashing brilliant smiles, herding the morning crowd towards their stalls lined with trinkets, gold and silver and impressive jewels alongside the vibrant colour of fresh fruit and smoked meat. A wagon rolls by, pulled by an ox that haws and huffs in the heat; in the back, crates of plump, red tomatoes that make Magnusâ mouth water.
But Alecâs focus is elsewhere. The sky is an endless canopy of blue, and he turns his face to the sun, his eyes fluttering closed. His eyelashes cast thin, delicate shadows upon his cheeks, and as the sun warms him, the corner of his mouth tilts up serenely.
Magnus is transfixed. Heâs young, reckless, a hedonist; he considers himself a purveyor of beautiful people as much as he has a taste for danger, some soul-felt thrill to be found in complimenting the strength in a handsome manâs jaw or trading coy smiles with a woman in a lively crowd. He knows how to enjoy the sight of a man completely at peace.
But this - he doesnât know this. Alec is both timeless and other-worldly; and as the rest of the world rotates around him, he doesnât move.
For someone stepped out of time, he seems so permanent, like a man who has found his fixed point in the universe after a lifetime of searching. He exists differently to the passage of the sun in the sky and the bustle of movement through the market; he exists where Magnus exists. Â
His immortality is not the same as Magnusâ - heâs Nephilim and Magnus can see the signs of age beginning to mark the corners of his eyes - Â but, like Magnus, he views the world from a distance, through the perspective of someone who has seen different far-off times and places.
Looking at him makes Magnus feel younger than he has felt in centuries.
They meander through the labyrinth of market stalls, and it doesnât take long for Magnus to notice what catches Alecâs eye.
His fingers trail across the spines of old leather books, and he admires a pair of earrings curled in the shape of two silver snakes while Magnus watches from afar. An artisanâs stall stacked with bright coloured jars of painterâs pigment leaves him looking wistful. A blacksmith displaying an array of ornately carved knives has Alecâs hand drifting to his side, his palm splayed over a rune Magnus cannot see.
None of these things match Alec - and Magnus doesnât know how he knows that - but Magnus sees the love reflected in Alecâs eyes, a homely and unfettered sort of love, and he wonders who he thinks of.
But itâs the jewelry that draws Alec like a moth to a flame, the barest glint of gold and silver pulling him this way and that as Magnus dips through the crowds behind him. Rings and necklaces, small trinkets for the pocket, even a chain for the ankle adorned with fine jewel-coloured charms - Alec has to look at them all, has to weigh them in his hands and brush his thumb over the metal with a small but fierce scowl.
Magnus wants to ask him what heâs looking for, but perhaps that would disturb the trance - if Alec knows heâs been caught, he might stop, and Magnus is fascinated by his scrutiny. He studies each ring with the diligence Magnus might afford any Shadowhunter - but in the training room or on the battlefield, and not here, in a sunlit market of Madrid at noon.
Magnus allows his eyes to wander over Alecâs body: his long legs, his strong chest, his large alabaster-white hands as he cups the pendant of a necklace and inspects it in the sunlight. He wears no jewelry of his own, no necklaces, no cufflinks on his jacket, no rings save one.
A plain silver band winks at Magnus from Alecâs fourth finger.
âYouâre married.â
Magnus doesnât mean to say it - itâs nothing more than a passing observation, but -
It feels important. A detail meant to be noticed. And now that heâs seen it, itâs like the temporal energy swarms there, gathering on the ring in a cluster of dense magic.
Alec sets down the necklace in his hands and grins at Magnus, but this time, itâs accompanied by the most exquisite pink flush to his cheeks.
Yes, Magnus thinks, yes, I can see how someone would marry that.
âYep,â Alec admits. The look in his eyes is tender and adoring as he looks down at his wedding ring, rubbing it with his thumb, and then back up at Magnus. âAbout a month ago.â
âWell, congratulations. Whatâs her name?â
â His name.â
Alec holds Magnusâ gaze with diamond-like focus. He says nothing, but Magnus is unable to look away.
Magnus wets his lip and measures his words; it seems as if they might matter.
âHow peculiar,â he says slowly, watching Alecâs face - he doesnât give anything away, but his shoulders fall with the quiet release of a breath that Magnus might call relief. âAlthough, not as peculiar as a Shadowhunter wearing a ring. I was of the opinion that it was a rune on the hand and a rune on the heart.â
âIt is.â
âOh? So heâs not a Shadowhunter? Now Iâm especially intrigued.â
Alec grins, his mouth parenthesised by dimples. He turns back to the stall and picks out another necklace, the fine silver chain and pendant glinting in the light.
Magnus frowns, stepping up to Alecâs side to peer over Alecâs shoulder..
The necklace is pretty. Magnus might wear it himself. He can imagine how it might feel draped against his chest, beneath his collar, the cold kiss of metal. Â
âWhat do you think?â Alec asks, and heâs close enough that he need only whisper. Magus feels the puff of his breath against his jaw. âI like this one.â
Magnus hums, reaching out to take Alecâs hand and rub his thumb over the pendant cradled in Alecâs palm.
âYes,â he says, âThis oneâs nice, indeed.â
&&&
The sun sets slowly, staining the sky in shades of orange and pale blue. Lanterns flicker to life, suspended from the awnings of the market stalls and dancing in the open windows that overlook the square. Shadows stretch long and thin and dark, and Magnus finds himself sat on the steps of the bronze statue in the middle of the plaza, still sun-warmed against his back.
Heâs sat here a hundred times before, content to watch the day pass him by as people come and go. He has the time to spare; immortality lends itself for lounging and for lingering.
Now, though, Alecâs tall shadow looms over him, illuminated in gold around the edges by the dying of the sun.
Magnus looks up at him. Alec holds out a bag of mazapanes.
âWant one?â he asks.
Magnus takes a handful and pops one into his mouth: the taste of marzipan and almonds melts on his tongue and fills him with quiet fondness for this city he calls home.
Alec folds himself up on the steps beside Magnus, his legs stretched out in front of him and his shoulder pressed up against Magnusâ. Heâs warm to the touch, and Magnus feels his magic laving at Alecâs skin, wherever it can find space to shimmy beneath his clothes.
From the corner of his eye, he watches Alec lean back against the statue and exhale, his whole body relaxing. He tosses a few candied almonds into his mouth and then licks his fingers absently, all the while staring at the sky. The orange glow catches in his eyes and highlights the different shades of brown.
âThank you for today,â he says, without looking at Magnus. âI had a good time.â
âI should be the one thanking you,â Magnus says, âThis will make for an excellent dinner time anecdote that Iâm sure no-one will believe. Heavens, I might not even believe it by this time tomorrow.â
Alec laughs softly. âI mean, thanks for not running away. I know this must -â He gestures with his hands. â- kinda weird.â
âWhy would I run away?â
I feel like I know you. How impossible is that?
âI dunno. I just figured -â Alec stops mid-sentence, a frown furrowing his brow.
âWhat?â Magnus asks, âWhatâs the matter?â
Alec sets the bag of mazapanes on the steps and inspects his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers into his palm. âThe magicâs fading,â he says, âI think.â
âOh,â Magnus replies, âAre you sure?â
Alec holds out his palm to Magnus and Magnus reaches out with the invisible touch of his own magic, probing at the energy that licks across Alecâs skin: sharp, staticy, but thereâs a restlessness to it now that wasnât there before. The threads of the universe begin to fray and Magnus can feel them tickling, like fingertips skittering up his arm or like an intimate breath ghosting across the back of his neck.
The rest of the world seems to slow. Alecâs presence here distorts space-time just enough for Magnus to notice. The people passing by walk slower. Distant bird calls become longer. The sunset is paused, suspended in a forever yellow.
Alecâs going to disappear.
Magnus doesnât have much time.
âThe magic,â he starts, but he doesnât know how to continue. He has so many questions still to ask and heâs not going to get answers to all of them. âThe magic I feel on you, itâs volatile. Itâs moving.â
Alec nods, still staring at his fingertips. âYeah. I can feel it. Itâs what happened just before I jumped the first time. Itâll stabilise for a bit, and then flip out again. Guess Iâm about to go somewhere else.â
Magnus swallows thickly, and then, tentatively, he reaches out and touches his fingertips to the centre of Alecâs palm. The magic ripples as if Magnus is a stone in the water. He sinks too fast for his own liking. âThe magicâs strong. I donât think I can influence it, but I might be able to calm it,â he murmurs, gently pushing his own magic into Alecâs skin - his Angelic power hums, but Alec doesnât resist. Magnusâ magic slips into his blood like sunlight. âIt feels familiar, in a way. I donât know why.â
Alec glances up at him, his mouth opening into a soft round oh . âFamiliar?â
âDoes that surprise you?â asks Magnus.
Alec shakes his head. He holds up his hand to the sunset, and itâs then that Magnus sees his skin has turned translucent and now, it appears near gold, like a shard of sunlight in which dust particulates dance. Slowly, Alec begins to fade away.
âNo,â Alec says, turning his hand this way and that, and the pricks of dusk-coloured gold glint like jewels.
And Magnus - Magnus longs to touch him again, but fears his hand might pass right through, like wisps of fog and smoke that might disperse with even the tiniest shift. He cannot move; he doesnât want Alec to go. Thereâs a feeling in his chest too big to comprehend; he hasnât yet learned the way to grasp it, to hold it within himself. He wishes he knew what it was.
Alecâs shadow disappears, fading sunlight trickling through him. His legs, his arms, his body, now dust. All that remains is a whisper, before he is whisked away through the recesses of time that Magnus has yet to experience.
âNo, Magnus,â he says, his voice lingering, âThat doesnât surprise me at all.â
Magnus doesnât move for a while after. He watches the sunset pale into the faintest of yellows, and then lilacs, and finally deep, deep blues as the sky becomes pitted with stars. Madrid dances on. Laughter and music takes over the night, drunken cheers and singing, people spinning in the plaza around and around and around, but Magnus is unwilling to join them. Not yet. Maybe later. Maybe in a moment. Â
He looks down at the steps. The bag of mazapanes is still there, solid to the touch, and yet an afterimage lingers upon it, invisible fingerprints that only his magic can sense.
He feels changed somehow. A part of him has shifted out of plane and now exists a step ahead or a step behind everything else.
Oh , Magnus thinks. I shouldâve asked when Iâd see you again.
TWO | LIMA, PERU, 1791
Nights in Peru smell like the sea: salt and seaweed and high winds that bring the Pacific inland as waves, washing over the taste of roasting bananas and coffee beans drifting up from the streets. The sky is navy blue and the moon, a thin white monolith, is suspended in a field of stars and constellations that Magnus has spent centuries learning.
He sits on the balcony of a townhouse, overlooking a small courtyard and nursing a cup of rich, red wine that reminds him of the dusty hills and towering mountains that surround the city. He doesnât know how many cups heâs had, but itâs enough to warm his blood and linger like a hum in the back of his throat.
And itâs enough to forget a broken heart. Not enough to be rid of loneliness, but not even Catarina and Ragnor dragging him halfway across the world could do that, despite their best intentions. He can outrun a string of failed affairs, but he cannot escape the fact heâs four hundred years old and wants a little more than some smeared night he canât remember with someone heâll never see again.
Magnus sips quietly at his wine. Downstairs, thereâs a party in full swing, drunken and exciting and billowing with oaky cigar smoke. Ragnor will be sitting in an armchair in the corner, and Catarina will be making elaborate excuses for Magnusâ absence, heâs quite sure.
But itâs the noise - the constant noise - he needed to escape. I need some air , heâd said to Cat. Just for a moment. Iâll be back . That was almost an hour ago, but she hasnât come looking for him, not to introduce him to some doe-eyed stranger, nor to check that he hasnât drunk himself into a self-deprecating stupor in the bathroom once again.
High above, the shadow of a large bird briefly crosses the moon; it soars on updraughts that Magnus cannot reach, borne away with ease, not minding where it ends up. It might be a condor. He envies it. They probably mate for life. How dreadful. Â
Magnus tilts back in his chair, taking another sip of his wine, and sighs. The chair creaks and he closes his eyes, letting his breathing slow and the tension drip out of his body. He can hear a flute playing from a downstairs window and the thin, delicate notes drift upwards, longing and melancholy and dreaming of a wide expanse of wilderness, of freedom, of the loss of a great love. Magnus doesnât really know which, but the song is beautiful and it lulls him into a doze. Â
There are worse places to be alone. The night is balmy and heâs always loved the enduring magic of this place, the way the city is steeped in layers and layers of history, where the ancient world meets the new, and travellers from across the continent pass through in search for gold. So many men have spent their lives chasing paradise, but truly, Magnus might have found a slice of it right here.
He could fall asleep and never wake up again, and he doesnât even think heâd mind. Catarina might find him faded away with the dawn and a soft smile on his face, a spilled cup of wine at his feet.
And yet why does your heart still ache? Why is it that you close your eyes and still dream of all the someones who have left you behind?
This is too much longing for one person. Too much time spent alone with the world; he knows all its corners far too intimately. Thereâs nowhere else left to see.
Behind him, the curtains rustle as someone steps out onto the balcony: a man, judging by his soft huff of breath as moves towards the balustrade. If heâs handsome, Magnus might take him back inside to bed. A whirlwind love-affair. He could stay in Peru a few decades. He wouldnât mind that. His sheets have been cold for a while now, and he longs for cooling sweat and breathlessness and the feeling of being wanted. He longs for a flutter to stir his heart.
Magnus meets the manâs eyes and the thought fragments with a quiet, rippling chime, indistinguishable from the soft music in the distance or the sound of Magnusâ nail tapping against his wine glass.
Oh . A dream. A dream of a dream. A summerâs day in Madrid, years and years ago is borne back to him on the breeze.
Itâs you.
I thought I dreamt you.
The curve of his back a beautiful parabola as he leans over the railings and gazes out across the rooftops, his profile highlighted by the flickering yellow glow of lantern light and the deep blue of the settled sky. His hair is the same inky black as it was all those years ago; the rune on his neck, just as stark. His clothes are different now, soft worn fabric clinging to his broad shoulders, while his pants hang loose about his hips. He goes barefoot.
And he hasnât aged a day since Magnus saw him last. Perhaps itâs only been days for him. Not like the centuries for you.
Magnus barks out a laugh, swinging back in his chair and hoisting his feet up onto the balustrade. He swirls his drink around and presses the glass to his lip, but doesnât take a sip. He must be drunk if heâs conjuring up memories from his past when heâs so desperate for companionship.
âGod,â he laughs, shaking his head. He wonders if his longing can be heard through time. âCatarina and Ragnor always insisted that I made you up, but I told them you were real. Either they will kick themselves when I tell them later, or theyâll have me institutionalised. One canât be sure.â
Alec, his impossible Alec, turns to look at him, his body still bent over the railings. His smile is fond and sleepy, like heâs been stolen out of a moment just before bed. It makes Magnusâ heart skip a beat.
âHow long has it been?â Alec asks.
âOne-hundred and seventy two years. Give or take a few, Iâm sure. I might have lost a decade around the turn of the century through no fault but my own.â
Alec whistles a low note and looks back out across the city. The nighttime toys with the shadows that stretch and pool upon the mismatched rooftops: wells of deep purple and blue and odds with this glow of orange that seems infinite and ephemeral in the same moment, fading into the sky like a halo. Upon Alecâs skin, the colour is exquisite. It makes his eyes simmer with a gentle opal-dark fire.
âThatâs a long time,â Alec says quietly, âIâm sorry.â
âSorry? You have nothing to be sorry for. You canât control it, the magic is volatile. You said so yourself.â
âA hundred and seventy years is a long time to go without seeing someone.â
Magnus hums, hiding the quirk of his mouth behind his glass again. He tips it back just enough to taste the wine on his lower lip, his tongue. It draws Alecâs eyes.
âIt is,â he murmurs, âBut worth the wait, I dare say.â
âYou knew I was coming back?â
Magnus rolls his shoulders and slips out of his chair, joining Alec against the balcony. He molds himself into the space beside him, resting his glass on the railing and curving his body towards Alec, an open question. Alec shifts to face him, a timeless answer.
âTemporal hopping,â Magnus explains, âIâve been reading up on it in the hope that you might come back to me. The magic may not be stable, but it still requires an anchor. Something that stays the same in all the places youâre drawn to. Usually itâs a location, the place where the original spell was cast, but given Iâve found you in both Spain and Peru now, Iâm inclined to say that your anchor might, in fact, be a person.â
Alecâs mouth twists up into a smile. âYeah?â
Magnus scoffs, buffing Alec on the arm with the back of his hand. Itâs an excuse to touch him, to know that heâs real, to feel that forgotten ripple again. âOh, come now, donât play coy with me. Iâve had almost two centuries to think about it.â He pauses for dramatic effect. âYou and I know each other in the future, donât we?â
âYou could say that.â
Magnus raises his glass at Alec. âYou knew my name that day we met. I never told it to you, but you knew it all the same.â
âI did.â
âAnd in the future, weâre well-acquainted?â
Alec blushes, colour rounding at his cheeks. âYeah. Yeah, definitely.â
âAnd I work with the Shadowhunters? Are we in business together?â
âSometimes.â
Magnus scoffs, rolling his eyes. âYouâre still just as cryptic and infuriatingly tight-lipped as before, I see.â His attention drifts down to Alecâs hand, curled over the balustrade. His wedding ring looks molten tonight.
âYour husband,â Magnus says, glancing up at Alec, âWhat did you say his name was again?â
âI didnât.â
Magnusâ heart skips a beat. He wets his lower lip and is glad heâs got one hand on the railing and the other on his glass, so that Alec canât see his fingers shake. âAh,â he says, his voice a murmur, âYou called that spoilers , if I remember correctly.â
âYou do.â
Magnus hums, swirling the wine around in his glass. He considers the way the purple splashes up against the sides and leaves behind a fading red residue.
âI have a hypothesis,â he says boldly, âAbout why you wouldnât tell me your name, last time. Do you see where Iâm going with this?â
Alec chuckles to himself, looking to the sky. The constellations are reflected, dizzyingly, in his eyes. âYou said youâd figure it out straight away. I shouldnât have second-guessed you. Youâll say âI told you soâ.â
âFuture me sounds terribly astute.â
âFuture you is a pain in my ass,â Alec teases, but the look in his eyes is endless. It speaks of a man deeply in love, the sort of love that has transcended a thousand hardships and never wavered, the sort of love both effortless and consuming - all the things that Magnus wants for. His chest aches again, some parts longing, and other parts jealousy. It makes that passing thought of taking a stranger to bed feel lukewarm.
And whatâs the point of any of it being lukewarm -
Magnusâ smile becomes wry. He doesnât want to dwell on that. Instead, he offers, like a baited line, âSo, Alexander Bane, is it?â
âLightwood-Bane,â Alec corrects. He thumbs at his wedding ring again, twisting it around his finger. It must be a habit. âMagnus, uh - my Magnus, he told me I shouldnât tell you very much.â
âWhat a spoilsport he is,â says Magnus, but he leans in closer to Alec, drawn to the bob of Alecâs throat as he swallows, the gentle tremor of his nerves attuned to Magnusâ magic. What does he have to be nervous about? He knows Magnus. Incredibly well, it seems. Â âSo, it was my future self who cast this spell that backfired on you? How inconsiderate of me.â
Alec nods. âThe demon was stronger than the binding spell you prepared. You managed to seal it, but - well, yeah. This happened. You said it would wear off pretty soon, but there might be, uh - bad side effects.â
âSide effects,â Magnus muses, âIf me getting the pleasure of your company is a bad side effect, then -â
âI didnât mean it like that,â Alec interrupts quietly. âI mean - I wonât stay for long and I canât control it. I donât know where Iâm going to end up. Or when.â His hand has shifted near to Magnusâ upon the railing, and now, Alecâs staring at them both, wondering where to draw the line before he oversteps. Magnus wants him to overstep.
This is his husband . It doesnât seem real. Right now, in fact, it feels impossible, and it makes that too-large feeling build inside his chest again, constraining at his ribs and longing to be free; in the almost two hundred years since that day in Madrid, he still hasnât learned how to contain it.
He has never imagined himself married. Heâs never imagined finding a person whoâd want to marry him . It makes no sense, and yet he doesnât question it. It fits , he thinks. It fits with me. I feel whole. Too whole.
Perhaps it is a ruse. A drunken delusion, a joke. A cruelly crafted one for sure, but Magnus cannot bring himself to care. Not when Alec is gazing at him so softly, and the starlight is tangled in his messy, bed-ruffled hair.
He wants this man. He doesnât understand it, but it hardly matters, because his head is wine-addled and he feels not himself, caught in Alecâs inexplicable pull and dragged, stumbling, off course.
It scares him. It does. Thereâs some part of him he has no control over and heâs not used to trusting himself to someone elseâs hands.
âSo what did my future self have to say about me?â he asks, and he wonders if Alec can hear the tremble in his voice. âDid he warn you of how devilishly handsome I am?â
He reaches out and trails his fingers down Alecâs shirt; the fabric is gossamer-soft to the touch, and Alecâs chest is warm and hard beneath it, but what surprises Magnus most is way his magic pulses in his fingers like itâs mimicking a heartbeat. A beat and an answer. An echo that doesnât seem to fade away.
His hand falters. Alec notices this time.
âHe didnât tell me anything. Thatâs not how it works,â he says softly, âAll time is concurrent. The past and the future - they happen at the same time, so this - us. Us meeting here. This hasnât happened before.â
âDid I tell you that?â
Alec smiles sheepishly. âYeah. Yeah, you did.â
âOh,â Magnus murmurs, brushing his near-shaking fingertips over the slip of Alecâs clavicle visible beneath the neckline of his shirt. He marvels at the way Alecâs throat moves as he swallows; as he holds in a breath. He drops his voice to a whisper; any louder, and his magic, and the way it leaps at the touch, might bleed through. âSo, your undoubtedly charming husband has no memory of what happens here tonight?â
Alec shakes his head. âUs meeting here - it makes a different future. My future is - itâs not going to be the same as your future. But they both exist. Itâs, uh - kinda complicated.â
âInfinite futures. Hm. How extraordinary.â Magnusâ fingers drift along Alecâs collarbone, smearing through the invisible current that trips across Alecâs skin. His magic verberates, resonates, reflects. Itâs like heâs ghosting his fingertips along the frayed edges of a nerve that stems from his own body - the frayed edges of a tiny rip in time and space - and every slight quiver threatens to make his breath hitch. He touches Alec and he feels it in himself. A part of him, a part of Alec, inexplicably tied. âI wonder if we meet in every one.â
Alec exhales slowly, steadying himself. He briefly glances away, out into the city, his eyes dancing from rooftop to rooftop. Magnus follows the working of his jaw. âIf you did know. If you in the future did remember this, I donât think you wouldâve told me. Not when we first met, at least.â
Magnusâ hand stills against Alecâs sternum. The closer he gets to Alecâs heart, the stronger the pulse, the more he can feel the familiar undercurrent that lingers beneath the temporal energy that surrounds him. He looks up. âWhy not?â
Alec screws up his mouth and hunches his shoulders, but it seems far less easy than before. âWhen we first met, I was scared. If youâd told me that we met before, I wouldâve - I wouldâve probably run, if Iâm honest. I was kinda dealing with a lot back then.â
âBut now?â Magnus asks.
âBut now Iâm happy,â says Alec.
Magnus doesnât know what to say to that. He hears the sincerity in Alecâs words; it speaks of a terrible vulnerableness, a terrible loneliness left behind but not completely forgotten, one that Magnus knows too well, but it also -
Alecâs eyes meet his, and he smiles his lopsided smile, his eyes creasing up again, and itâs inutterable: this warmth, this tenderness, this growth from a shell of man that Magnus doesnât even know and has never met, but he feels the entire story resonate as the magic does. The love radiates from Alec like he was fashioned from it, like the Angel gifted him devotion instead of skin and bones.
And to think itâs just a fraction of the love he must feel for his husband , Magnus thinks. That he feels for me, but not me.
Never me.
Magnus lays his palm flush against Alecâs collarbone. The familiar magic answers him, a surge more profound than before: that threads of torn time and space intertwine with something else, another magic so endlessly recognisable that it makes Magnus gasp.
Beneath the quivering Angelic power, and beneath the remnants of the backfired spell, Magnus finds a reflection of himself, every will and wish and want heâs ever known, because thatâs what Alec is drenched in. His magic. Magnusâ magic - and how did he not notice it before, because it breathes and moves the same, answering the quirk of his fingers in a way he knows innately.
Magnusâ magic . Evolved to be softer and kinder, stronger and more encompassing, woven through with Angelic power, caressing at Alecâs skin and absorbed into his very being. And the pulse that Magnus feels within it is Alecâs blood, Alecâs heartbeat, Alecâs soul, bared to Magnus as he pushes and prods at this impossible man who stands before him.
Magnus rubs his fingertips against the slip of Alecâs bare skin. The strong tendon of his neck. The base of his Deflect rune, and it summons a trail of goosebumps down Alecâs throat and across his shoulder.
He watches Magnusâ intensely. Magnus canât meet his eyes; he summons blue smoke into his fingers and marvels at the way it clings to Alecâs skin as it does to his own hand. Like it cannot tell the difference between him and Magnus.
How is that possible?
It feels so intimate. Magnus feels so known.
âI can feel -â he starts, before he realises heâs talking at all. âI can feel myself. Iâm all over you.â
âYeah,â Alec whispers. He reaches up and covers Magnusâ hand with his own, holding Magnusâ hand against his heartbeat. His wedding ring catches the midnight glow of the city and turns gold. âYeah, I should hope so.â
âItâs my magic, but - itâs so strange. Itâs like seeing your reflection in a mirror and noticing something is not quite right, but you canât put a finger on the difference,â Magnus murmurs. âIt knows you. Itâs like itâs changed because of you.â
How can I feel so connected to someone I donât even know?
âIt can do that?â Alec asks.
âIt appears so,â Magnus says, before frowning. He pulls his hand away from Alec. âIt makes sense. If what you say is true, and all time occurs concurrently, then it appeals to reason that the pool from which I draw my magic transcends space-time too. I just havenât yet learned to wield it the same as I do in the future. With you.â
Magnus snaps his fingers, summoning a blue flame into his palm. The light of it dances across Alecâs face as Magnus holds it between them, watching as it sways and shifts, despite the stillness of the night.
âMy magic knows you,â Magnus repeats, âIt knew you before we even met. How impossible does that sound?â
âNothingâs impossible,â Alec whispers, âNot for us.â
Magnusâ chest clenches. Us , Alec says, as if thatâs something Magnus understands at all. Us , he says, as if Magnusâ last string of relationships havenât all ended in heartache.
Us , he says, because when he fades away at the end of this night or in the early morning or whenever, he goes back to that, to them, and Magnus is left - here. Alone.
âMagnus?â Alec asks, stepping closer. His hand brushes Magnusâ sleeve and leaves ripples in its wake.
âTell me about him,â Magnus whispers, half-breathless and half-hoping. The loneliness solidifies within his chest, filling the chasm of space heâs nursed with endless glasses of wine; now, the longing has mass, has weight. It wonât be ignored or shoved to the side. âAbout the Magnus Bane you know. Tell me about him. About the both of you.â
Tell me I get to have what you have. Tell me I get there.
âWhat do you want to know?â
âHow did we meet? What was our courtship like? Was it you who asked me to marry you, or was it -â
Was it me?
Alec glances down at the wine glass in Magnusâ hand, and then at the near-empty bottle that sits abandoned next to his empty chair. âIf I tell you all that, will it help?â
âWhat?â
âYouâre lonely,â Alec says, as if itâs the most obvious thing in the world, and so easy to say. âI know you are, but I - I donât - if I tell you all those things, it wonât make it easier.â
Magnus frowns. âHow could I be lonely when youâre here?â
Alec sighs softly and turns back to the city, leaning his wait once more upon the balcony. He folds his arms upon the railing. The swell of his spine can be seen through his shirt, his back a long, curving arc.
âThereâs a man who plays the charango,â he says then, and the soft glow of the city almost swallows his words up. âYouâre probably going to meet him soon. Here. Heâs good for you. You still think about him often.â
âI donât want anyone else,â Magnus says, sliding his palm across the back of Alecâs neck, thumbing at the skin below his ear - but Alec turns his head away, his jaw working. âAlexander - you feel this, donât you? Itâs inexplicable. The connection. My magic. Iâve never felt anything like it before.â
Magnus rubs his fingers against Alecâs neck and feels Alec lean into the touch.
Do I touch you this way often? Are you used to this?
âThereâs a party downstairs,â he finds himself murmuring, âCatarina and Ragnor are there. We can go down there together.â
Alec shakes his head softly. âAnd if I disappear in front of everyone?â
âThatâs the beauty of magic,â Magnus says, âIt explains the unexplainable. A party of inebriated Warlocks wonât question a thing.â
âMagnus -â
Magnus sweeps him thumb across Alecâs pulsepoint. He takes another step closer, crowding Alec against the balustrade, ducking his head to intercept Alecâs line of sight.
âI have rooms inside. A bed. We could share another bottle. See where the night might take us.â
âMagnus,â Alec says again. His eyes meet Magnusâ, and then flick towards his hand, which he holds out over the balcony edge. âLook.â
Heâs already fading.
âSo soon,â Magnus whispers. âYou stayed a whole day last time.â
âI know,â Alec murmurs, twisting his wrist and sifting his fingers through the moonlight. âIâm sorry.â
THREE | BLACKFRIARS, LONDON, UK, 1872
As rain lashes against the concrete, the wind over Blackfriars Bridge wails like an abandoned child at the side of the road. Below, the Thames churns, infinitely black and grotesque in the dark, eager to swallow people up and never spit them out again. Its stink is sewage and its rush of water is a hiss that presses against Magnusâ back, whispering in his ears.
You sure you still donât want to jump?
Itâll be cold. Youâll feel something. Youâll feel nothing. Both will be good.
The rain soaks Magnus to the bone. His frock coat clings to him like a second skin and his hair hangs limp across his forehead, rainwater streaming down his nose. His hands grip tight to the railing of the bridge, his fingers stark and cold. He doesnât remember taking his gloves off. Hell, he doesnât remember putting them on.
He only remembers standing on the edge and looking down.
Youâre not actually going to jump , Camille had said. Youâre not a coward.
Maybe I am , Magnus had replied, Maybe I always have been. Iâve spent my entire life running.
His skin still stings with the indentations of her nails on his arm, yanking him back from the edge. He can still hear her hiss, her sharp words, her fury. The rare fear in her eyes as she screamed at him to climb down from the railings.
This is ridiculous! she had snapped. Come and find me when youâve sorted your head out, Magnus. I refuse to deal with this for you.
Magnus leans forward over the railings, staring down at the bubbling river. A stagecoach splashes water up the back of his legs, the horses snorting and the coachman tilting his tri-corner hat down to keep the storm out of his eyes.
Camille left. She always leaves. Unwilling to stand out in the rain and ruin her hair, unwilling to give any part of herself up for others.
She knows Magnus wonât jump now, so her work is done. Heâll live and heâll drag himself back to her when heâs ready and sheâll say I told you so, Magnus. Why donât you ever listen to me ?
Magnus feels cold - the sort of unforgiving cold that seeps into the bones and into the blood and drags thoughts to a shuddering halt. The wind is bracing, carrying with it sharp shards of slush-turned-sleet that cut into Magnusâ cheeks. He doesnât know how long heâs been out here; he doesnât know how long ago Camille left. Sunrise might be on the horizon, but heâll never know, not with the smog that rises from London in the distance, thick pillars of soot black that blend into the clouds of rain and smother the stars.
He stares at the spot on the railings where he stood grasping at the lampost, his toes curled over the edge - an hour ago? Or was it two? Three? Time has slipped away from him, as it always does. What is time to someone whoâs going to live forever, bound endlessly to watch humankind search for meaning in their fleeting lives -
Search for love -
Numbness tingles in Magnusâ fingertips, and he wishes for it to go away, he wishes for time to stop, he wishes for a feeling other than tenderness bruising in the hollow parts of himself, but -
The rain stops.
His magic flinches.
And Magnus looks up, blinking back the raindrops that cling to his eyelashes and pushing back the hair that lies limp over his forehead. A hand extended over his shoulder, and a large black umbrella hiding him from the clouds above.
Itâs like a breath, a breath stolen after being underwater for so long - not enough to quell the painful ache in his chest, but enough to fill his lungs. Heâd almost forgotten what it feels like.
Heâs lived an entire lifetime since then.
âItâs going to get better,â comes the familiar voice that Magnus has missed eighty-one years now, a rumble he feels deep in his water-logged chest. âI know you probably donât believe me, but - I promise.â
Magnus looks up at him. At Alec , rain-flecked and stepped out of the storm, holding an umbrella aloft above them like itâs the only thing he was put on Earth to do. He steps between Magnus and another passing carriage, shielding him from the splash of the wheels in the puddle. Alec grimaces, his nose scrunching.
Magnus laughs wetly. âYou canât say that. You have hindsight. Thatâs cheating.â
A raindrop trickles down Alecâs temple and Magnus follows it, across his cheek, drawn to the pull of his lips, dripping from his jaw and onto his shirt. His mouth is twisted with worry; his eyes flick between Magnusâ, searching for some strength Magnus doesnât know how to give. Not anymore.
Magnus sniffs, scrubbing his palms across his face, but it wonât make a damned bit of difference. He looks disgusting. He looks like a man who was about to jump off a bridge. He knows he does.
Why couldnât you have shown up when I was on that ledge? Why couldnât you have been here a day ago, a year ago, a lifetime ago, before it all went wrong?
âItâs not cheating,â Alec murmurs, âNot when itâs the truth and you need to hear it.â
He steps closer, crowding Magnus with his body, protecting him from the wind. He brings the handle of the umbrella down between them, and invites Magnus to hold it too, as if theyâre sharing a flickering candle.
Alecâs hands are warm where Magnusâ are ice cold. He almost feels real. Oh, God, Iâve missed you.
âYouâre soaked,â Alec says, his eyes wide and his brow furrowing. He rubs his hands over Magnusâ knuckles and huffs on them loudly; Magnus sucks in a splintering, wet breath. âJesus, Magnus, youâre gonna get a fever -â
âWarlocks donât get fevers.â
Alec scowls at him. âWe both know thatâs not true. I know what youâre like when youâre sick, and itâs the worst.â
âMe, insufferable?â Magnus laughs weakly, âI couldnât imagine such a thing.â
Alec rolls his eyes, looping his arm around Magnusâ shoulders and clutching the umbrella between them.
âCâmon,â he says sternly, âLetâs get outta the rain.â
Alec grips his shoulder, his fingers pressing into Magnusâ skin through his overcoat - but unlike the prick of Camilleâs nails, Alecâs hand is firm. He rubs his palm up and down Magnusâ arm.
Magnus feels like crying. Shock, relief - he doesnât know what it is that clogs his throat and forces him to suck in sharp and shallow breaths. Perhaps itâs the realisation that he was a single step away from a plummet into the cold current of the Thames. Makes sense .
At the end of the bridge, Blackfriars station glints in the dark, its white tin rooftops spit-shiny. Alec pulls Magnus across the road, dodging carriages and offering his hand to Magnus to step across a puddle, and then he ducks into the station awning, and the braying of the wind is suddenly silenced.
Alec steps away from him, battling with the umbrella, and Magnus scrubs his hands down his face and pushes his limp hair back against his head. He flicks his hands and rainwater spits across the floor, accompanied by a pathetic spurt of magic that dies blue at his feet, extinguished like a damp flame.
Beside him, Alec flops back against the brick wall, tilting his head back and cricking his neck. Tonight, heâs in a suit, so deeply blue it might be black in any other light but the flickering of an underground station. It sticks to him, his shirt slick against the curve of his chest and abdomen, the silver buckle of his belt shining with rain. He picks at the cuffs of his jacket, but itâs sodden. He frowns, rolling up his sleeves and revealing his forearms covered in runes.
Heâs without a tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Magnus wonders if thatâs the fashion, or, perhaps, someone has already removed it for him.
Briefly, Magnus wonders if the cold of the rain masks colour in Alecâs cheeks or the redness of kiss-bitten lips. He wonders where Alec was and what he was doing before he was summoned to the banks of the Thames in a rainstorm.
None of the things he imagines makes him feel any better.
âWe should probably wait it out. Your place is kinda far,â Alec remarks, peering out into the rain with a frown. âEvery time youâve taken me to England, itâs been like this.â
âEvery time?â Magnus asks.
Alec looks back at him and smiles - not his crooked, heart-racing grin of a smile, but something small and quiet and precious that Magnus hasnât seen before.
âWe stayed in your apartment in Soho when we were on our honeymoon. For a bit,â he says, and not even the streaks of rain on his face can hide the delicate blush now. âIt rained for three days without stopping.â Â
âIt always rains,â Magnus murmurs, âThatâs why I love that apartment. You can always -â
âYou can always hear the rain on the roof,â Alec says, âYou say it helps you sleep.â
Magnus swallows thickly, but the lump in his throat makes it difficult to breathe. He shakes his head, but the tightness doesnât go away; he only succeeds in splattering Alec with more rainwater.
Of course he knows that. He knows everything , and thatâs unfathomable, because if he knows everything, he must know this: this wretched, inhospitable, ugly feeling that festers and bubbles inside Magnusâ chest that wonât go away no matter how much alcohol and reckless hedonism Magnus doses it with.
He knows everything.
âAlec -â
âYeah?â
Deep breath, Magnus. No matter how much it hurts.
âDid you know Iâd be on that bridge?â
Alec doesnât blink; he doesnât hesitate. He sets the umbrella against the wall and steps in close to Magnus, and Magnus can feel the warmth of him, ever-glowing and always-tended, even now. The longing to place his hands on Alecâs chest, to sink his fingers into Alecâs skin and step inside him and inhabit him - if only to know himself as Alec does - it possess Magnus, an urge.
âYeah,â says Alec, meeting Magnusâ eyes deliberately, âI did. Thatâs why I went and found Camille and sent her to you.â He laughs softly. âShe didnât react well to a Shadowhunter telling her what to do, but I guess she listened anyway.â
Magnusâ heart lurches. âYou sent Camille?â
âYeah. But she wouldâve come on her own.â
âI donât believe that.â
âYou should. She did,â Alec says, before adding, âHer one good deed.â
âWhy -â Magnus says, but he feels the slap of Camilleâs words again, the sting against his face, and he winces. He knows Alec notices the twitch. âIf you were here, why couldnât you - why didnât you -â
âWhy didnât I talk you off the ledge myself?â
âYes,â Magnus whispers, and he squeezes his eyes closed, and this time, water beads along his lashes and falls freely down his face. âYes, Alexander. Precisely that.â
Alec glances down, fiddling with his wedding ring, twisting it around and around his knuckle. He chews on the inside of his cheek. Whatever he has to say, it hurts him. He doesnât want to say it.
âIt has to be her.â
âI donât believe you.â
A man ducks into the station from out of the rain, shaking his umbrella and tipping his top hat at Alec and Magnus as he hurries towards the ticket office. The cold follows him like a draught and Magnus wraps his arms around his middle, digging his fingers into his sides. The wet fabric of his frock coat squelches.
He listens to the manâs footsteps as they disappear, and then he glances at Alec again, but Alecâs mouth has settled into a tight, straight line.
âDifferent futures,â Magnus says, âYou said it yourself, nearly a hundred years ago. My life in this timeline might not end up the way it does in yours.â
âIt will. I know it will.â
âYou canât know that,â Magnus presses, âYou appearing here has changed that, Alexander. Youâre a ripple in time. You must know how ripples work.â
âThatâs why I had to make sure it was Camille who found you,â says Alec, âI canât - I canât change the past that made you who you are, Magnus. I had to make it right. Because if it was me -â
âIf it was you, perhaps I wouldnât have been there to begin with,â Magnus says bitterly, âAnd if it wasnât you, and it wasnât her - if I was alone up there, perhaps I wouldâve jumped. You canât know.â
âI know you ,â Alec says. âYou wouldnât have done it. People need you.â
Magnus shakes his head. It always comes back to that: people need you. You need them to need you.
âAnd you?â he says, his voice rendered hoarse. âDo you need me?â
Alec closes the space between them, shrugging out of his suit jacket. He shakes it out and drapes it over Magnusâ broader shoulders, and while the sleeves might be wet, the silk lining is warm and smells of Alec.
Then, he pries Magnusâ hands from his arms and covers Magnusâ fingers between his own two palms, gently rubbing at Magnusâ knuckles.
âI need you,â he says simply, âNow, in the future, in a hundred different timelines. Always. I need you to be alive to meet me, the past me, because heâs the one that needs you the most. And I think you need me too, even though I know thatâs difficult for you sometimes, because you like to pretend that you can do everything by yourself and you donât like showing people when youâre hurting, but - trust me. You can trust me. Let me take care of you. Let me return the favour.â
He brings their clenched hands up to his lips and presses his mouth to Magnusâ fingertips. The cold, the numbness in Magnusâ hands, it abates. In its place comes the rush of temporal magic, and a flutter not unlike a cautious heartbeat.
âIt gets better than this,â Alec whispers. âI swear.â
&&&
The downpour doesnât let off, and they find themselves on a bench on the empty platform at Blackfriars station, the smell of wet cobblestones replaced by creosote and stale air. This far below ground, they canât hear the rain, but each train that rolls into the station is battered by a storm that rages a hundred feet above them.
It would take ten minutes to hop on the tube and ride to the stop closest to Magnusâ apartment in Soho, and another five minutes to run to the front door - but Magnus doesnât mention it. He doesnât want to move from here, he doesnât want to lose the warm, solid press of Alec leant against his shoulder, his eyelids slowly drooping.
He doesnât want to risk standing and disturbing the magic that keeps Alec tethered here. A little longer , he pleads with the universe. Just give me a little while longer with him.
Alecâs head drops onto Magnusâ shoulder and he lets out a snuffle that makes Magnusâ heart clench, and then a grumble as he cracks open one eye.
âWhat were you doing?â Magnus asks gently, toying with Alecâs long fingers, still tangled with his. âBefore you came here?â
âDinner,â Alec mumbles, words half-slurred. He gestures vaguely at his ruined suit. âThe Clave has you running in circles at the moment, and they sent me to consult at the Institute in L.A. It was my first night back in Alicante.â
âWe live in Alicante? In Idris?â
âMhm,â Alec murmurs, ââS nice. Not as bad as it sounds.â
âIâll believe it when I see it. What were we having for dinner?â
âI didnât finish making it yet,â Alec hums, âYou were home early. We got distracted.â
Magnus rubs his thumb against Alecâs wedding ring; the metal warms quickly beneath his touch, but he feels the magic shiver, as if rain-cold. He hears Alec yawn, but the weight of him against Magnusâ shoulder is slowly lessening, bit by heartbreaking bit. Magnus lets his eyes fall closed.
This way, he wonât have to see him disappear.
âHow very kind of you to make time for me,â Magnus whispers.
âIâll always make time for you, Magnus.â
Magnus hums. âHm. â Itâs rotten work â, I believe dear Orestes said.â
âNot to me, it isnât.â
It doesnât make sense. None of it does. His devotion, his dedication, how he slips through time and touches Magnus and changes him so quietly and yet so fundamentally, only to disappear again and leave behind only memory to while away the years.
Alecâs will alone makes waves in the magic that surrounds them, the magic that binds them together in all this impossible possibility. Â Perhaps his love for Magnus is enough to bend time and space. Certainly, it has been enough to draw him here, to Magnusâ side, over and over again.
Youâve figured it out, havenât you? Magnus thinks. How to love someone fully and truthfully and with everything that you are. Iâm jealous of that. I want it. I want you.
When Magnus opens his eyes, he is alone again.
FOUR | MONTMARTE, PARIS, FRANCE, 1929
Magnus is drunk. And not happily drunk, not the sort of drunk thatâs dizzy and forgetful and where all the world seems like a miracle - heâs way past that. His stomach wrings itself in knots and he tastes acidic bile up the back of his throat and his skin feels hot and sweaty to the touch. He slumps over on a bar stool, his shoulders hunched and a glass of cognac between his hands, half-drunk. The ice has melted, the liquor lukewarm. His nails tap relentlessly against the crystal of the glass, but itâs like thereâs cotton stuffed in his ears because he can barely hear the chime.
The bartender tries to pour him another, but Magnus waves him away. Whatever words he says are slurred. Magnus canât remember them anyway.
How many days have you been sat here? he wonders, squinting down at his glass. The colour of the brandy swishes between brown and amber-gold. How much time has passed? How long has it been since you ended it? When was the last time you saw the sun?
The cognac has pooled in the hollow of his stomach; it sloshes around and Magnus has to grip the edge of the bar to stop him doing something stupid, like falling off his stool or upchucking all over his waistcoat. He glances down at himself and finds the buttons misaligned and his pocket watch missing  and the untucked tails of his shirt stained with sticky splashes of his drink. He waves his fingers, banishing some of the mess away, but the blue magic swirling in his palm makes his head spin.
Around and around, it goes. Around and around, Magnus goes, repeating the same mistakes time and time again.
This always happens , he tells himself. You get too attached and they break your heart and you drink the pain away and do it all again. You deserve it. You never learn.
On a stage in the corner of the bar, a jazz ensemble is packing up their instruments: one man with a saxophone, another with a double bass. The singer, a woman with sharp painted nails and a sharper smile, is smoking a cigarette and already turning down drinks from her admirers.
In the low light, she looks like Camille.
Magnusâ head throbs, and he grimaces, pressing his hand to his temple as he slouches lower over the bar.
Why are you still mooning over her? Ragnor had asked him earlier this morning when he had stumbled upon Magnus on his front porch. She never cared for you, Magnus. She only cared for herself. I donât know how you stayed with her for so long.
Iâm too afraid of being alone , Magnus had thought, but did not voice. Ragnor could see it in his eyes, and the slow turning-down of Ragnorâs mouth had been too much, and Magnus had to leave.
He spent the day wandering the streets of Montmatre. It feels appropriate: Paris, the city of lovers, and therefore, the city of scorned lovers. Montmatre has always felt especially unforgiving: a woman who eats you up and spits you out, lost and disoriented in her winding streets, while, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower and the postcard picture of France play pretend.
Magnus doesnât know how he came across this bar. It doesnât seem to matter. Ten drinks in, all brandy tastes the same. Perhaps itâs time to switch to whiskey; itâs his heartache drink after all.
Magnus leans forward and lets his forehead rest on the bar, but the room still spins. His skin, sticky, flushed; he wants to be rid of it. Strip it off and start again, someone fresh and new and unknown. He wonât stay here, but London holds more memories he wants to outrun. He could head south where the sun is warm and the afternoons are lazy, or across the sea, and spent the night in a daze in the gardens at Santo Domingo -
Ripples follow him everywhere. He needs to go somewhere new, somewhere far away where the past canât find him. Magnus tips his head to the side, resting his cheek on the bar. He curls his fingers and summons forth the thought of a portal, shimmering orange-red around his rings, but he doesnât give it form. The magic weaves in and out and around his fingers, endlessly curious, tiny appendages tracing the lines in his palms from end to end. He could push out his hand and make a doorway to another world. It would only take a second and he could stumble through, and wake up tomorrow in a gutter where at least the sun might be shining.
Look at you , he thinks, curling the portal magic into his palm and extinguishing it. Planning to run away again. Youâll regret this in the morning. Youâll regret this when youâre sober.
Magnus closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, but his stomach churns again and he tastes cognac on the way back up, no longer sweet and purely bitter.
Across the bar, the bartender frowns at him and pushes him a glass of water on a napkin.
Magnus murmurs a reluctant merci , but nudges the glass away again with his fingertip. He doesnât want to drink it; he doesnât want kindness. He wants to wallow and remember why heâs alone again.
His temple pulses. Pressure builds in his forehead and behind his eyes and in the bridge of his nose, pinching and pulling at his skin as if vying for his attention.
And then a warm palm presses between his shoulder blades and Magnusâ entire spine lurches; heâs not sure whatâs going to come out: all the brandy heâs drunk in the last half hour, or some biting remark about leaving him the Hell alone, heâs not interested . Both are going to cut up the inside of his throat and taste like vomit.
He sits up too quickly and twists in his seat, but comes face to face with a shirt and the smell of expensive cologne - sandalwood . Soft and earthy and delicate against the sweet stench of spilt beer and cigarette smoke.
The hand on his back arches, fingers pressing into the knobs of his spine.
âHey.â
His voice, Alecâs voice, whiskey-warm. For a moment - and then itâs sour again.
Oh, of course. Youâre so drunk that youâre imagining Alexander now? Itâs been decades. Alec is not here. You just want so desperately to feel loved.
Magnus looks down at his half-finished cognac. He laughs in disbelief.
âYou were right about Camille,â he murmurs, swilling the brandy, wondering if he might find himself in the bottom of the glass. Heâs drained far too many bottles in his time, searching for exactly that without much luck. Instead, he finds heartache and hallucinations of men he hasnât seen in forever.
ââThat night was her one good deedâ, thatâs what you said. Wouldâve been nice if youâd given me a forewarning about her. But instead, here I am, drowning my sorrows -â He gestures suddenly with his hand and knocks his glass; the drink sloshes onto the bar. Magnus pouts.
The room spins, but now the edges are blurred. It could be magic, it might be magic, picking at the threads of time and space and slowly unravelling them, or maybe heâs past the point where heâs going to remember tonight and everything else he does now is moot. He has free reign to be stupid. Â
Alecâs hand sweeps up Magnusâ spine, a trail of white-hot heat that sticks to Magnusâ skin beneath his sweat-soaked shirt and waistcoat; Alec curls his fingers over Magnusâ shoulder and pushes Magnus back onto his bar stool.
Pretty strong for a figment of your drunken imagination, Magnus thinks. He didnât even realise he left his seat.
âMagnus -â Alec starts, slipping onto the bar stool next to him, and now, Magnus gets a good look at this apparition: the fierce set of his mouth, the handsome three days of stubble along his jaw, the bruised, worried look in his eyes that Magnus in no way deserves to receive. Heâs no older than that night at Blackfriars. Never older. Heâs like Magnus, in that way.
And oh, Magnus hates him. Hates the part of his brain that summoned him.
Donât talk to me , he thinks. Donât you dare to talk to me. I canât hear your voice, not tonight. Not when youâre just like the rest of them, but somehow worse than all. Never staying, always leaving.
Magnus grabs his drink and throws the last dredges of it down the throat. He slams the glass on the bar and turns to Alec - and it really is Alec, and not a stranger with Alecâs face. Â Magnus stares at him, searching, but his vision blurs, smeared by invisible fingers. The magic swarms around him, around Alec, drawn towards him like he has a magnet at the centre of his chest that thumps with the same beat as a heart.
âYouâre not even here,â Magnus mumbles, but he reaches out to jab Alec in the chest, and Alec is as solid and warm and unmoving as ever. âIâm just pretending that youâre here so that I can shout at you. So that Iâm not alone for yet another night -â
Alec wraps his fingers around Magnusâ wrist, stilling the prod of his finger into Alecâs sternum.
âMagnus,â he says quietly, âIâm here, Iâm real. Are you okay?â
âDo I look okay?â
Alecâs frown deepens. He stares at Magnus openly, the colour in his dark eyes swirling, but he holds Magnusâ hand fast against his chest, even as Magnus tries to pull away. âNo, you donât. Whatâs happened?â
Magnus laughs sharply. Drunkenly. âEveryone keeps leaving me. Thatâs what.â
He grabs his empty glass and leans across the bar, flagging down the bartender (â un whisky, s'il vous plaĂźt â), but Alec takes it from his hand and sets it aside, out of reach. He hands Magnus the water instead.
âMagnus, you know thatâs not true.â
âOh? I do, do I?â Magnus retorts. âThe man with the charango? Do you remember him? Five years that lasted, and then it was over. I watched him get on a boat in Callao and never come back. Or how about Camille? Or you .â
Alec glances around the bar, dragging his stool closer, but Magnus could not give a damn if anyone is staring. The cognac lights a fire in him; he feels it scorch, he feels it sear. It turns his insides black in sudden, irrational anger.
âMagnus, câmon -â
âIs it easy? To come and go and not have to say goodbye over and over again and not know when will be the next time I might see you? If youâre coming back at all?â
âMagnus -â
âItâs been fifty-seven years, Alec!â Magnus snaps, surging to his feet. The stool topples over, and Magnus grips the edge of the bar to save himself from the same fate. Blood rushes to his head and black spots pitter across his eyes as he sways. He clenches his teeth and screws tight his eyes until the ache fragments through his jaw and up into his temple. âFifty-seven years since that night on the bridge, do you know that? Iâve been counting. And every night since, Iâve looked for you, Iâve waited for you, Iâve - Iâve - every single man Iâve walked past, Iâve had to stop and check and see if itâs you. Iâve hoped for you .â
Alec stands too, reaching for Magnusâ shoulder. âMagnus, youâre drunk. Let me take you home.â
Magnus snorts, clumsily batting Alecâs hand away. ââLet me take you home?ââ he parrots, âDid that work on me the first time, hm? Is that the line you used? Is that the line I used?â
Alec suffers every blow, his mouth twitching, but the look in his eyes only grows more determined.
How much does it take to push you away? Magnus wants to beg. What do I have to say to make you leave and not come back?
âNo,â Alec says quietly, and he touches Magnus again, his hand on Magnusâ shoulder, his thumb brushing against Magnusâ neck, slipping beneath his cravat to find his pulsepoint. âNo. I said, ârelationships take effortâ. And then you said, âIâm all for effortâ, and you meant it.â
Magnus scoffs, but his heart aches painfully, like Alec has wormed his way past Magnusâ outer walls and taken his heart in a vice and squeezed. It sounds like him. It sounds like the sort of thing heâd say when faced with a beautiful Shadowhunter with infinite patience and a mouth worth kissing.
Magnusâ head swims again, and he staggers off balance. Alec is quick to catch him, looping his arm around Magnusâ back.
He buries his nose in Magnusâ hair, just behind Magnusâ ear. Alec breathes in deeply, and it steadies him. He breathes in deeply, and for a moment, Magnus wonders what it must be like for Alec to see the person he loves most in the world try agonizingly to pull himself apart, while Alec knows he wonât be around long enough to see it through.
âLet me take you home,â Alec whispers, âPlease.â
&&&
Montematre is moonlit as they stagger from the bar. Alec is strong, strong enough to support Magnusâ weight, probably strong enough to carry him, but Magnusâ coordination is shot to pieces.
Itâs not the only thing thatâs shattered. His resolve lies in fragments at his feet.
Red lights gleam in the dark as women hang from windows and call out to the late-night drunks in the street, beckoning them upstairs for the price of a few gold coins. A parade of towncars hurtle past, a young woman hanging out the window and screeching with laughter, waving her hat in Alecâs direction as the roar of the engine rumbles. They fade into the distance. And as far as the eye can see, there are rooftops, and there are men on the rooftops, singing love songs to a city that longs to be serenaded, who will stay up until the sky turns from blue to blush with the twilight.
Magnus dares not look up. He stares at his feet, willing his double-vision to go away so he can walk a straight line long enough to reach his apartment on the banks of the Seine - or at least summon a portal there.
He leans into Alecâs side, unbalanced, pressing his nose against the collar of Alecâs shirt; thereâs that sandalwood again and leather and the sweet sugar of magic, comforting, familiar, too much. Far too much.
Magnus needs more. Instead of whiskey, let him drown in this.
He pulls himself close, until every point on his body is flush with Alec, and he feels the surprised gasp leave Alecâs mouth and it almost feels good . Alecâs arm tightens around Magnusâ back, his fingers gripping Magnusâ waistcoat to stop them from toppling over, but thereâs a part of Magnus that wants to tumble to the ground. He wants to fall through the puddles that fill the gaps in the pavement, into the upside-down world, the other future where Alec is from, where theyâre in love, where this Alec loves all of him as he is now, and not just a figment.
Magnus buries his head in Alecâs shoulder. Words escape him, humid and nauseous against Alecâs throat.
âI canât wait another hundred years to see you again, Alexander.â
He hates it, he does. He hates the way Alec looks at him with a history they havenât yet shared.
Alecâs fingers dig into his ribs. A moment of hesitation. âYou wonât have to wait that long,â he murmurs, quiet enough to be a secret. âI promise.â
Magnus scoffs bitterly. âYou donât know that.â
Alec stops, forcing Magnus to stop too. Magnus squints at him, seeing double, but Alec shakes his head. âMagnus, I do.â
âHow?â
âBecause,â says Alec, and once again, Magnus feels the tug of magic kneading at his skin, a string of fate that wraps around his bottom rib and leads beyond his chest and enters Alecâs in exactly the same place. âYou and me, we always find our way back to each other. Whatever happens.â
Heâs said those words before, Magnus knows he has. Not to him, not yet, but - one day.
How far away is one day, Alec?
It doesnât matter. Alec believes it with every fibre of his being anyway. Magnus knows that too.
&&&
Sunrise hesitates just below the horizon by the time Magnusâ apartment comes into view, his feet aching terribly, blisters on his blisters. Heâd tried to call a portal, but his magic had spat out hisses and sparks, and now, he doesnât want to know how far theyâve walked across the city in a strange stupored silence.
The sky is pinkening in the distance, spilt with shades of orange as Magnus stumbles into the lobby of his building and Alec nods at the doorman. In the elevator, Magnus mashes the button for the penthouse and then leans back against the handrail, tilting his head against the mirrored wall. He pushes his shirt sleeves up about his elbows and undoes the buttons of his waistcoat, letting it hang loose, and then he catches his own reflection in the mirror on the other side: his cravat is crooked and his hair unkempt; his red-shot eyes; his makeup smudged and day-old.
Alec slides in next to him, his hands folded behind his back, and Magnus watch him in the mirror too. His eyes roam the long length of Alecâs body, his heavy boots and his fitted trousers, up to the holster lashed around his thigh and the buttons of his shirt. Magnus lingers on the lines of his neck disappearing into the open collar of his shirt, and then on his mouth as Alec worries on his lower lip, deep in thought.
Everything blurs in and out of existence. Magnusâ heart beats sluggishly, pulling itself through the cognac settled in his stomach.
The elevator shudders upwards and their eyes meet in the reflection in the mirror.
âDo you want to talk about it?â Alec asks.
Magnus shakes his head. âNo. Not really,â he murmurs. His temple now aches with the early onset of sobriety. âItâs a terribly sad story that doesnât bear repeating. Iâll be fine once Iâve slept it off.â
Alecâs frown deepens, and he looks down, fiddling with his wedding ring again. The silence is only disturbed by the ding of the elevator as it rises floor by slowing floor.
âCan I tell you something?â Alec asks, after a moment. He turns to Magnus; the magic confined to the small space of the elevator ripples but has nowhere to go. It bounces back against the mirror, colliding with itself, and Magnus has to pull his eyes away from the mid-distance, from the patterns no-one can see but him, to look at Alec.
âAlways.â
The corner of Alecâs mouth twitches upwards, almost a smile, but it fades. âWhen we meet, I - I never thought Iâd get this. I never thought Iâd meet someone like you and Iâd decided that was okay. Well, not okay, but liveable. I had my job, my family, my parabatai - other things. I thought I could get by without-â He gestures between them. â- this.â
âAnd then I swept into your life and changed all that?â
Alecâs smile blooms again, distant, sad, somewhat wry. Faint colour creeps up his neck. âNo. No, you came along and it - it made it worse. It was like, I could see what I could have and then it was even further out of my reach, yâknow? Everything else in my life, it was like black and white, but you - you were colour. And that terrified me. I got one tiny look at it - at us - and it made me realise that thatâs all Iâd ever get because I wasnât allowed to want it. You donât just get to be a Shadowhunter and - well. This.â Â
âThis,â Magnus repeats. âMarried?â
âNot just that. It was everything. And I ran away from it - or I tried. I was going to do something really stupid, but you ⊠Magnus, you never gave up on me, even then.â
A breath catches in Magnusâ throat; the hand of magic encircles its warm fingers around his windpipe and applies just enough pressure for his next words to come out as a whisper or maybe as a croak. âWhat are you trying to say?â
âI thought I was gonna be alone for my entire life. Iâd accepted it, just like you,â Alec says honestly, âI was wrong.â
The golden hand above the elevator doors tips over, and the doors open onto the penthouse. Magnus cannot move. His hands grip the bar behind him, and he stares at Alec, unwilling to blink, unable to take a breath.
He feels both cut adrift and rooted to this moment, held only to the ground by the steadfast look in Alecâs eyes. The universe moves around him, his determined heart at its very centre.
No, not the universe. Just yours.
Magnus sees that now.
âMagnus âŠâ Alec whispers, stepping forward and reaching out. His fingers brush against Magnusâ bare forearm leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Magnus jerks away. He feels the sickness of the alcohol, but not the dizziness.
You talked about being scared. I know that too. Iâm scared of this hurting my heart more than everything else thatâs happened before.
âLetâs go inside,â he murmurs, âI need to lie down.â
&&&
The haze before the dawn echoes with the rattling sound of tires on Parisian cobblestones, the moonlight barking of neighbourhood dogs, and the ever-present rumble of Parisâ heart slowly stirring into wakefulness, but Magnusâ room is still and silent. His bed is unmade where he left it yesterday morning, sheets rumpled and half-draped across the mattress, pillows strewn against the headboard. Clothes litter the floor, unpaired shoes and untied cravats, a dress of Camilleâs or two. On the bedside table, thereâs an uncorked and half-emptied bottle of whiskey.
Halfway between dreams and sleep, Magnus is vaguely aware of the throbbing in his forehead, but heâs too delirious to feel real pain, not with Alec floating at his back like a ghost, close enough to feel, not quite close enough to touch.
Good , Magnus thinks distantly, his eyelids heavy as he drops down on his mattress and kicks off his shoes, his whole body suddenly sore. Itâs more a hollow, tender feeling, as if his skin has coloured with poppy bruises, and clumsy, invisible hands poke and prod at these tender spots, as if seeking out old wounds. But the feeling doesnât ebb or flow or fade like it should - it just lingers, a present thought in his foggy head.
The dream is strange: emptiness and longing, the vastness of a lonely city, the sickening of alcohol, the want for pliant skin just for the sake of touch. The overwhelming presence of Alec in his space, standing before him with his hands clasped behind his back, both a dutiful soldier and a perfect husband, drenched in Magnusâ own magic and the nauseating spin of time and space thatâs not meant to be.
Magnus feels like he might vomit. God, what is wrong with me .
âAlexander,â he says, because he doesnât know what else to say. I need you. I need you in a way that I donât think you can give. Not yet.
Alec kneels down in front of him and lays his left hand on Magnusâ knee, his ring attracting the faint wisps of light that slip through the blinds.
âYouâre allowed to want things,â he says, âYou taught me that.â
âEven things I have no right wanting?â
âEven those,â Alec murmurs. âI wish I could give them to you.â
Magnus stirs, reaching out blindly for Alecâs jacket - the need to pull him close is overwhelming - but itâs Alecâs hand he finds, Alecâs hand that squeezes Magnusâ fingers tightly. His wedding ring feels cold now. Magnusâ focuses on that against the pounding in his head.
With his other hand, Alec loosens the cravat around Magnus throat and pulls it free of his collar, folding it carefully upon the nightstand. Then, he smooths Magnusâ hair away from his forehead, his fingers lingering against Magnusâ temple, as if drawn to the point where the blood pulses the loudest, knowing his touch will quiet it.
He knows everything about Magnus. All the tiny little things that no-one has ever paid attention to, Alec knows them intimately.
âMagnus,â Alec murmurs, his finger ghosting around the socket of Magnusâ eyes. âYou need to sleep. Sober up.â
âI wonât until youâre gone.â
âIt could be hours yet. Câmon. Iâll stay here with you.â
Magnus rolls onto his side, his cheek hitting the pillow - and the room swirls in dark colour - and he looks Alec in the eye. Alecâs expression is grave, his mouth drawn in a severe line. A crease appears between his eyebrows, and Magnus wishes it gone; it makes him look far older than he is. It makes him look as old as Magnus feels, like he has lived all these lifetimes between their visits too.
âStop that,â Magnus whispers. He untangles his hand from Alecâs and presses his thumb between Alecâs eyebrows, smoothing out his frown lines.
âStop what?â
Magnus shakes his head, and drags his thumb down the length of Alecâs nose, across his cupidâs bow, and onto his lips, pushing down until blood gathers at the touch and Alecâs lower lip blooms in a dark, perfect red.
Alec exhales carefully, cool against Magnusâ skin. His eyes are wide when Magnus finds them again.
âWill I see you again?â Magnus asks. He has to know. Sooner or later, Alec is going to vanish with the morning and not come back. The residual temporal energy will only last so long. Â
âThe magicâs not gone yet,â Alec replies, but the sorrow lingers. âMaybe - maybe Iâve got one jump left. I donât know.â
âAm I getting close?â
âClose?â
âClose to you, in your present. My future. Wherever it is that you are and I am not.â
Alec doesnât speak for a moment, but Magnus can see him thinking. His thumb rubs at the bare knuckle of Magnusâ fourth finger. Â
âItâs soon,â he settles on, but he still wonât tell Magnus exactly when. âBut I canât-â
Just give me a year , Magnus thinks. Give me a decade. Something to hold onto.
âBut you canât just wish away your life waiting to catch up, Magnus,â Alec continues, âThereâs so much - thereâs so much youâre gonna miss, and youâll regret it if you do. Thereâs so much ahead of you that makes you who you are -â He takes Magnusâ hand by the wrist and draws his fingers close; he presses a soft, worshipful kiss to the pad of Magnusâ thumb. âIt makes you the man I fell in love with.â
Magnusâ heart lurches. âAre you always so frank?â
Alec smiles softly. âYou love it.â
I do , Magnus realises. God above, I do.
FIVE | BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, USA, 1989
âThatâs the last of them,â says Catarina, as the portal closes behind her, the swirling orange magic dissipating into sparks that extinguish on the rug. âI never thought weâd get the High Warlock of Madrid taking refugees from the Circle - what did you offer him? Diamonds? Jewels? Oh, Magnus, it better not be your apartment in London, I know how long heâs been coveting that.â
âI am most certainly not giving him the apartment,â Magnus says, âThe old coot just owed me a favour from a very long time ago and I decided to cash it in. The High Warlock may be a stick in the mud, but very few people hate Shadowhunters as much as him. He wonât let Valentine Morgenstern come within a spellâs throw of the Warlock community in Spain.â
Magnus swans towards his drinks stand and picks up two glasses: one, tall and thin-stemmed with a trio of olives propped against the rim, and the other dark and purple and glittery. He holds it out to Cat, but she raises her palm and shakes her head.
Magnus raises his eyebrows, a silent â suit yourself â as he takes a sip of his drink. âBesides,â he continues, licking the taste of the martini from his lips, âThereâs nothing he could give me in exchange for that apartment. Where else would I stay when visiting Ragnor, if not there?â
Catarina rolls her eyes. âYou havenât visited Ragnor in fifty years. You and I both know thatâs not the reason you want to keep that apartment. I seem to remember you insisting that you needed it for a very special occasion, last time the High Warlock tried to buy it off you.â
Magnus waves his hand noncommittally. âI was drunk. Whatever I said canât be held against me.â
âSo youâre denying it then?â Cat says, but her eyebrow is raised and her mouth curves into a wry, crooked grin. She folds her hands across her chest and cocks her hip. âYou donât remember saying you were going to spend your honeymoon in London and youâve already planned it all out, despite the fact you and I both know youâve never been married, not once in eight hundred years, even though Iâm pretty sure a number of people have asked you -â
âI said no such thing, and even if I did, I maintain that I was incredibly drunk. Youâre putting words in my mouth, Catarina.â
Magnus flicks his fingers and the balcony doors swing open, daylight streaming into the loft from across the East River in shafts of yellow. He squints, raising one hand to shield his eyes. The shapes of skyscrapers coalesce; the Brooklyn Bridge catches the reflection of the water and the brown stone ripples.
Magnus wanders out onto the balcony, setting his glass down on the edge and spreading his hands wide. He surveys the city: the bustle of Brooklyn, the cacophony of car horns and the sound of construction, Manhattan looming in the distance.
The city that never sleeps. Except when Shadowhutners are killing and torturing Downworlders and then, then itâs time to turn a blind eye -
Catarina hesitates in the doorway, watching him from afar. He doesnât turn back to look at her, but he can feel her eyes on his back.
âAre you worried?â she asks. Itâs a loaded question and only has one answer.
âIâm worried about a lot of things,â Magnus replies, âIâm worried that Valentine Morgenstern and his lackeys are going to wipe out the Downworld population of New York. Iâm worried that we canât trust the Shadowhunters to look out for our best interests any more, not if it means going against other Nephilim. Weâre on our own.â
âThe Shadowhunters have always been that way,â Cat frowns, âTrusting them is stupid, youâve said so yourself. Nephilim are all the same.â
Not all of them , Magnus thinks, not one. I still have hope that things can change.
But we canât afford to wait for that. Too many Downworld lives are on the line.
Magnus sighs heavily, turning to face her. He leans back against the edge of the balcony. âNo, youâre right,â he says, âIâll summon the other Downworld leaders and weâll discuss how best to deal with the New York Institute. Iâll send you a fire message so you can be there.â
âIâll do my best,â says Cat, âIâm moving a lot of people out of the city this week. Iâve got a clan of Vampires going to Tokyo tonight, and another six Warlocks to send to Madrid. Itâs hard enough summoning so many portals, but harder still when we have to hide the magical trace from the Nephilim so that they donât know what weâre doing. My magic is shot and Iâm exhausted.â
Magnus smiles tightly. âYou worked for the Underground Railroad in the fifties, Cat. Thereâs no-one else I would trust with this.â
âYeah, the eighteen fifties. That was a long time ago, Magnus. I thought weâd seen the last of this. Genocidal maniacs hunting and killing our people.â
So did I , Magnus thinks. So did I .
&&&
He lingers on the balcony a while after sheâs gone, long after his drink is empty. He runs his fingers up the stem of the glass and listens to it sing, a sound shrill and sharp against the rumble of the city at large.
He has so much to do - potions to make and clients to call, and there are a stack of fire messages on his desk waiting to be read, all from young Warlocks desperate for his help to get out of the city before the Circle find them - but he finds he cannot move, not for a quiet moment that seems slotted in between the passage of time. His eyes follow a lone seagull coasting on the updraughts, hanging motionless in the bright blue sky. It bobs in the wind, its caws carrying across Brooklyn, and it lulls Magnus into a stupor where the rest of the world is drowned out.
His magic envelops him, a shield between him and New York, between him and the world he has stopped running from and finally turned to face. He taps his fingernail upon the stone edge of the balcony and listens to his magic reverberate - tip, tip, tip - and then he feels a swell, a gentle pushing on his wards at his front door.
Magnus frowns, peering back into the loft. The protective magic shifts again, but rather than someone trying to break in, scratching and plucking at the spell, desperate to unravel it, it feels as if its a curtain parted and someone slips through quietly. Very few people can get past Magnusâ wards - he can count them on one hand. Catarina, Raphael, Ragnor - if the old bat ever left his cottage in England to say hello to a friend who misses him - Â
Frozen, he watches as the front door opens, and then, slipping into the loft like heâs lived there all his life - Alec.
His Alexander. Of course the wards already know him. He was woven into their magic before Magnus even cast the spell.
Magnusâ heart beats loudly, a rhythm he hasnât felt in a long time, a reverberation in his chest that he knows intimately, locked away in his memories. Â
He watches Alecâs eyes dart around the loft, lingering on the drinks bar and frowning at the large sofa Magnus has been planning to switch out for something more modern. He sets his bow and quiver down by the door, and then his fingertips trail across the back of an armchair, and he steps around the rugs on the floor without even looking, as if he already knows where they lie.
A smile curves Alecâs beautiful mouth: itâs soft, loose, completely at peace. His gaze flicks up and he sees Magnus standing on the balcony, and that same smile blooms with the sunlight as it passes across his face.
And in that moment, Magnus realises: this is his home .
This loft in Brooklyn is Alecâs home. Itâs their home. They live here together, theyâve made a life here together; this space is Alecâs space.
âHello, stranger,â Magnus says, leaning back against the balcony, basking in the roam of Alecâs eyes up the length of his body as he, too, steps out into the view of Brooklyn. âArenât you a sight for sore eyes?â
âWhat year is it?â Alec asks. Heâs wearing his usual jeans and jacket, but his shirt shines with subtle silver thread, and Magnus knows that same shirt sits in his closet right now, still in its garment bag. Magnus bought it only last week.
.
â1989,â Magnus says, curving his body towards Alec as Alec rests his hip against the stone railing. âGeorge Bush is President, the High Warlock of Bangkok skipped my birthday party, and Madonna released an excellent fourth album. Itâs hard to guess what might go down in history.â
âSixty years since Paris,â Alec remarks.
âThe blink of an eye,â Magnus says, offering a smile. âYou donât have a single grey hair.â
Alec ducks his head on a blush. The corners of his eyes crinkle. âGot a couple wrinkles though. Perils of the job, I guess.â
Magnus hums. He could say that the faint lines around Alecâs eyes make him handsome, or he could remark on how he wouldnât mind feeling the bite of Alecâs stubble against his skin - and it all would deepen the colour in Alecâs cheeks - but heâs content enough just to look.
So, he looks. He looks, he marvels, and while the ache in his chest is still there, itâs quietened. Itâs softened. It doesnât bruise him anymore because heâs made peace with it, with the tenderness of his skin and his carefully-concealed heart whenever Alec is nearby.
The magic trickles across his skin, the barest touch. A long time ago on the streets of Madrid, it was a flood, a wave punching against his chest, but now, the same temporal magic fades, hissing across the metaphorical sand as it retreats back into the sea.
The spell is weakening, the tear in space and time slowly stitching itself back together, and soon enough, Alec will no longer be able to step through. But Alec - oh, his eyes have softened and he gazes at Magnus with such an overflowing amount of love, and Magnus wants to know how he ever missed it.
How he ran into that Shadowhunter all those centuries ago and didnât know what this was at first glance. Â
I shouldâve known you then as I do now. I shouldâve known you then as youâve known me always.
âWhat?â Alec asks, his smile slanted.
Magnus shakes his head. âNothing. Itâs nothing.â Â
Disantly, Magnus hears a hiss, the whistle of a fire message cutting through his wards. He snatches it out of mid-air, embers cooling on his fingertips, the edges of the parchment scorched.
âIs it urgent?â Alec asks.
âNo,â Magnus replies, but he scrunches up his mouth and frowns anyway. âItâs Catarina. Sheâs been moving Downworlders out of the city and needs my help with masking the energy signature of a portal.â
âMoving Downworlders - oh . The Circle. Valentine.â
âThe fact that youâve heard of him doesnât fill me with much hope,â says Magnus, snapping his fingers and turning the fire message to ash. He nods at Alec to follow him inside.
âI donât know him, Iâve met him,â Alec corrects, âWish I hadnât.â His voice drops and he fiddles with his ring. âWish you hadnât.â Â
âThere are a great many things I wish I hadnât done,â says Magnus, leading the way into the loft and towards his study. âBut as someone very wise once told me, you canât just wish away the things that made you who you are.â
Even with his Shadowhunter reflexes, thereâs something endearing in the way Alec almost walks into a bookcase, unaccustomed to it being next to the door. Alec glares at it, and Magnus huffs with laughter, sliding behind his desk. He picks up the stack of unburnt fire messages next to his quill and leafs through them.
âThe Circle is torturing Downworlders,â he says as Alec hovers on the other side of the desk. âCatarina and I are ferrying as many as we can out of New York to sanctuary cities. The New York Warlock council is not happy with me, of course, because they think we should stay and fight, but - as High Warlock of Brooklyn, my responsibility is to the safety of my people first, and not to the war that Valentine Morgenstern is so eager to fight. Itâs kept me very busy.â
âIâm glad,â says Alec, âI mean - Iâm not glad that this is happening, just that youâre - that youâve found purpose. Back in Paris, I thought - I was - you save people , Magnus. Thatâs what you do.â
âYou flatter me.â
âItâs the truth.â
Magnus hesitates, but Alec doesnât look away. The way he stares, sometimes, wide-eyed and earnest and unblinking, makes Magnus feel so see-through. And itâs in those moments that Magnus finds he knows himself, the truest version of who he is and what he can do: he sees himself as Alec sees him.
Whole.
Magnus clears his throat pointedly and summons his caldron and pestle and mortar to his desk.
âI need to make a magical restoration potion for Catarina,â he explains, âCan you pass me the cypress? Itâs in the jar on the -â
Alec reaches out and grabs a small glass jar from the shelf behind him, handing it to Magnus. He doesnât read the label, but as Magnus uncorks the jar and turns it upside down, a few green branchlets shake out into his palm. Magnus inhales the sweetness of pine and the dry peppery smell of juniper.
âYou knew where that was without even looking,â he murmurs, staring at his hand, âI know what that means.â
âWhat does it mean?â
âIt means Iâm getting close.â
Magnus crushes the cypress leaves in his fist and tosses them into his cauldron, and then he steps around the desk, crowding Alec against the pantry. The glass jars clink as Alecâs shoulders knock against the shelf.
âItâs a different me,â Alec murmurs, âI told you, when we first meet, Iâm -â
âYouâre still you,â Magnus says. âThatâs all that matters.â
Magnus cups Alecâs neck, kneading his thumbs into the soft, pliant skin beneath Alecâs jaw. It makes Alecâs lips part on instinct. His heartbeat is traitorously loud.
âI think this is the last time Iâm going to see you,â Alec whispers. âThe magic left over from that spell is wearing off, so I probably wonât - â His sentence breaks and he swallows thickly, and Magnus follows the slow, pronounced bob of his throat. Magnus strokes his fingers over the tendons in Alecâs neck, feeling them jump and shift with his touch. âI probably wonât get to âŠâ
âYou have your own future,â Magnus replies, âAnd I have mine. Youâve known from the start that this meeting was an accident.â
Alec chews on his lower lip, his head jerking. His eyes have grown dark, his irises eclipsed by his pupils. One hand comes up to cover Magnusâ against the side of his throat. His wedding ring glints and feels cold against Magnusâ fingers.
âIt happens soon,â Alec confesses, and the words tumble out as if he might regret them if he says them any slower. âLess than thirty years. In Manhattan -â
âSpoilers, surely?â
â- and I take one look at you and it terrifies me, because I want it so much and Iâd never wanted anyone like that before.â
Magnus sucks in a sharp breath, and then he surges up onto the balls of his feet, threading his fingers through Alecâs hair, and he kisses Alec hard.
Alec stumbles back into the shelves and the jars and pots and trinkets clink and jangle, but none of them break, and Alec grips Magnus by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him close.
Magnusâ magic stutters - and then it leaps. He feels it surge into Alec at every point they touch, and Alec returns it in like: Magnusâ own magic, but more, outpouring with this timeless and irrevocable love that makes no sense, and yet, here Magnus is, cradling it between two palms and feeling the way is disturbs the universe - palpable, tangible thing.
Alec kisses him deeply, his tongue flicking against the seam of Magnusâ mouth, his teeth nipping at Magnusâ lower lip. He kisses Magnus like heâs been kissing him for years - and God, he has, he has - and he knows each and every way to make Magnusâ heart beat faster.
Then, Magnus can feel his smile: tiny, guilty, perfect, and the kiss softens. Alec presses his lips to the corner of Magnusâ mouth, to his jaw, to the soft skin of his cupidâs bow as Magnus, each one more gentle than the last as Magnus threads his fingers through the dark hair above Alecâs ears.
And Alec trembles, the magic they share trembles, shivering through Magnusâ fingers and up his arms and into his chest where it bounces across each rib. It breathes, and Magnus takes each of Alecâs shaky inhales and exhales as his own.
The kiss fades, until itâs just the brush of Alecâs lips across his, and then Alec tilts his forehead against Magnusâ, his breathing deep. His fingers are still knotted in the lapels of Magnusâ jacket.
âI never -â Alec whispers, and Magnus feels every word against his mouth. âI never thought that Iâd - that felt like our first kiss again. I never thought Iâd feel it a second time.â
Magnus brushes his nose against Alecâs. âAnd which of us did it better?â he asks, âHim or me?â
âYou. Always you,â Alec murmurs, âHe is you.â
The buzzing in the magic has yet to dissipate, and Magnus can feel the invisible threads of the fading spell wrap their tendrils around Alecâs arms and legs and begin to tug. They donât have long.
Magnus closes his eyes, holding Alec near to him. âI stand no chance, Alexander,â he confesses, âThe moment I meet you, Iâm already going to feel so -â
âIâm going to feel the same thing. I promise.â
Magnus shakes his head. Alec doesnât understand it; he canât. The feeling has always been too big for Magnus, to unwieldy for him to grasp, and yet Alec lives and breathes it: this thing called love.
âIt makes no sense, but I know you,â Magnus says. âI know who you are in the same way I know my magic. Itâs intimate. Inherent to who I am, and yet itâs a life I havenât yet lived.â
âItâll make sense,â Alec replies, and his lifts his hand to cup Magnusâ jaw, but the touch of his fingertips is incorporeal. His eyes find Magnusâ, endlessly. âIt makes sense to me.â Â
âI look forward to meeting you,â Magnus whispers, as Alecâs skin turns translucent and becomes the same dust particulates always suspended in a beam of silent sunlight.
PLUS ONE | MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, USA, 2016
The lights of Pandemonium pulse with electrochromic intensity: blue, purple, green, white, strobe passing across the crowd like a searchlight, plunging young thrill seekers in and out of shadow. The floor is sticky with spilled beer, the air is sweet and sickly with Seelie magic, but itâs the music that laves across Magnusâ skin and always fills him with that heady rush.
That, and the power flickering in his fingertips as he summons a portal, the thrill of holding a Shadowhunter by the throat with just the lick of his magic, the power pulsing from the red jewel in his hand, returned to him by Clary Fairchild and that insufferable blonde Shadowhunter, and engraved on the back with the single word, amor -
True love can never die .
âLook out!â
The arrow comes out of nowhere, piercing a hidden Circle member through the heart. The man falls with a thud, but electricity skitters up the back of Magnusâ neck.
He turns. The archer comes striding down the stairs and pushes his way through the crowd, brushing Magnusâ shoulder on his way to retrieve the arrow. Heâs young - painfully young - and skittish and beautiful and, at last, unfamiliar.
Thereâs not a single wisp of temporal magic to be felt. The universe, for once, is whole and faultless.
Itâs taken almost four hundred years.
âWho are you?â Magnus asks, already breathless. He knows the answer. What was it heâs supposed to say? More like medium rare?
He watches the Shadowhunter toss his Seraph blade in the air and catch it. The roaming yellow-gold lights of the club pass across his bare forearms, the empty space on his left ring finger.