#saphael fic

It wasn’t even a fight. Wrong place, wrong time, and now he’s sat against a disease dumpster with a bullet in his chest whilst a mugger swans off into the night to shoot innocent civilians another day. It’s stupid and pointless and maybe ironic — thanks Alanis Morisette for confusing him about that one — and all he’d wanted to do was take a short cut home for games night with his family.

His family.

Fuck.

Raphael’s going to kill him.

He’s supposed to be home, tucked up on the couch in a hoodie Raphael’s tried to throw out at least three times, laughing every time Maggie accidentally beats them all at something she’s never played and Jagger looks sad and confused, and pretending they don’t see Aarav trying to cheat under Raphael’s approving eye.

Instead he’s going to catch, like, syphilis or something.

If he doesn’t bleed out first. The gunshot missed his heart, he’s pretty sure, otherwise he’d be dust right about now, but that doesn’t mean he’s in the clear. The blood loss to healing time ration does not seem to be in his favor.

Yeah.

He’s screwed.

He should shout out, but if a random Mundane walks into this alley right now, he’s gonna bite them. He’s gonna bite them and drain their blood and maybe kill them, and it doesn’t matter how much he tries not to, the survival instinct is too ingrained. He doesn’t want to kill some poor person who’s just trying to help.

He could call someone, but he’s not sure where his phone is. On the floor somewhere, probably, because he’d been playing Tetris whilst walking like an idiot, and then, boom, gunshot, and, yeah.

There’s probably a few life lessons in here.

It’s kinda ridiculous how he’s died for real but this feels worse. The first time it was some big, dramatic event; players all spread out across the board to win someone else’s game, and Simon had his part and performed it perfectly despite no one asking for his permission. He died and he woke up, and then life kept moving on and on until he took control and carved out a space for himself and the people he’d chosen.

The people he loves.

The people he should be with right now, fuck—

He can practically hear Raphael’s voice, annoyed and impatient and boxed up with worry that Simon’s learnt to unpack and hold close, and God, he feels so shitty for doing this to him, they’d had so many plans, made so many promises—

Simon’s not ready to leave him. He’s not ever going to be ready.

“Simon!” Raphael shouts, and Simon blinks, looks up and, wow, if he’s hallucinating then he’s further gone than he’d thought…

“Hi,” he says, and smiles even though everything hurts because it’s Raphael, even if he is only in his head.

Of course then Raphael’s there, pressing down on the bullet wound, and oh, okay, sure, yeah, not a hallucination if it’s hurts that fucking much, wow.

“How—” he just about manages, because now the delirium’s given way to agony his brain’s a little less capable of processing words, but Raphael understands all the same because of course he does. He always has.

“GPS,” he says. “I’ve had us linked on Find My Phone for months for this exact reason,” he says, which should probably sound a bit stalkerish but mostly just makes Simon love him even more.

God does he love him.

He thinks he should probably say something, give Raphael a rundown of injuries or whatever, but he’s struggling to stay conscious, and besides, Raphael’s already putting pressure on the wound, taking charge the way only a natural born leader can, and Simon wishes he could appreciate it more but mostly he’s trying desperately to just keep what little control he has left and not give in to the dark completely.

“Okay,” Raphael says, and Simon opens his eyes to find him tugging off his own jacket and pulling at the collar of his shirt. “Ready?”

Simon blinks at him.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Raphael says, and pulls Simon’s head to his neck in one sudden movement.

Simon freezes.

There’s a part of him — the part born in the Du Mort, born of fear and hunger and action — that knows precisely what to do. The same part that’s singing at the very thought, his veins itching for it, and the haze of animal instinct insistent in its drive for survival. It wouldn’t be the first time. It won’t be the last.

But—

It’s Raphael.

“No,” he says, and tries to push away. He can’t, which says a lot about his health right now, and Raphael holds him tight.

“Yes,” he says, like it’s easy. Like this isn’t rocking Simon’s world to the core. “Baby, I know. I know. But if you don’t feed in the next two minutes I’m going to be taking you home in an urn, and I won’t be the one to tell Aarav you died because you were too sentimental to just fucking drink.”

He’s shaking, Simon realizes. The fingers at the back of his neck are running through his hair, and oh, his heart’s beating so fast. He’s scared, but not of Simon, for Simon.

If everything else wasn’t going to shit, Simon thinks he’d be overwhelmed by that level of trust.

“What if I can’t—”

“You will,” Raphael says, total certainty in his voice, and Simon wants to hold him and kiss him and tell him it’ll be okay.

He also wants to taste him. Needs to.

His self-control can only last so long.

“Now,” Raphael says, and Simon does as he’s told.

The skin gives under his fangs, the slightest push, so careful not to tear, and then there’s blood on his tongue, running down his throat, and he’s drinking as fast as he can, feeling his body respond as his chest begins to thread itself back together. He drinks and he drinks and he drinks, and through it all he can hear Raphael’s slowing heartbeat, feel him like fire under desperate, clinging hands.

He thinks this might be what heaven feels like.

Or hell.

He’s not sure it matters either way.

When his strength returns just enough, he swallows one last time, savours the taste of blood, of life, of Raphael, and forces himself to put his fangs away. Laps at the split skin and then presses his mouth there instead, under his ear and up his jaw, searching until he finds Raphael’s lips, slack and a little blue, and Simon kisses him over and over until Raphael’s breathing’s back to normal, his heart steady and loud and every lullaby Simon’s learnt to love, and he kisses Simon back, digging his nails into Simon’s scalp and holding on as tightly as he can, like he’s scared to let Simon go.

“Food,” he says eventually, leaning away, and Simon chases him for one more, two more, three more kisses. “I need food and water and warmth.”

“Yeah,” Simon says, and lifts Raphael to his feet, wraps his arm around his shoulders so they can hold each other up. “I’ve got you."

“Home,” Raphael says, leaning his head on Simon’s shoulder.

Raphael’s blood is still on the back of his tongue and in his veins, like coffee and magic and life.

“Isabelle,” Maia says, trying to get her attention.

Izzy huffs, annoyed. “Does no one call me Izzy anymore?” she asks, hands on her hips, “what’s even the point of having a nickname?”

Clary laughs. “Come on, babe, she’s your girlfriend, let her be.”

Her eyes are glinting in that particular way they only do when she’s looking at Izzy, soft and adoring in such an obvious, simple way. Izzy smiles at her, pretense gone.

Or half-gone. “It’s not just Maia though. Didn’t you hear what I said? Everyone in here calls me Isabelle. Even the ones I don’t date,” she points a finger nonchalantly at Simon and Raphael, lounging on the couch.

Raphael freezes for a second, but Simon is unphased. “Well, in our defense, we used to,” he says, raising his hands as if in surrender.

“Oh, I see,” she says in that way she does when she’s being sarcastic, teasing and grinning, “so everyone who dates me must call me Isabelle? I don’t remember that part of the Accords.”

Raphael, Maia and Clary roll their eyes in unison. Simon is, again, unphased. He just shrugs. “I guess we were all trying to Alexander you, but since we all had the same idea, it doesn’t feel special anymore,” he reasons. “But now it’s too late, because it’s caught on.”

Raphael grimaces instantaneously. “I’m not trying to copy Magnus’ relationship,” he says.

Meliorn nods in his direction like he’s just said something wise. “There was also no plagiarism on my part. I simply think Isabelle is a beautiful name,” they explain. “Besides, names are essences. Saying it is bringing you close to me,” they finish with a half smile, leaning a little towards Isabelle and putting their hands on her waist. She looks up at them, grinning, eyes shining in that particular way that only Isabelle’s can. Raphael’s always thought her eyes were something like gems, big and shiny and precious, like the light that went through them fragmented outwards, revealing a new world.

It’s much better than in the closest memories he has of her, when they were glassed over, almost closed, almost dull. Lost facing inwards.

He is grateful for that, too.

Raphael might not be in love with her anymore, but he does love her. And he’s happy to see her so recovered.

Isabelle holds Meliorn by the jaw and leans to kiss them, back pressed against their chest. There’s a smile in both of their lips. Maia jokingly slaps her arm. “I had a question to ask you,” she reminds her.

“Sorry,” Izzy answers, in that way of hers that sounds sincere while simultaneously saying that she doesn’t regret it all, “got distracted by the whole Alexandering discussion.”

“Don’t call it that,” Raphael says.

“Agreed,” Meliorn murmurs.

“Doesn’t look like that’s what distracted you,” Maia laughs.

Raphael rolls his eyes again. Simon nudges him with his elbow. “Stop pretending you hate love,” he says.

“I don’t hate love, I hate the idea that I’d ever try to emulate Lightwood’s relationship,” Raphael argues.

“Lightwood-”

“-Bane, yes, yes, I know,” he finishes before Simon can. These two had been pointing that out to everybody for so long it looks like the entire world must correct him now. “Will I ever be free?” he looks upwards, as if accusing God of abandonment.

Simon rolls his eyes. “You sound like a jealous stepchild.”

“You’ve become real brave, fledgeling,” Raphael counters, pointing an accusing finger at him. Simon doesn’t even look at it. Damn him and his complete disregard for fake drama. It’s like he’s not even part of the Shadow World.

“Just telling it like it is. You had nothing against Alec before he started dating Magnus.”

“Of course I did. He’s a shadowhunter.”

Simon rolls his eyes. “So’s Izzy.”

“Don’t remind me,” he says sourly.

“So what, you can date a shadowhunter, but Magnus can’t?”

“I’m dating a Seelie.”

“Who dates a shadowhunter, who’s also your ex,” Simon raises his eyebrows in challenge. Then immediately ruins it by overexplaining, “meaning you used to date her. Who’s a shadowhunter. So you dated a shadowhunter. So you can date shadowhunters,” he finishes, in a triumphant tone.

“Yes, I got all that from the first part,” Raphael answers.

“So you don’t have a problem with Alec.”

Raphael huffs. Simon is exhausting sometimes, but even more so when he’s right. “Doesn’t mean I have to like that he’s dating Magnus.”

“I think marriage is a little past dating.”

He grimaces like he’s just taken a bite of an onion. “Right, so even worse.”

Simon’s been rolling his eyes an awful lot lately. “So what, you think Alec isn’t good for Magnus?”

“No,” Raphael answers immediately, then curses himself and Simon for taking the truth out of him so easily. “I’d have to be an idiot. Magnus has never been happier. He deserves everything, and Lightwood, for all his stupid, at least knows that.”

Simon’s grinning like he just won a prize. Raphael feels the need to cover his eyes, and thinks some half-cooked thought about daylighters and sunrays. Which doesn’t even make sense, because he’s also a daylighter now, and he definitely doesn’t- for lack of a better word, shine. Simon is just like that. Untouched by the shadows.

Which is why he’s so annoying most of the time.

“Lightwood-Bane,” Raphael corrects with a small tilt of his head, turning away from Simon so he doesn’t see his lips twitching. Then, before this becomes some sort of moment, “But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Jealous stepson,” Simon sing-songs.

“I’m not his stepson!”

“He married your dad, he’s your stepdad.”

“No. Magnus isn’t even my dad. He’s just Magnus.”

“Oh, so he isn’t family?”

“Of course Magnus is family.”

“Then so’s Alec, because they’re married, and when you marry you enter the family.”

Raphael groans. Maia, Izzy and Clary all giggle, and Simon does a little bow for them like this is some sort of show. Meliorn’s lips are tugging, but they maintain eye contact with Raphael for the entire duration of his betrayed glare.

“Like I said. Jealous stepson,” Simon finishes. “Unless you have a great closing argument.”

“To be fair,” Meliorn says, “Lightwood did punch him.” There’s no amusement in their eyes now, jaw set and nose twitching. Raphael and Izzy both jolt at that. Raphael wasn’t even thinking about- it.

“He was protecting his sister,” Raphael mumbles. He barely even fought back at the time. But he’s not going to say it, because last time he did, it just made Meliorn angrier.

“It was my fault,” Izzy says.

“We both-”

“Raphael,” Izzy says, eyes begging. Her gem eyes look like they’re full of tears, even when they’re not. Isabelle has this way of telling tragedies with her eyes, sad and mournful like an epic tale that's destined for doom.

Raphael relents. He still isn’t willing to let himself off the hook, but- “Fine. But Alec did apologize, when Isabelle told him the full story.” It was an awkward moment.

But it wasn’t bad.

“Working against yourself here, buddy,” Simon points out. Then, at Raphael’s glare, “what? I’m just saying, Meliorn gave you a great point to use and you’re just giving it back.”

“I suppose guilt overrides jealousy,” Meliorn says, still sounding like a soldier ready for battle.

Raphael would reach for their hand, maybe give it a soft kiss, because he hates seeing them act like they’re still at war and need to endure torture and killings, but- “I’m not jealous.”

“You know," Meliorn begins, in a wise, musing tone, "us Fae Folk have spent centuries mastering the art of wordplay, half-truths, diplomacy and trickery. It’s always amazed me how you, monorealms, can simply… Say things that aren’t true,” they say, smirking at the end. “Must save you a lot of time.”

“I hate all of you,” Raphael says solemnly, getting up to get some blood-infused cake so he can have a dramatic exit.

“Is this a sentence, or just another example?” Meliorn calls back.

Raphael laughs. It’s loud enough for them to hear from the other room.