Chapter Text
When Magnus opens his eyes, the world is blurry.
He’s by a river. On the opposite bank, towering glass skyscrapers are casting down sharp lights that are distorted by the rippling waters at their feet. Overhead, the sky is a dark, inky black, pricked with a scattering of shimmering stars. But on the ground, down below, New York is awake.
He blinks. The world becomes clear.
There’s a whisper, like a rustle of fabric, that makes him tear his gaze away from the river. But he’s alone. There’s nobody with him.
He can’t quite remember why he’s here. There was something he had to do, but—
No. One too many drinks, probably. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s ended up in the middle of the city on a whim.
He lifts a hand to rub at the corner of his eye, and—
Oh. He’s—crying? Why is he crying?
“Magnus.”
A cold chill runs along Magnus’ neck and down his spine. He spins tight on his heel, and magic flares at his fingertips, and—
Magic.
He stares down at his hands, stunned into immobility for a moment. Magic. His magic. Not Lorenzo’s magic. His own, singing through him, so in tune to his body that it moves almost before he does.
He’d given up his magic to defeat Lilith’s Owl, because he was a soft touch and hadn’t wanted to commit murder, and Clary had begged him to save her boyfriend. Jace hadn’t done anything wrong - at least not to Magnus’ knowledge. He couldn’t bring himself to kill an innocent in cold blood, or to break Clary’s heart. Not when he felt somewhat responsible for her, after so many years of diligently taking her memories and keeping her in the dark.
Next time, he thought, he’d settle with murder. It’s not like one of the Angel’s children would ever think to pay him the same courtesy.
“I see you’ve noticed my gift.”
Magnus’ gaze snaps up. His nostrils flare as he stares Asmodeus down, daring him to try something. Topside, if they fight, Asmodeus can’t count on winning. Besides, there’s nothing for Asmodeus to manipulate him with. He hasn’t had anything to lose for more than a century for precisely that reason.
But something doesn’t feel quite right. He feels unbalanced. Hazy. Not to mention the fact that he really, really can’t remember anything that’s happened in the last day. And he can feel a headache building at his temples.
Definitely too much alcohol.
“Your gift?” he asks, Asmodeus’ words catching up with him. “What are you talking about?”
Asmodeus arches an eyebrow and spreads his hands wide. “Your magic. I decided it was high time to return it to you. Especially after your, ah, tragic incident yesterday.”
“Incident?” Magnus demands, but he doesn’t lower his hands. He won’t let Asmodeus wreck havoc around New York. Especially not now he’s regained his magic. The first item on his agenda is kicking Lorenzo out of his house and out of his position—letting a Prince of Hell wander around mundanes will hardly lend him sympathy from the other warlocks.
“Of course. I’m your father. My son needed me. In light of what that boy did to you—” Asmodeus stops. Tilts his head to one side. “Well. It seemed to me like you might wish to retire from this world. Perhaps seek solace elsewhere. Away from mortals, who are, as we both know, unendingly fickle.”
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Magnus says, sharply, “but if you think I’m coming back to Edom just because you’ve deigned to give me back my magic, then I’m afraid you’ve set yourself up for disappointment.”
Asmodeus’ brow furrows. He watches Magnus for a long, heavy moment, and then rocks back on his heels, eyes widening.
Magnus would quite like him to hurry the fuck up and finish his cryptic bitching so that Magnus can send him back to hell. His headache is beginning to get distracting.
“No,” Asmodeus says softly, lips parted in what Magnus can only diagnose as shock. “No. You wouldn’t. You didn’t.”
His magic falters. “What?”
“You never have before,” Asmodeus continues, as though he hasn’t heard Magnus speak. “Why now? Why him?”
“What—”
“No.” Asmodeus’ eyes blaze with fury, yellow irises that had drawn Magnus in when he was so young flashing in the pseudo-dark of the New York nighttime. “No, this can’t have been pointless. A mere mortal can’t have ruined all my plans.”
Magnus shakes his head. He doesn’t give a fuck about his father’s raving lunacy. He wants to go home, have a bubble bath, and eat a steak. Perhaps with a side of Tylenol.
“Right,” he says, shooting a spark of warning towards Asmodeus. “Now that we’ve got that cleared up, I’m afraid it’s time for you to head back home, Father.”
***
“Alec?”
Alec looks up from where he’s been idly staring down at the report on his desk for the last hour. It’s not complicated: Asmodeus is on the loose. A warlock is dead. They need to fix it.
It’s his fault. Not that anybody else knows that.
Nobody except—
“What is it, Iz?” he asks, exhaling his exhaustion and clamping down on his heartache.
He can still feel the phantom press of Magnus’ mouth against his. He can feel the way Magnus’ hands trembled as he let Alec go. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the disbelief, the pain, and the awful, awful acceptance, that had played across Magnus’ face.
That was the worst. Raziel, how many times had Alec promised Magnus that he wasn’t going anywhere? How many times had he sworn that he’d be different to the people who’d broken his heart before?
Now he’s just another one for Magnus to add to the list of disappointments. Another heartbreak. Another asshole who hadn’t deserved a single iota of Magnus’ boundless love.
“It’s Asmodeus,” Isabelle says, and holds up her hand the moment Alec opens his mouth to interrupt her. “No. He’s gone. He’s not topside anymore. He’s back in Edom.”
“I don’t understand,” Alec says, staring at her. “How? Who could— Oh.”
Magnus. Magnus could. Which means—
“So it worked.” He drops his gaze, and horror claws at his insides when his eyes sting and the grain of his desk blurs. “Magnus has his magic back.”
“He’s not stupid,” Isabelle points out, gently. Alec hasn’t told her that he broke up with Magnus, but he didn’t need to. She’d hugged him without a word the moment she’d spotted him standing in the hallway, feeling more than a little lost, after he’d broken the heart of the only man he would ever love. “He’ll work out cause and effect.”
Alec smiles bitterly. “Iz, you didn’t hear what I said to him. I used everything he told me because he thought he was safe with me to hurt him.”
“He’s not stupid,” Isabelle repeats, steadfast and unwavering. “He knows you, Alec. He knows that you’re not cruel. You dump him out of the blue and then suddenly he’s got his magic back and Asmodeus has turned up? He’ll know that’s not a coincidence.”
“It won’t seem out of the blue to him,” Alec mutters, but, despite himself, despite how absolutely foolish it is, how inevitable it is that it’ll be squashed, he lets himself hope. He lets himself hope that maybe - just maybe - Isabelle is right. Maybe Magnus will realise that something’s going on. Maybe—
Maybe Magnus will come back to him.
***
When Magnus knocks on Catarina’s door the following morning, he’s almost used to the sensation of magic sparking beneath his skin once more. He’s not sure what twisted game Asmodeus is playing, but there must be a reason.
For the moment, Magnus doesn’t care. He banished Asmodeus, and he’s got his magic back, and he is never, ever offering anything to rescue the Nephilim from their own stupidity again.
Frankly, he can’t entirely remember why he did it in the first place. Of course, he cares about Clary, but still, such a large price? He must have been feeling charitable. Or perhaps just guilty, for all the mess Clary’s found herself in.
“Cat!” he calls, knocking again. “It’s me! I’ve got news, and a question!”
The door is yanked open by what appears to be an invisible force. When he glances down, he sees Madzie. He smiles.
“Well, hello, sweet pea,” he says, reaching down to give her a one-armed hug. “Is your mother here?”
“Yeah,” Madzie says, squeezing his waist. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Catarina arches an eyebrow at him when he walks in. She’s rummaging through her bag, dressed in scrubs, and clearly about to leave for work. Magnus almost feels guilty for bothering her.
Almost.
“Good morning,” she says pointedly, when Magnus doesn’t say anything. “Are you alright?”
“Better than alright,” he says, and wiggles his fingers at her.
Her lips part when a smoky blue arrow made of magic floats into the air, trailing sparks. She follows it with her eyes for a moment, stunned into silence, and then she breaks out into a smile.
“Magnus,” she says, grinning. “That’s fantastic!”
He accepts her hug with a laugh. She grips his shoulders and kisses his cheek when she pulls back.
“How?” she asks. “What happened?”
“Asmodeus gave it back to me. I’m not sure why, yet. He was talking all sorts of crap. It doesn’t matter.” He waves a lazy hand. “I banished him. And now I’m going to take full advantage of this, and get my apartment back from that cheating scumbag. Then I’m going to take my position back.”
Catarina raises her eyebrows. “Careful, Magnus. He did save your life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s an absolute twat and he’s totally incompetent, but...be careful. He’s slippery.”
“He only saved my life because you begged him to,” Magnus points out. “It was hardly an act of selfless generosity.”
“What?” Catarina’s smile drops away, and she frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“When I collapsed after the transfusion. He didn’t help me unprompted.”
“No, that’s true, but Magnus, that wasn’t anything to do with me. That was—” She shakes her head, smiling slightly in what looks like a fond sort of exasperation. “He never told you, did he?”
It’s Magnus’ turn for confusion to write itself across his face. “Who? Told me what?”
“Never mind.” She holds up both hands, palms forward. “I shouldn’t get involved. It’s not my place. I’m sure there’s a reason. But perhaps you should ask him about it, when you get home.”
Ask Lorenzo about when he’d grudgingly saved Magnus’ life? God, Magnus really can’t imagine anything he wants to do less. He’s sure Lorenzo will bring it up like it’s a bargaining chip the moment Magnus demands that he gets the fuck out of his loft, but he’s not going to fall for that. He’s got leverage, anyway. Lorenzo didn’t fix the ley lines. He did. And now he’s back to full power—
Well. He’s going to be taking full advantage of that fact.
“What did you want to ask me?” Catarina asks. She’s turned back to her bag, and is pulling out her keys. “I’ve got to go in fifteen minutes.”
“Do you happen to know what I was doing yesterday?”
She laughs in clear bewilderment. “No? Why on earth would I know that?”
“I wasn’t with you?”
She shakes her head. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s probably nothing. I expect I just forgot that, ah, mundane me had a weaker alcohol tolerance, and had a bit too much to drink. I can’t quite remember what happened yesterday.”
Catarina doesn’t look amused. Her knuckles have turned pale where she’s gripping her keys tightly, and her lips are pressed into a thin line. She’s appraising him in a way that’s making him feel nervous.
“You’re probably right,” she agrees; her voice is quiet. “But it is a little odd. Why don’t you talk to Alec?”
Magnus blinks at her. “Alec?”
She shrugs. “He’s far more likely to be able to help you than I am. I haven’t seen you since last week.”
“Catarina,” Magnus says slowly, wondering whether his friend has gone completely mad, “who in the world is Alec?”
***
“Alec Lightwood! What the hell did you do?!”
Wide-eyed, Alec jerks his head up from where he’s pouring over a map of recent demon sightings with Jace. Striding through the Institute, body tense with righteous fury and a blaze of rage brewing in her eyes, is Catarina Loss. Underhill is dashing after her, grabbing her arm lightly and gesturing urgently, but she yanks herself out of his grip and ignores him.
“Ma’am,” Underhill tries, desperately, “you can’t just barge in here and—”
“I can do whatever I damn well like,” she snarls, with a vehemence that Alec has never heard from the woman who’s normally so level-headed. He’s never even heard Catarina raise her voice before.
She stops in front of Alec and jabs a finger into his chest. “What on earth did you do?’
Alec glances around the Ops Centre. It’s fairly empty, for once, but there are still more witnesses than he needs. But, judging by the way Catarina is tilting her chin up and narrowing her eyes, attempting to get her into his office for a bit of privacy won’t go down well.
“Did you talk to Magnus?” Alec asks, lowly. He can feel Jace’s eyes boring into the side of his head, but he doesn’t care.
“He came to me absolutely goddamn elated that he’d got his magic back,” she says, nostrils flaring.
Relief crashes through Alec like a wave. It worked. Magnus has his magic back, and he’s happy. Alec was right. His magic—his magic is the most important thing to him. His immortality. His livelihood. Alec knows that Magnus is probably hurting - that’s almost certainly why Catarina is ambushing him in the middle of the Institute - but he’ll recover. He’ll be okay.
He’ll be happy. That’s all Alec has ever wanted.
“Then it worked,” Alec murmurs.
He realises his mistake when Catarina practically snarls at him.
“What worked? I’ll ask you once more, Shadowhunter, and then I’ll make your life so unpleasant you’ll weep: what did you do?”
Alec closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he sees that everyone in the Ops Centre has disappeared. Everyone except Jace.
Maybe his brother isn’t always quite so stupid after all.
“I went to Asmodeus. Magnus was– God, Catarina, he was so miserable. He was drunk out of his mind, and he told me that he’d never be happy again without his magic. After the ordeal with Lorenzo, he’d already said that maybe his magic was worth dying over, and I– I couldn’t watch it any longer. It was killing him. So I went to Asmodeus, and he said he’d give Magnus his magic back.”
“For a price,” Catarina states. She folds her arms across her chest. “But that’s a stupid price. What would Asmodeus get out of that? No offence. I’m sure your pain is very real, but any old demon can create heartbreak. Asmodeus would want more than that.”
Alec scrubs at his face tiredly. “Magnus’ pain? I don’t know.”
“But—why would Magnus be in pain?”
At that, Alec stops, and looks at her sharply. “I broke up with him. Why would he not be?”
“You—” Catarina goes pale. “Oh my god.”
Before his eyes, Catarina’s entire demeanour changes from one of rage to one of shock. Jace shoves a chair behind her just before she reaches a hand back for something to hold onto. She collapses into it, and stares up at Alec in sheer horror.
“Oh, you stupid, stupid man,” she whispers.
“Hey, now,” Jace says mildly, frowning, but Catarina doesn’t even seem to hear him.
“I had to,” Alec insists. “I know I hurt him. By the Angel, I know, and I hate it, but I had to. He was so broken, I had to do something, I had to fix it. And I can’t tell him about the deal, because that was part of it. That was one of the conditions. Magnus can’t know.”
“No.” The look Catarina gives him makes Alec’s chest tighten in fear. “Alec, Magnus doesn’t have any memories of you anymore. He has no idea who you are.”
Cold horror spreads through Alec’s veins and wraps around his lungs like icy claws. He sucks in a sharp, ragged breath, and has to grip at the table to keep himself upright. A hand lands on his shoulder, warm and steady, and squeezes.
“What?” he asks, voice barely a breath. “How?”
“I don’t know. But I can guess. I think he went to a Silent Brother to request that his memories of you be removed. If he went to who I’m sure he did, the Brother would have refused, so Magnus must have done it himself, or got someone not enormously skilled to do it for him. He was having migraines.”
Her words knock any remaining air out of Alec’s lungs. He gapes at her, dizzy and lightheaded and so shocked he can’t find words to articulate any of it.
Any hope he might have had, any shred of belief he might have held that there was a tiny possibility that he’d get Magnus back, any thought of Magnus putting the pieces of the puzzle together—they’re all dead.
“Why?” he chokes out. “Why would he do that? Willingly?”
“Because he was hurting,” Catarina says, voice hard. “Because he was, as you so articulately put it, broken, because he’d lost everything, and then he lost the last thing tethering him to sanity. He must have been desperate for the pain to go away.”
“But– His magic—”
“God, Alec.” Her voice gentles into something wretched and rough. “Magnus loved you more than he loves magic. He loved you more than anything. Of course his magic was important to him, and to his sense of self, and of course he was in unimaginable pain over losing it, but losing you...”
Alec shakes his head vehemently. “He’s had his heart broken before. He’s recovered. He’s healed. We know he can heal from that. He couldn’t heal from losing his magic.”
“He couldn’t heal from losing you,” Catarina says, voice oddly soft. “I don’t think you understand what you meant to him. You weren’t ever destined for that box you argued about.”
That’s what breaks Alec.
That’s what sends tears streaming down his cheeks and sets him gasping for breath. That’s what has Jace tugging him into a hug that he barely feels. That’s what makes him think that maybe - god, maybe - this was all a terrible mistake. Maybe he’s made the wrong call.
But then he thinks about that night. He thinks about how his heart had broken into tiny little pieces when Magnus had sobbed in his arms; how helpless he’d felt as he’d held Magnus as tightly as he could and still known, when they’d sunk to the floor and Magnus had just kept crying, that it wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t enough. That no matter how much he loved Magnus, he couldn’t fix it. Love couldn’t fix it.
It hurts. And, clearly, it hurt Magnus. Perhaps more than Alec had realised it would. But this is better. Magnus can start afresh. He was fine before Alec met him. He was good. His life was probably far easier back then, without Alec, and he’s back there now. It’s a clean slate. He’s got his magic back, and, okay, he doesn’t have Alec, but he doesn’t remember that. It’s like he never had Alec at all.
And that’s okay. Magnus will be okay, now. He’s not heartbroken at all. He’s elated. He’s got his magic back.
This is enough, Alec decides, as he pulls away from Jace and scrubs his sleeve against his face. It wasn’t meant to be like this, but it’s enough.
As long as Magnus is happy, it’s enough.
***
Magnus has lost his favourite bathrobe.
It’s far from the first time he’s misplaced something - probably in a fit of passionate magic - but it’s frustrating. He can’t remember magicking it anywhere. He can’t even remember the last time he had it.
Not that it matters. Lorenzo had fled his loft with his tail between his legs and a deeply unattractive scowl etched into the smug lines of his face the moment he’d opened the door to see Magnus standing on the other side with magic crackling at his fingertips. He’d offered Lorenzo a pleasant smile, and reminded him sweetly about the ley lines, and flicked a few sparks at him, and that had been it.
He hasn’t got his job back, yet, but it’ll do. For now. One step at a time.
He can feel the wards - his wards - shudder and sigh as Magnus finishes banishing Lorenzo’s things and pulling his own out of storage. His magic hadn’t liked Lorenzo occupying the loft. He can tell. And, frankly, if Lorenzo thought putting away Magnus’ things to replace them with his own somehow improved the ambience of the place, he was delusional. Magnus’ interior decor is far superior.
There are a few things that Magnus is a little confused by, however. Things Lorenzo had shoved into boxes, but that don’t belong to Magnus. A Kindle, and a notebook full of messy scrawl that Magnus doesn’t recognise, and a sweater that he wouldn’t be seen dead wearing because it’s entirely the wrong fit for his shoulders.
Well, it’s not like Magnus hasn’t played host to a vast plethora of guests over his many decades in New York. Lorenzo had clearly been through Magnus’ things so thoroughly that he’d unearthed old items that even Magnus was unaware of.
The thought is repulsive enough to make Magnus want to summon Asmodeus, just so he can offer him Lorenzo as a gift. The guy is such a tool that he’d almost deserve it.
Almost.
“Oh, no,” Magnus says to himself, when he walks into the kitchen and sees something that pulls him up short. “Oh god.”
There’s a coffee machine. It’s a new addition to his loft, clearly courtesy of Lorenzo.
It’s exactly what Magnus had been idly eyeing for weeks, wondering whether it was worth buying, or whether it would only fuel his caffeine dependency.
He can’t believe he shares anything in common with Lorenzo Asshat Rey. Yet, apparently, they share the same taste in coffee machines.
“Well,” Magnus muses aloud. He hasn’t lived with anyone for so long that sometimes he has to talk to himself just to stave off the sound of silence. “I suppose I’ll keep you. I might have to disinfect you first, though. I wouldn’t want to catch Asshole Syndrome.”
***
“Knock knock.”
Alec glances up, distractedly. He’s in the middle of explaining to a young Shadowhunter, fresh from the Academy, that no, they can’t just charge in without a care for the consequences and hire a warlock to erase the mundanes’ memories later. They have protocols for a reason.
“Isabelle.” He stands up and rounds the desk. He’ll let the boy stew for a few minutes. He’s not going to punish him - he’s sixteen, for crying out loud - but he’ll let him think he is. It’s usually just as effective. “Is everything okay?”
“I’ve just had a message from the exiting High Warlock of Brooklyn.”
Lorenzo fucking Rey. The eternal thorn in Alec’s side. He can’t think of anyone, except perhaps Asmodeus, who brings him more displeasure. The mere thought of the man who took advantage of Magnus and was then ready to leave him to die puts him in a foul mood.
“About what? Is it—” He stops. Frowns. “The exiting High Warlock of Brooklyn?”
Isabelle glances behind him at the boy sitting by his desk, and says, “Perhaps we should have this conversation in private.”
Alec doesn’t need to tell the boy to go. He scurries out with a worried look in Alec’s direction and a mumbled apology that Alec waves off. Nobody got hurt, but it had made Alec wonder what the hell they bother to teach at the Academy.
Isabelle shuts the door. “Lorenzo was voted out.”
“Why?”
“Apparently, word got out that he wasn’t particularly honest. And he’d been doing business on the side that could have compromised his impartiality as a leader.”
“Good riddance,” Alec mutters, and, it’s true, Lorenzo is an awful leader, but mostly he’s thinking about Magnus, and what Lorenzo did to him.
He hasn’t seen Magnus in almost a month. Not since he turned away in his mother’s shop and looked determinedly anywhere but his lover’s eyes as he broke his heart and twisted the knife in ways only someone who knew Magnus intimately could.
It still hurts. Selfishly, what hurts him almost as much is the knowledge that somewhere in the world, Magnus is having the time of his life, blissfully unaware of anything, because he doesn’t fucking remember.
Alec wanted Magnus to move on. But not like that.
“Yes,” Isabelle agrees, but her face is twisted with sorrow. She reaches out to lay her hand on his forearm, and says softly, “Alec, the warlock council voted Magnus back in.”
Oh.
He laughs tiredly, and pulls away from her, reaching up to push his knuckles hard against his forehead as he turns around, his back to his sister. Fuck. He shouldn’t be surprised. Magnus is the best, and he’s never had any doubt about it whatsoever. It makes perfect sense to reinstate him.
“Of course they did,” he says, shaking his head and smiling wryly. “Who else would it be?”
Isabelle doesn’t answer his question. It was rhetorical, anyway.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asks, watching him steadily even as he avoids her sharp, unwavering gaze.
“No, probably not,” Alec says, because he’s so fucking tired, and his heart hurts so goddamn much, and he can’t pretend any more. Not to Isabelle. It was one thing to say that he was okay with Magnus not remembering—because, selfishly, he wasn’t, but he knew Magnus would be better off like that, and that made it something he could accept. That made it something he would force himself to be okay with.
But this? Fuck. He doesn’t have a clue how he can possibly cope with this.
“You’re supposed to have a Cabinet meeting next week,” Isabelle tells him, and Alec closes his eyes. His chest has gone tight. “Do you want me to move it?”
“What, and keep delaying it until I die?” He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“You could get someone else to be the Shadowhunter representative.”
“That would defeat the point. And I want to be a part of it. I want to make a difference. I’ll just have to deal with it.” He pauses as a thought hits him. “I don’t even know who the vampire representative is anymore.”
“Someone called Lily. Look, Alec, stop changing the subject. This is about you and Magnus.”
He exhales, and drops his gaze to his desk. “There is no me and Magnus, Iz. He doesn’t know who I am.”
“Maybe he’ll start to remember, if he sees you again.”
Alec looks at her over his shoulder, and smiles. It’s small, and fond, and sad: neither of them believe that, because they both know that’s not how it works, but Isabelle loves him enough to say it anyway.
“Even if he did, I can never tell him. That was part of the deal. I had to break his heart, and he could never find out about what I did.”
“I’m so sorry, big brother.”
“Me too,” he says, and accepts her hug without hesitation. She holds him tightly, pressing her cheek to his chest. He closes his eyes and focuses on the familiar sensation of her hair tickling his cheek, and he prays to any deity that might listen that he’s going to survive this.
***
Many years ago, Magnus sat at a table in an Institute deep in the heart of London, and signed the Accords. At the time, it had been heralded as a new dawn - the commencement of a golden age, where Shadowhunter and Downworlders would be equal.
In the very same Institute, Magnus had remained stoic and unflinching while the maid had taken the plates of every Downworlder and smashed them into a heap to be disposed of. The Nephilim couldn’t possibly have eaten off the same china-wear that he had.
He’d met Camille in that Institute.
Magnus is rather disillusioned with the whole concept of equality. Not because he doesn’t want it - it’s all he’s ever wanted for his people - but because history has taught him a valuable lesson: those in power are loathe to give it up. The Shadowhunters will shelter behind the excuse of keeping peace and protecting mundanes to continue their microaggressions and small acts that speak of large scale discrimination.
This Cabinet hadn’t achieved anything when he’d last been on it. In fact, he distinctly remembers whichever dull, unmemorable Shadowhunter had been appointed representative neglecting to mention that the Clave possessed the Soul Sword, right as Magnus had been preaching trust and honesty.
As he walks up to the Institute, he can’t help but feel a sense of loss. So much has changed since he last sat at the table with the other representatives. Luke has gone off to work for the Praetor. Raphael is a mundane—and god knows Magnus is happy for him, happy that he’s found happiness, but he’s certain that the incident will be the first thing he brings up with the Nephilim representative.
Whoever that is.
Meliorn, at least, is eternally unchanging. He fixes Magnus with a perfunctory glance that borders on disdainful as they walk into the hall behind a blonde Shadowhunter. It’s not the same blonde who Magnus gave up his magic for. This one seems less arrogant.
But he does keep looking at Magnus, giving him sideways glances but keeping his expression inscrutable. Magnus is dressed to impress, of course, draped in black and burgundy and reams of silver jewellery, but it’s not that kind of looking.
Besides, no Shadowhunter has ever admitted to finding Magnus attractive. Not in the light of day, at least. Under the cover of night, it’s rather miraculous what the Nephilim suddenly have the bravery to do.
There’s a vampire already sitting at the table. She’s folded her hands neatly on the table, long pale fingers perfectly arranged, and stares hard at Magnus and Meliorn as they make their way over.
“Is there no werewolf replacing Luke?” Magnus asks the blonde, turning on his heel and arching an eyebrow.
“Maia Roberts,” the blonde says.
He’s still giving Magnus odd looks. Magnus isn’t overly concerned. He doesn’t really care about the thoughts and fancies of the Nephilim. They’re all hypocritical and emotionally repressed and far too fond of tradition.
Right on cue, Maia strides in. She doesn’t have an escort, Magnus notes.
“What did I miss?” she asks, falling into the chair on the vampire’s right. “I’m Maia, by the way,” she adds, nodding to Meliorn and the vampire.
“Lily,” the vampire says, and flashes them a sharp smile. “I’m glad to see this Council isn’t being run by men any more.”
Maia’s eyebrows shoot up. Slowly, she smiles.
Magnus and Meliorn take their seats - Meliorn rather stiffly, because he’s decked out in full armour and hasn’t relinquished his grip on his staff - and Magnus looks to the empty chair.
“When will our esteemed leader be joining us?” Magnus asks the blonde Shadowhunter, voice dry.
He expects perhaps a snort, because Lilith knows he can count on one hand the Shadowhunters he’s ever considered ‘esteemed’, but there’s silence. Maia stares down at the table, and Meliorn and the blonde both stare at him. Lily seems rather unconcerned by the whole thing.
Magnus feels like he’s missing something.
“Sorry I’m late,” says a deep, hard voice coming from behind Magnus. “Underhill, I can take it from here.”
The blonde nods. “Sir.”
Magnus turns just as the chair between Meliorn and Lily scrapes across the floor, and—
Well. At least Magnus will have the benefit of some eye-candy, even if this meeting does turn out to be as dull and unproductive and frustrating as he fully expects it to be. The Nephilim representative is the epitome of tall, dark and handsome; Magnus might even go so far as to call him stunning, with the enormous, sweeping black rune stark against the pale column of his neck, and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows to expose strong forearms. He’s gorgeous.
It’s a shame he’s a Shadowhunter, Magnus thinks, idly. He won’t even make eye contact with Magnus.
“I’m Alec Lightwood,” he says, to Lily.
She rolls her eyes. “I know who you are. You’re the Head of the Institute. It’s my job to know who you are.”
Magnus clearly chokes. He is the Head of the Institute? Lilith. Lorenzo had been a lucky bastard, getting to sit opposite this fine specimen every week.
Meliorn is sitting between Magnus and the Shadowhunter, and Magnus can feel the way his eyes keep flicking between them. It’s as though he can read every inappropriate thought going through Magnus’ mind.
“I expect the first thing you all want to discuss is Victor Aldertree’s...experiment.”
Alec says the word with distaste, his mouth curling. The dark look that flashes in his eyes speaks volumes to his opinion of systematically wiping out Downworlders under the guise of mercy. Magnus is pleasantly surprised.
“Yeah, it is.” Maia tips her chin up. “It won’t continue. That’s not a question.”
Alec nods. “I assure you, I’m in complete agreement. Many of us are. It shouldn’t be happening under our noses.”
“The Seelie Queen wishes for assurances that you will take measures to prevent such incidents happening in the future,” Meliorn says. “It is one thing for a vampire or a werewolf to be returned to a mundane. It is quite another for a Seelie or a warlock to be stripped of their very essence.”
Across the table, Lily narrows her eyes. “You’re walking on thin ice, Meliorn. Careful.”
”Being a werewolf is as much a part of me as being a Seelie is you,” Maia adds.
Meliorn waves a hand. “I am sure you understand my point. You were both mundanes, once. I was born a Seelie.”
Magnus sits back as they continue to talk. He’s heard it all before. All the same arguments, the same situations, recycled and reused, dressed up as unique but always absolutely the same, beneath it all.
Alec exhales sharply at something Lily says. He looks frustrated. He looks tired. He looks like a man at the end of his tether. Somehow, Magnus can’t believe it’s all due to Victor Aldertree.
“I can’t make that promise,” Alec says, voice hard, “because I’m the Head of the Institute, not the Consul.”
“You can try.”
“Yes, I can. But there’s no point in making false promises. I’m not a miracle-worker.”
“Then what exactly is the point of this council?” Lily demands. “If you can’t do anything?”
Alec’s nostrils flare, but he maintains his cool. “I didn’t say I couldn’t do anything.”
“Then offer me something.” Lily gestures widely. “Offer my people something more than empty words.”
“I can arrange a meeting for you to have with Aline Penhallow. She’s in charge of the clean-up and things going forward. She’s the Consul’s daughter, so she has more sway in Idris than I do.”
Alec Lightwood isn’t anything like Magnus expected, he thinks, as Lily grudgingly accepts the offer. He’s abrasive, and unyielding, and the kind of man who seems like he’s been scarred by the trials of life.
“If I may,” Magnus interrupts, and then stops, lips parted between one word and the next.
Because Alec turns to look at him, and their eyes meet for the first time, and Magnus changes his mind. Alec Lightwood’s scars are still bleeding. Whatever wounds have been inflicted on him, they’re new, slashed open and raw and painful.
He’s got nice eyes, Magnus thinks, idly, before Alec’s gaze shifts, and his throat bobs, as though he can’t make himself look at Magnus. The hand he’s got laying on the table has curled into a fist; his knuckles are white.
“They’re right,” Magnus says, pushing away the strange curl of interest in his stomach after their odd moment, “but I’ve had this conversation with Shadowhunters more times than I can count. It’s not just about this incident. It’s about the environment that extreme views are allowed to fester in. They don’t magically come from nowhere. They come from stopping and searching werewolves for no particular reason, and referring to the warlocks you employ by their species rather than their names, and stereotyping vampires, and presuming a seelie always has an agenda.”
They do, in Magnus’ experience, but he’s not going to say that to a Shadowhunter. Even one as apparently forward-thinking as Alec is.
“Exactly,” Maia says, nodding. “Exactly that.”
Alec looks at him again, for just a handful of seconds, and there’s a strange sort of conflict in his eyes. Then he clenches his jaw, and looks away, to Maia.
“We’re trying,” Alec says, glancing at Magnus briefly, tension tight in every line of his body. “We’re trying to retrain our staff. But it takes time.”
Beside him, Meliorn looks between Magnus and Alec again. He’s frowning as though their interaction confuses him.
They wrap up fairly quickly, after that. Alec gives Lily Aline Penhallow’s phone number, and the rest of them rise out of their seats to leave.
“Bane,” Meliorn says, inclining his head.
“Meliorn.”
Meliorn turns to go, and then pauses, staff held stiffly in one hand. His eyes flicker back to Alec, who’s embroiled in conversation with Lily.
“Our Queen was correct, it seems,” Meliorn says, raising an eyebrow as though Magnus is supposed to understand that.
“Was she?” Magnus smiles pleasantly, and flicks his fingers.
Meliorn’s brow furrows. “Pretending won’t help you, you know.”
Face a blank mask, Magnus shakes his head pointedly, and shrugs. “Whatever you say.”
Meliorn rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath, and turns sharply on his heel. As he strides out, he shakes his head back, eyes flashing. It’s a bit melodramatic, really.
Not that Magnus is being hypocritical at all.
Maia waves goodbye, and Lily is stomping swiftly after Meliorn, and Magnus tracks Alec Lightwood as a dark expression steals across his face, and he makes his way towards the exit, not sparing Magnus a glance.
That really won’t do. There’s clearly something going on, here.
“Pretty boy!”
Alec freezes. He falters mid-step, and his shoulders tighten, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Twice. Even in profile, from several metres away, Magnus can see the colour drain from his face as he screws his eyes shut and clenches his teeth together.
Then he stares straight ahead, steels himself, and whirls around.
“Are you talking to me?” he demands.
Magnus flashes him a scathing smile. “Well, I wasn’t talking to your blonde friend, I assure you.”
Alec’s nostrils flare. “Was there something you needed?”
“I just wondered what it was I’d done to offend you so terribly.”
And, for the first time in the hour and a half Magnus has spent watching him, Alec seems to soften. His eyes go wide, and his lips part, and something that looks very much like shame sinks into the exhausted lines of his face.
“I’m sorry.” He inhales, arranges his expression into something neutral, and draws himself up to stand straight. He’s ridiculously tall. Magnus isn’t used to having to look up at people. “I behaved...unprofessionally. It was nothing you did. I apologise.”
Magnus arches an eyebrow, wondering whether perhaps Alec Lightwood takes the biscuit as the most stoic Shadowhunter he’s ever encountered. Although, admittedly, that was hardly the response Magnus expected.
“Apology accepted,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced. Magnus Bane.”
Alec closes his eyes again, just momentarily, and a tiny huff of amusement leaves him. One corner of his mouth curls; he shakes his head at Magnus as he returns his gaze to him.
“Yes. I know who you are. Alec Lightwood.”
“Hm.” Magnus smiles at him, and sways his shoulders. There’s something about Alec Lightwood. Something he can’t quite put his finger on.
Although, it’s not uncommon for him to be drawn to what’s beautiful and broken; to those who wear heartbreak like armour, who have sharp edges that have been broken one too many times. Perhaps it’s because he knows a kindred spirit when he sees one. Perhaps it’s merely because he’s an unintentional masochist. It never ends well.
Magnus would have thought he’d learnt by now, but, as he watches Alec and waits to see what he’ll do, he feels intrigue unfurl inside him, like the first shoots of a flower poking up from the ground after a long, cold winter.
“Um.” Alec swallows. “I should probably go.”
“Me too,” Magnus agrees. He raises his eyebrows. “Until the next time, Alexander.”
Alec’s brow furrows, and Magnus wonders whether his assumption was wrong. “How d’you know my name?”
“Lucky guess. Was I right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you were.” He exhales. “Goodbye.”
And he turns, short and sharp, and disappears down the hallway, leaving Magnus staring after him as he idly wonders who broke Alexander Lightwood’s heart.
***
Alec can’t breathe.
He feels like he’s going to be sick, as he barricades himself in his office, locking the door and barking at Underhill that he’s not to be disturbed. He braces his hands on his desk, chest heaving and head hanging between his shoulders as he screws his eyes shut and tries desperately not to throw up.
Fuck. He has to pull it together.
Magnus is the High Warlock of Brooklyn. He’s the Head of the New York Institute. They’re going to have to see each other again, and he has to do better. He has to find a way to lock this down, this feeling of heartbreak and torture and ruin.
Raziel, the sight of Magnus in front of him, gorgeous and perfect and powerful, in his prime, was enough to shatter him. It had taken everything he had not to turn tail and flee from the room the moment he’d seen him sitting in that chair like some sort of heavenly retribution for everything Alec has done.
It’s his own fault that he’s feeling like this. It’s all his own fault. There’s nothing he can do now. What’s done is done.
And yet...
Fuck. He tightens his grip on the edge of his desk until his knuckles turn white.
Magnus behaved just like he had all those months ago, when they first met. Just like he had when Alec had stalked in behind him and shot an arrow through the asshole who’d been trying to murder Magnus and take his eyes like the most revolting kind of trophy. He’d swayed his shoulders in exactly the same way. Smiled that same small, soft little smile. Watched him with those same brown eyes, curious and warm and—
And Alec didn’t deserve any of that. He’d been a dick. He’d barely been able to look at Magnus during the meeting. Every time he spoke, it felt like someone was driving a seraph blade through Alec’s heart, over and over again, until he was bleeding and broken on the ground. When they’d locked eyes for the first time...
Alec knows Magnus intimately, in that way that only the closest of lovers can. Adores him. Loves him more than anyone.
And not only does Magnus not love him back, anymore, but he has no idea. No idea at all.
It’s worse. Worse than when Alec had betrayed his trust and forced Magnus to side with the Seelie Queen. Worse than when Magnus had stood on the other side of the table, stoic and unmoved by Alec’s pleas. Worse than when Magnus had snapped at him and ignored him.
If Magnus hated him, he might have been able to take it. But this...
This is torture.
“Fuck,” he says, aloud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
On the last iteration, his voice cracks, and he chokes on a breath that turns into a sob. It rips out of his throat, and he can’t control it. Can’t control himself. It hurts too much. He doesn’t care who hears him, because god-fucking-damnit, the only man he’ll ever love has no idea that he’s Alec’s entire world, and it hurts.
The door flies open. Alec doesn’t have a moment to compose himself before he feels a hand sliding over his shoulders, and a soft voice says, “Oh, Alec.”
He inhales deeply, trying to calm himself down before he completely falls apart in front of his little sister. He’s breathing too loudly, too quickly, too raggedly, but he’s not sobbing anymore.
He’s just crying. He can’t stop.
“Sorry,” he rasps, to Isabelle. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t, Alec,” she says, rubbing up and down along his spine. “You can’t keep all this inside you. You’re allowed to be in pain.”
“I’ve got to pull it together,” he argues, and lifts a hand to scrub the tears from his face. The scratch of his sleeve against his skin is grounding. When he pulls his hand away from his face, he notices that it’s bright red. God, he hadn’t even noticed himself doing that. “I can’t fall apart every time I see him.”
“Alec...”
“I can’t.” He pulls away from her. “I’m a leader. He’s a leader. I’ve got to get on with things.”
Isabelle exhales, sounding so sympathetic it makes Alec want to scream. “I’m sorry, big brother. I wish I knew how to help.”
“It’s not your responsibility,” Alec says.
Isabelle arches an eyebrow. “If Magnus’ happiness was your responsibility, isn’t yours mine?”
Fond frustration tilts up one corner of Alec’s mouth. “I’ll be fine.”
She looks at him for a long, heavy moment, eyes searching his. Then: “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she says, holding his gaze. “But I’m here if you want to talk.”
With a final, meaningful dip of her head, she turns elegantly on her heel and walks out, leaving Alec alone.
His eyes fall to the photograph of Magnus on his desk. A photograph of the two of them, weeks ago, standing in the middle of a bustling market in Marrakech. Magnus had asked a passerby to take a photograph of the two of them, and they’d stood with their arms around each other. Alec had turned to kiss Magnus’ cheek, and the photograph had caught the look of adorably pleased surprise that flashed across Magnus’ face.
Alec smiles down at the photo, now, and drags him finger down the glass. He’d been on top of the world, then. He’d had everything he thought he’d never be able to have—and he’d almost started to get used to it. He’d started to stop waking every morning with the fear that that day would be the day the other shoe dropped; that something had to go wrong; that he couldn’t possibly be allowed to have it all.
The other shoe has dropped now.
With a heavy heart, Alec picks up the frame, takes the back off, and peels the photograph out. He allows himself to spare it one last glance, and then he shoves it at the bottom of his desk drawer.
He can’t keep gazing wistfully at the past. It’s time to move on.